Dance of the Dwarfs Read Online Free Page A

proper air of being born on horseback. They could ride all right, but might have borrowed their two weary beasts for a week’s holiday.
    Before darkness set in I showed them over our extensions to Mario’s garden, the new experimental plots and my field laboratory, explaining the purely advisory role of the Mission. I told them that someday the government would undertake—or have the pious intention of undertaking—vast schemes of education and colonization, but that for many years to come the only farmers would be experts like myself.
    The Cuban—if he was one—seemed to me somewhat naïve, as Spanish-American idealists often are. I could almost hear him thinking whether it was possible that tropical agriculture could be cover for some operation of the CIA. A pitiless, malignant bunch they are by all accounts, and no less credulous when it comes to politics!
    When we had settled down again indoors, this smaller fellow started to cross-examine me. Where had I learned Spanish? I told him that I was born and bred in Argentina where my father had been a railway manager until we were thrown out. All my university education had been in England and I had opted for British nationality; but I had never lost my liking for the Americas.
    Some of the subsequent conversation I shall try to give verbatim, for I might want to refer to it.
    â€œIs it American or British capital behind you?” he asked.
    I explained that there was no private capital whatever behind the Mission and that we were simply putting our technical expertise at the disposal of the Colombian government.
    â€œTo prevent revolution?”
    I replied that I didn’t give a damn about revolution, that communist dictatorship was a crude, sure way of developing virgin territory, but that I thought it an unnecessary discipline for viable economies.
    â€œGood enough for the peon, but not for the British?”
    Brash irony! It was time to put him in his place.
    â€œExactly. Like that plow you saw out there. A British farmer would have no use for it whatever. But it’s cheap, and a vast improvement on anything the Indian villagers ever had.”
    The Colombian was, I think, inclined to enjoy this confrontation between his opinionated companion and myself, but did not wish it to go too far. I wonder which of them will eventually bump the other off.
    â€œYou are not afraid to be alone here?” he asked.
    â€œNo. My interest is in agriculture, not politics. And I keep my mouth shut.”
    â€œWhat would you have to open it about?”
    I thought it wise that all our cards should be on the table.
    â€œGentlemen, would I be right to assume that you have called on me in order to decide whether my throat is worth cutting or not?”
    They protested most politely against the thought of such brutality towards a generous and sympathetic host, but admitted that up in the Cordillera my doings had attracted curiosity.
    â€œDo believe me, my distinguished friend, this talk of throat-cutting is quite fantastic,” the Colombian said. “I recognize that you are giving highly valuable, essential service to my country.”
    I was not going to be sidetracked by civility. I wanted to be certain, once and for all, that there would be no interference with my work. So I lectured them bluntly. It went against the grain, but I knew they would expect frankness from an Englishman. One must sometimes live up to a false reputation in order to be trusted.
    I emphasized that agitated speculation about what I knew and what I didn’t could be dangerous to us all and a waste of time; and I went on in some such words as these:
    â€œUsing plain common sense—for I have no military knowledge—it has occurred to me that your partisans must eat and that the llaneros have for the moment a market. I am not asking you to tell me whether I am right. I only want you to feel secure if I have visitors from the Army or the Intendencia, as