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The Ne'er-Do-Well

by Rex Beach · English · Gutenberg #5405 · 676,660 chars · public domain (US)

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Title: The Ne'er-Do-Well

Author: Rex Beach


        
Release date: April 1, 2004 [eBook #5405]
                Most recently updated: May 1, 2013

Language: English

Other information and formats: www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/5405

Credits: Produced by Charles Franks and the Online Distributed Proofreading Team


*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE NE'ER-DO-WELL ***




Produced by Charles Franks and the Online Distributed Proofreading Team.










THE NE'ER-DO-WELL

By REX BEACH

Author of "THE SILVER HORDE" "THE SPOILERS" "THE IRON TRAIL" Etc.

Illustrated




TO

MY WIFE




CONTENTS

     I. VICTORY

    II. THE TRAIL DIVIDES

   III. A GAP

    IV. NEW ACQUAINTANCES

     V. A REMEDY IS PROPOSED

    VI. IN WHICH KIRK ANTHONY IS GREATLY SURPRISED

   VII. THE REWARD OF MERIT

  VIII. EL COMANDANTE TAKES A HAND

    IX. SPANISH LAW

     X. A CHANGE OF PLAN

    XI. THE TRUTH ABOUT MRS. CORTLANDT

   XII. A NIGHT AT TABOGA

  XIII. CHIQUITA

   XIV. THE PATH THAT LED NOWHERE

    XV. ALIAS JEFFERSON LOCKE

   XVI. "8838"

  XVII. GARAVEL THE BANKER

 XVIII. THE SIEGE OF MARIA TORRES

   XIX. "LA TOSCA"

    XX. AN AWAKENING

   XXI. THE REST OF THE FAMILY

  XXII. A CHALLENGE AND A CONFESSION

 XXIII. A PLOT AND A SACRIFICE

  XXIV. A BUSINESS PROPOSITION

   XXV. CHECKMATE!

  XXVI. THE CRASH

 XXVII. A QUESTION

XXVIII. THE ANSWER

  XXIX. A LAST APPEAL

   XXX. DARWIN K ANTHONY




THE NE'ER-DO-WELL




I

VICTORY


It was a crisp November night. The artificial brilliance of Broadway
was rivalled by a glorious moonlit sky. The first autumn frost was in
the air, and on the side-streets long rows of taxicabs were standing,
their motors blanketed, their chauffeurs threshing their arms to rout
the cold. A few well-bundled cabbies, perched upon old-style hansoms,
were barking at the stream of hurrying pedestrians. Against a
background of lesser lights myriad points of electric signs flashed
into everchanging shapes, winking like huge, distorted eyes; fanciful
designs of liquid fire ran up and down the walls or blazed forth in
lurid colors. From the city's canons came an incessant clanging roar,
as if a great river of brass and steel were grinding its way toward the
sea.

Crowds began to issue from the theatres, and the lines of waiting
vehicles broke up, filling the streets with the whir of machinery and
the clatter of hoofs. A horde of shrill-voiced urchins pierced the
confusion, waving their papers and screaming the football scores at the
tops of their lusty lungs, while above it all rose the hoarse tones of
carriage callers, the commands of traffic officers, and the din of
street-car gongs.

In the lobby of one of the playhouses a woman paused to adjust her
wraps, and, hearing the cries of the newsboys, petulantly exclaimed:

"I'm absolutely sick of football. That performance during the third act
was enough to disgust one."

Her escort smiled. "Oh, you take it too seriously," he said. "Those
boys don't mean anything. That was merely Youth--irrepressible Youth,
on a tear. You wouldn't spoil the fun?"

"It may have been Youth," returned his companion, "but it sounded more
like the end of the world. It was a little too much!"

A bevy of shop-girls came bustling forth from a gallery exit.

"Rah! rah! rah!" they mimicked, whereupon the cry was answered by a
hundred throats as the doors belched forth the football players and
their friends. Out they came, tumbling, pushing, jostling; greeting
scowls and smiles with grins of insolent good-humor. In their hands
were decorated walking-sticks and flags, ragged and tattered as if from
long use in a heavy gale. Dignified old gentlemen dived among them in
pursuit of top-hats; hysterical matrons hustled daughters into
carriages and slammed the doors.

"Wuxtry! Wuxtry!" shrilled the newsboys. "Full account of the big game!"

A youth with a ridiculous little hat and heliotrope socks dashed into
the street, where, facing the crowd, he led a battle song of his
university. Policemen set their shoulders to the mob, but, though they
met with no open resistance, they might as well have tried to dislodge
a thicket of saplings. To-night football was king.

Out through the crowd came a score of deep-chested young men moving
together as if to resist an attack, whereupon a mighty roar went up.
The cheer-leader increased his antics, and the barking yell changed to
a measured chant, to the time of which the army marched down the street
until the twenty athletes dodged in through the revolving doors of a
cafe, leaving Broadway rocking with the tumult.

All the city was football-mad, it seemed, for no sooner had the
new-comers entered the restaurant than the diners rose to wave napkins
or to cheer. Men stepped upon chairs and craned for a better sight of
them; women raised their voices in eager questioning. A gentleman in
evening dress pointed out the leader of the squad to his companions,
explaining:

"That is Anthony--the big chap. He's Darwin K. Anthony's son. You've
heard about the Anthony bill at Albany?"

"Yes, and I saw this fellow play football four years ago. Say! That was
a game."

"He's a worthless sort of chap, isn't he?" remarked one of the women,
when the squad had disappeared up the stairs.

"Just a rich man's son, that's all. But he certainly could play
football."

"Didn't I read that he had been sent to jail recently?"

"No doubt. He was given thirty days."

"What! in PRISON?" questioned another, in a shocked voice.

"Only for speeding. It was his third offence, and his father let him
take his medicine."

"How cruel!"

"Old man Anthony doesn't care for this sort of thing. He's right, too.
All this young fellow is good for is to spend money."

Up in the banquet-hall, however, it was evident that Kirk Anthony was
more highly esteemed by his mates than by the public at large. He was
their hero, in fact, and in a way he deserved it. For three years
before his graduation he had been the heart and sinew of the university
team, and for the four years following he had coached them, preferring
the life of an athletic trainer to the career his father had offered
him. And he had done his chosen work well.

Only three weeks prior to the hard gruel of the great game the eleven
had received a blow that had left its supporters dazed and despairing.
There had been a scandal, of which the public had heard little and the
students scarcely more, resulting in the expulsion of the five best
players of the team. The crisis might have daunted the most resourceful
of men, yet Anthony had proved equal to it. For twenty-one days he had
labored like a real general, spending his nights alone with diagrams
and little dummies on a miniature gridiron, his days in careful
coaching. He had taken a huge, ungainly Nova Scotian lad named Ringold
for centre; he had placed a square-jawed, tow-headed boy from Duluth in
the line; he had selected a high-strung, unseasoned chap, who for two
years had been eating his heart out on the side-lines, and made him
into a quarter-back.

Then he had driven them all with the cruelty of a Cossack captain; and
when at last the dusk of this November day had settled, new football
history had been made. The world had seen a strange team snatch victory
from defeat, and not one of all the thirty thousand onlookers but knew
to whom the credit belonged. It had been a tremendous spectacle, and
when the final whistle blew for the multitude to come roaring down
across the field, the cohorts had paid homage to Kirk Anthony, the
weary coach to whom they knew the honor belonged.

Of course this fervid enthusiasm and hero-worship was all very
immature, very foolish, as the general public acknowledged after it had
taken time to cool off. Yet there was something appealing about it,
after all. At any rate, the press deemed the public sufficiently
interested in the subject to warrant giving it considerable prominence,
and the name of Darwin K. Anthony's son was published far and wide.

Naturally, the newspapers gave the young man's story as well as a
history of the game. They told of his disagreement with his father; of
the Anthony anti-football bill which the old man in his rage had driven
through the legislature and up to the Governor himself. Some of them
even printed a rehash of the railroad man's famous magazine attack on
the modern college, in which he all but cited his own son as an example
of the havoc wrought by present-day university methods. The elder
Anthony's wealth and position made it good copy. The yellow journals
liked it immensely, and, strangely enough, notwithstanding the
positiveness with which the newspapers spoke, the facts agreed
essentially with their statements. Darwin K. Anthony and his son had
quarrelled, they were estranged; the young man did prefer idleness to
industry. Exactly as the published narratives related, he toiled not at
all, he spun nothing but excuses, he arrayed himself in sartorial
glory, and drove a yellow racing-car beyond the speed limit.

It was all true, only incomplete. Kirk Anthony's father had even better
reasons for his disapproval of the young man's behavior than appeared.
The fact was that Kirk's associates were of a sort to worry any
observant parent, and, moreover, he had acquired a renown in that part
of New York lying immediately west of Broadway and north of
Twenty-sixth Street which, in his father's opinion, added not at all to
the lustre of the family name. In particular, Anthony, Sr., was
prejudiced against a certain Higgins, who, of course, was his son's
boon companion, aid, and abettor. This young gentleman was a lean,
horse-faced senior, whose unbroken solemnity of manner had more than
once led strangers to mistake him for a divinity student, though closer
acquaintance proved him wholly unmoral and rattle-brained. Mr. Higgins
possessed a distorted sense of humor and a crooked outlook upon life;
while, so far as had been discovered, he owned but two ambitions: one
to whip a policeman, the other to write a musical comedy. Neither
seemed likely of realization. As for the first, he was narrow-chested
and gangling, while a brief, disastrous experience on the college paper
had furnished a sad commentary upon the second.

Not to exaggerate, Darwin K. Anthony, the father, saw in the person of
Adelbert Higgins a budding criminal of rare precocity, and a menace to
his son; while to the object of his solicitude the aforesaid criminal
was nothing more than an entertaining companion, whose bizarre
disregard of all established rules of right and wrong matched well with
his own careless temper. Higgins, moreover, was an ardent follower of
athletics, revolving like a satellite about the football stars, and
attaching himself especially to Kirk, who was too good-natured to find
fault with an honest admirer.

It was Higgins this evening who, after the "cripples" had deserted and
the supper party had dwindled to perhaps a dozen, proposed to make a
night of it. It was always Higgins who proposed to make a night of it,
and now, as usual, his words were greeted with enthusiasm.

Having obtained the floor, he gazed owlishly over the flushed faces
around the table and said:

"I wish to announce that, in our little journey to the underworld, we
will visit some places of rare interest and educational value. First we
will go to the House of Seven Turnings."

"No poetry, Hig!" some one cried. "What is it?"

"It is merely a rendezvous of pickpockets and thieves, accessible only
to a chosen few. I feel sure you will enjoy yourselves there, for the
bartender has the secret of a remarkable gin fizz, sweeter than a
maiden's smile, more intoxicating than a kiss."

"Piffle!"

"It is a place where the student of sociology can obtain a world of
valuable information."

"How do we get in?"

"Leave that to old Doctor Higgins," Anthony laughed. "To get out is the
difficulty."

"Oh, I guess we'll get out," said the bulky Ringold.

"After we have concluded our investigations at the House of Seven
Turnings," continued the ceremonious Higgins, "we will go to the Palace
of Ebony, where a full negro orchestra--"

"The police closed that a week ago."

"But it has reopened on a scale larger and grander than ever."

"Let's take in the Austrian Village," offered Ringold.

"Patiently! Patiently, Behemoth! We'll take 'em all in. However, I wish
to request one favor. If by any chance I should become embroiled with a
minion of the law, please, oh please, let me finish him."

"Remember the last time," cautioned Anthony. "You've never come home a
winner."

"Enough! Away with painful memories! All in favor--"

"AYE!" yelled the diners, whereupon a stampede ensued that caused the
waiters in the main dining-room below to cease piling chairs upon the
tables and hastily weight their napkins with salt-cellars.

But the crowd was not combative. They poured out upon the street in the
best possible humor, and even at the House of Seven Turnings, as
Higgins had dubbed the "hide-away" on Thirty-second Street, they made
no disturbance. On the contrary, it was altogether too quiet for most
of them, and they soon sought another scene. But there were deserters
en route to the Palace of Ebony, and when in turn the joys of a full
negro orchestra had palled and a course was set for the Austrian
Village, the number of investigators had dwindled to a choice
half-dozen.

These, however, were kindred spirits, veterans of many a midnight
escapade, composing a flying squadron of exactly the right proportions
for the utmost efficiency and mobility combined.

The hour was now past a respectable bedtime and the Tenderloin had
awakened. The roar of commerce had dwindled away, and the comparative
silence was broken only by the clang of an infrequent trolley. The
streets were empty of vehicles, except for a few cabs that followed the
little group persistently. As yet there was no need of them. The crowd
was made up, for the most part, of healthy, full-blooded boys, fresh
from weeks of training, strong of body, and with stomachs like
galvanized iron. They showed scant evidence of intoxication. As for the
weakest member of the party, it had long been known that one drink made
Higgins drunk, and all further libations merely served to maintain him
in status quo. Exhaustive experiments had proved that he was able to
retain consciousness and the power of locomotion until the first streak
of dawn appeared, after which he usually became a burden. For the
present he was amply able to take care of himself, and now, although
his speech was slightly thick, his demeanor was as didactic and severe
as ever, and, save for the vagrant workings of his mind, he might have
passed for a curate. As a whole, the crowd was in fine fettle.

The Austrian Village is a saloon, dance-hall, and all-night restaurant,
flourishing brazenly within a stone's throw of Broadway, and it is
counted one of the sights of the city. Upon entering, one may pass
through a saloon where white-aproned waiters load trays and wrangle
over checks, then into a ball-room filled with the flotsam and jetsam
of midnight Manhattan. Above and around this room runs a white-and-gold
balcony partitioned into boxes; beneath it are many tables separated
from the waxed floor by a railing. Inside the enclosure men in
street-clothes and smartly gowned girls with enormous hats revolve
nightly to the strains of an orchestra which nearly succeeds in
drowning their voices. From the tables come laughter and snatches of
song; waiters dash hither and yon. It is all very animated and gay on
the surface, and none but the closely observant would note the
weariness beneath the women's smiles, the laughter notes that
occasionally jar, or perceive that the tailored gowns are imitations,
the ermines mainly rabbit-skins.

But the eyes of youth are not analytical, and seen through a rosy haze
the sight was inspiriting. The college men selected a table, and,
shouldering the occupants aside without ceremony, seated themselves and
pounded for a waiter.

Padden, the proprietor, came toward them, and, after greeting Anthony
and Higgins by a shake of his left hand, ducked his round gray head in
acknowledgment of an introduction to the others.

"Excuse my right," said he, displaying a swollen hand criss-crossed
with surgeon's plaster. "A fellow got noisy last night."

"D'jou hit him?" queried Higgins, gazing with interest at the
proprietor's knuckles.

"Yes. I swung for his jaw and went high. Teeth--" Mr. Padden said,
vaguely. He turned a shrewd eye upon Anthony. "I heard about the game
to-day. That was all right."

Kirk grinned boyishly. "I didn't have much to do with it; these are the
fellows."

"Don't believe him," interrupted Ringold.

"Sure! he's too modest," Higgins chimed in. "Fine fellow an' all that,
understand, but he's got two faults--he's modest and he's lazy. He's
caused a lot of uneasiness to his father and me. Father's a fine man,
too." He nodded his long, narrow head solemnly.

"We know who did the trick for us," added Anderson, the straw-haired
half-back.

"Glad you dropped in," Mr. Padden assured them. "Anything you boys want
and can't get, let me know."

When he had gone Higgins averred: "There's a fine man--peaceful,
refined--got a lovely character, too. Let's be gentlemen while we're in
his place."

Ringold rose. "I'm going to dance, fellows," he announced, and his
companions followed him, with the exception of the cadaverous Higgins,
who maintained that dancing was a pastime for the frivolous and weak.

When they returned to their table they found a stranger was seated with
him, who rose as Higgins made him known.

"Boys, meet my old friend, Mr. Jefferson Locke, of St. Louis. He's all
right."

The college men treated this new recruit with a hilarious cordiality,
to which he responded with the air of one quite accustomed to such
reunions.

"I was at the game this afternoon," he explained, when the greetings
were over, "and recognized you chaps when you came in. I'm a football
fan myself."

"You look as if you might have played," said Anthony, sizing up the
broad frame of the Missourian with the critical eye of a coach.

"Yes. I used to play."

"Where?"

Mr. Locke avoided answer by calling loudly for a waiter, but when the
orders had been taken Kirk repeated:

"Where did you play, Mr. Locke?"

"Left tackle."

"What university?"

"Oh one of the Southern colleges. It was a freshwater school--you
wouldn't know the name." He changed the subject quickly by adding:

"I just got into town this morning and I'm sailing to-morrow. I
couldn't catch a boat to-day, so I'm having a little blow-out on my own
account. When I recognized you all, I just butted in. New York is a
lonesome place for a stranger. Hope you don't mind my joining you."

"Not at all!" he was assured.

When he came to pay the waiter he displayed a roll of yellow-backed
bills that caused Anthony to caution him:

"If I were you I'd put that in my shoe. I know this place."

Locke only laughed. "There's more where this came from. However, that's
one reason I'd like to stick around with you fellows. I have an idea
I've been followed, and I don't care to be tapped on the head. If you
will let me trail along I'll foot the bills. That's a fair proposition."

"It certainly sounds engaging," cried Higgins, joyously. "The sight of
that money awakens a feeling of loyalty in our breasts. I speak for all
when I say we will guard you like a lily as long as your money lasts,
Mr. Locke."

"As long as we last," Ringold amended.

"It's a bargain," Locke agreed. "Hereafter I foot the bills. You're my
guests for the evening, understand. If you'll agree to keep me company
until my ship sails I'll do the entertaining."

"Oh, come now," Anthony struck in. "The fellows are just fooling.
You're more than welcome to stay with us if you like, but we can't let
you put up for it."

"Why not? We'll make a night of it. I'll show you how we spend money in
St. Louis. I'm too nervous to go to bed."

Anthony protested, insisting that the other should regard himself as
the guest of the crowd; but as Locke proved obdurate the question was
allowed to drop until later, when Kirk found himself promoted by tacit
consent to the position of host for the whole company. This was a
little more than he had bargained for, but the sense of having
triumphed in a contest of good-fellowship consoled him. Meanwhile, the
stranger, despite his avowedly festive spirit, showed a certain reserve.

When the music again struck up he declined to dance, preferring to
remain with Higgins in their inconspicuous corner.

"There's a fine fellow," the latter remarked, following his best
friend's figure with his eyes, when he and Locke were once more alone.
"Sweet nature."

"Anthony? Yes, he looks it."

"He's got just two faults, I always say: he's too modest by far and
he's lazy--won't work."

"He doesn't have to work. His old man has plenty of coin, hasn't he?"

"Yes, and he'll keep it, too. Heartless old wretch. Mr.--What's your
name, again?"

"Locke."

"Mr. Locke." The speaker stared mournfully at his companion. "D'you
know what that unnatural parent did?"

"No."

"He let his only son and heir go to jail."

Mr. Jefferson Locke, of St. Louis, started; his wandering, watchful
eyes flew back to the speaker.

"What! Jail?"

"That's what I remarked. He allowed his own flesh and blood to languish
in a loathsome cell."

"What for? What did they get him for?" queried the other, quickly.

"Speeding."

"Oh!" Locke let himself back in his chair.

"Yes sir, he's a branded felon."

"Nonsense. That's nothing."

"But we love him just the same, criminal though he is" said Higgins,
showing a disposition to weep. "If he were not such a strong, patient
soul it might have ruined his whole life."

Mr. Locke grunted.

"S'true! You've no idea the disgrace it is to go to jail."

The Missourian stirred uneasily. "Say, it gets on my nerves to sit
still," said he. "Let's move around."

"Patiently! Patiently! Somebody's sure to start something before long."

"Well, I don't care to get mixed up in a row."

Higgins laid a long, white hand upon the speaker's arm. "Then stay with
us, Mr.--Locke. If you incline to peace, be one of us. We're a flock of
sucking doves."

The dancers came crowding up to the table at the moment, and Ringold
suggested loudly: "I'm hungry; let's eat again."

His proposal met with eager response.

"Where shall we go?" asked Anderson.

"I just fixed it with Padden for a private room upstairs," Anthony
said. "All the cafes are closed now, and this is the best place in town
for chicken creole, anyhow."

Accordingly he led the way, and the rest filed out after him; but as
they left the ball-room a medium-sized man who had recently entered
from the street caught a glimpse of them, craned his neck for a better
view, then idled along behind.




II

THE TRAIL DIVIDES


Inspired by his recent rivalry with Mr. Jefferson Locke, Anthony played
the part of host more lavishly than even the present occasion required.
He ordered elaborately, and it was not long before corks were popping
and dishes rattling quite as if the young men were really hungry. Mr.
Locke, however, insisted that his friends should partake of a kind of
drink previously unheard of, and with this in view had a confidential
chat with the waiter, to whom he unostentatiously handed a five-dollar
retainer. No one witnessed this unusual generosity except Higgins, who
commended it fondly; but his remarks went unheeded in the general
clamor.

The meal was at its noisiest when the man whom Locke had so generously
tipped spoke to him quietly. Whatever his words, they affected the
listener strongly. Locke's face whitened, then grew muddy and yellow,
his hands trembled, his lips went dry. He half arose from his chair,
then cast a swift look about the room. His companions were too well
occupied, however, to notice this by-play even when the waiter
continued, in a low tone:

"He slipped me a ten-spot, so I thought it must be something worth
while."

"He--he's alone, you say?"

"Seems to be. What shall I do, sir?"

Locke took something from his pocket and thrust it into the fellow's
hand, while the look in his eyes changed to one of desperation.

"Step outside and wait. Don't let him come up. I'll call you in a
minute."

Ringold was recounting his version of the first touchdown--how he had
been forced inch by inch across the goal line to the tune of thirty
thousand yelling throats and his companions were hanging upon his
words, when their new friend interrupted in such a tone that Anthony
inquired in surprise:

"What's wrong, old man? Are you sick?"

Locke shook his head. "I told you fellows I'd been followed this
evening. Remember? Well, there's a man down-stairs who has given the
waiter ten dollars to let him have his coat and apron so he can come in
here."

"What for?"

"Who is he?"

The men stared at the speaker with a sudden new interest.

"I'm not sure. I--think it's part of a plan to rob me." He let his gaze
roam from one face to another. "You see--I just came into a big piece
of coin, and I've got it with me. I'm--I'm alone in New York,
understand? They've followed me from St. Louis. Now, I want you boys to
help me dodge this--"

Kirk Anthony rose suddenly, moving as lightly upon his feet as a dancer.

"You say he's below?"

Locke nodded. It was plain that he was quite unnerved.

Ringold rose in turn and lurched ponderously toward the door, but Kirk
stepped in front of him with a sharp word:

"Wait! I'll manage this."

"Lemme go," expostulated the centre-rush. "Locke's a good fellow and
this man wants to trim him."

"No, no! Sit down!" Ringold obeyed. "If he wants to join us, we'll have
him come up."

"What?" cried Locke, leaping nervously from his chair. "Don't do that.
I want to get out of here."

"Not a bit like it." Kirk's eyes were sparkling. "We'll give this
fellow the third degree and find out who his pals are."

"Grand idea!" Higgins seconded with enthusiasm. "Grand!"

"Hold on! I can't do that. I've got to sail at ten o'clock. I don't
dare get into trouble, don't you understand? It's important." Locke
seemed in an extraordinary panic.

"Oh, we'll see that you catch your boat all right," Kirk assured him;
and then before the other could interfere he rang for the waiter.

"Give that chap your coat and apron," he ordered, when the attendant
answered, "and when I ring next send him up. Pass the word to Padden
and the others not to notice any little disturbance. I'll answer for
results."

"I'm going to get out," cried the man from St. Louis. "He mustn't see
me."

"He'll see you sure if you leave now. You'll have to pass him. Stick
here. We'll have some fun."

The white-faced man sank back into his chair, while Anthony directed
sharply:

"Now, gentlemen, be seated. Here, Locke, your back to the door--your
face looks like a chalk-mine. There! Now don't be so nervous--we'll
cure this fellow's ambition as a gin-slinger. I'll change names with
you for a minute. Now, Ringold, go ahead with your story." Then, as the
giant took up his tale again: "Listen to him, fellows; look pleasant,
please. Remember you're not sitting up with a corpse. A little more
ginger, Ringie. Good!" He pushed the button twice, and a moment Later
the door opened quietly to admit a medium-sized man in white coat and
apron.

Had the young men been a little less exhilarated they might have
suspected that Locke's story of having been dogged from St. Louis was a
trifle exaggerated; for, instead of singling him out at first glance,
the new-comer paused at a respectful distance inside the door and
allowed his eyes to shift uncertainly from one to another as if in
doubt as to which was his quarry. Anthony did not dream that it was his
own resemblance to the Missourian that led to this confusion, but in
fact, while he and Locke were totally unlike when closely compared,
they were of a similar size and coloring, and the same general
description would have fitted both.

Having allowed the intruder a moment in which to take in the room, Kirk
leaned back in his chair and nodded for him to approach.

"Cigars!" he ordered. "Bring a box of Carolinas."

"Yes, sir. Are you Mr. Locke, sir?" inquired the new waiter.

"Yes," said Kirk.

"Telephone message for you, Mr. Locke," the waiter muttered.

"What's that?" Anthony queried, loud enough for the others to hear.

"Somebody calling you by 'phone. They're holding the wire outside. I'll
show you the booth."

"Oh, will you?" Kirk Anthony's hands suddenly shot out and seized the
masquerader by the throat. The man uttered a startled gasp, but
simultaneously the iron grip of Marty Ringold fell upon his arms and
doubled them behind him, while Kirk gibed:

"You'll get me outside and into a telephone booth, eh? My dear sir,
that is old stuff."

The rest of the party were on their feet instantly, watching the
struggle and crowding forward with angry exclamations. Ringold, with
the man's two wrists locked securely in his own huge paw, was growling:

"Smooth way to do up a fellow, I call it."

"All the way from St. Louis for a telephone call, eh?" Anthony sank his
thumbs into the stranger's throat, then, as the man's face grew black
and his contortions diminished, added: "We're going to make a good
waiter out of you."

Jefferson Locke broke in excitedly: "Choke him good! Choke him! That's
right. Put him out for keeps. For God's sake, don't let him go!"

But it was not Kirk's idea to strangle his victim beyond a certain
point. He relaxed his grip after a moment and, nodding to Ringold to do
likewise, took the fellow's wrists himself, then swung him about until
he faced the others. The man's lungs filled with fresh air, he began to
struggle once more, and when his voice had returned he gasped:

"I'll get you for this. You'll do a trick--" He mumbled a name that did
not sound at all like Jefferson Locke, whereupon the Missourian made a
rush at him that required the full strength of Anthony's free hand to
thwart.

"Here, stand back! I've got him!"

"I'll kill him!" chattered the other.

"Let me go," the stranger gasped. "I'll take you all in. I'm an
officer."

"It's a lie!" shouted Locke. "He's a thief."

"I tell you I'm--an officer; I arrest this--"

The words were cut off abruptly by a loud exclamation from Higgins and
a crash of glass. Kirk Anthony's face was drenched, his eyes were
filled with a stinging liquid; he felt his prisoner sink limply back
into his arms and beheld Higgins struggling in the grasp of big Marty
Ringold, the foil-covered neck of a wine bottle in his fingers.

The foolish fellow had been hovering uncertainly round the edges of the
crowd, longing to help his friends and crazily anxious to win glory by
some deed of valor. At the first opening he had darted wildly into the
fray, not realizing that the enemy was already helpless in the hands of
his captors.

"I've got him!" he cried, joyously. "He's out!'

"Higgins!" Anthony exclaimed, sharply. "What the devil--" Then the dead
weight in his arms, the lolling head and sagging jaw of the stranger,
sobered him like a deluge of ice-water.

"You've done it this time," he muttered.

"Good God!" Locke cried. "Let's get away! He's hurt!"

"Here, you!" Anthony shot a command at the speaker that checked him
half-way across the room. "Ringold, take the door and don't let anybody
in or out." To Higgins he exclaimed, "You idiot, didn't you see I had
his hands?"

"No. Had to get him," returned Higgins, with vinous dignity. "Wanted to
rob my old friend, Mr.--What's his name?"

"We've got to leave quick before we get in bad," Locke reiterated,
nervously, but Anthony retorted:

"We're in bad now. I want Padden." He stepped to the door and signaled
a passing waiter. A moment later the proprietor knocked, and Ringold
admitted him.

"What's the--" Padden started at sight of the motionless figure on the
floor, and, kneeling beside it, made a quick examination, while Anthony
explained the circumstances leading up to the assault.

"Thief, eh? I see."

"Is he badly hurt?" queried Locke, bending a pale face upon them.

"Huh! I guess he's due for the hospital," the owner of the Austrian
Village announced. "He had his nerve, trying to turn a trick in my
place. I thought I knew all the dips, but he's a stranger." With nimble
fingers he ran through the fellow's pockets, then continued:

"I'm glad you got him, but you'd better get together and rehearse
before the police--" He stopped abruptly once more, then looked up
curiously.

"What is it?" questioned the man from Missouri.

Padden pointed silently to the lapel of the fellow's vest, which he had
turned back. A nickeled badge was pinned upon it. "He's no thief; he's
a detective--a plain-clothes man!"

"Wha'd I tell you!" Higgins exulted. "I can smell 'em!"

The crowd looked nonplussed, with the exception of Jefferson Locke, who
became calmer than at any time since the waiter had first whispered
into his ear.

"We didn't know who he was," he began, hurriedly, "You must square it
for us, Padden. I don't care what it costs." He extended a bulky roll
of bank-notes toward the gray-haired man. "These boys can't stand this
sort of thing, and neither can I. I've got to sail at ten o'clock this
morning."

"Looks to me like you've croaked him," said the proprietor, ignoring
the proffered money.

"It's worth a thousand dollars to me not to miss my boat."

"Wait a minute." Padden emptied the unconscious man's pockets, among
other things of some telegrams and a legally folded paper. The latter
he opened and scanned swiftly, then turned his little eyes upon Locke
without a word, whereupon that gentleman, with equal silence, took from
his inside pocket a wallet, and selected a bill, the denomination of
which he displayed to the proprietor before folding it inside the
bundle he held.

"Here! It may cost you something."

Padden nodded and accepted the money, saying:

"Oh, I guess I can fix it. I know the right doctor." He regained his
feet, then warned the onlookers: "But you'll have to keep your traps
closed, understand?"

"Will he die?" asked Ringold, fearfully, his back still against the
door.

"Not a chance. But if he does he'll never know who hit him. You see, we
picked him up in the alley and brought him in." Padden winked
meaningly. "It happens right along in this part of town. Do you get me?
I'll keep these." He indicated the badge and papers in his hand. "Now
go out as if nothing had come off. Drop in again the next time you're
in town. I'll take care of the supper checks."

As the partly sobered visitors struggled into their overcoats Padden
drew Locke aside, and, nodding toward Higgins, who was still talkative,
said:

"If you want to catch that ten o'clock boat you'd better stick close to
your friend; I know him."

"Thanks!" Locke glanced at the prostrate figure, then inquired in a low
tone: "On the level, will he make it?"

"Hard to tell. Just the same, if I was you I'd change my sailing--he
might come to."

"You chaps have done me a big favor to-night," said Locke, a little
later, when he and his companions were safely out of the Austrian
Village, "and I won't forget it, either. Now let's finish the evening
the way we began it."

Anderson, Rankin, and Burroughs, to conceal their nervousness, pleaded
bodily fatigue, while Anthony also declared that he had enjoyed himself
sufficiently for one night and intended to go home and to bed. "That
episode rather got on my nerves," he acknowledged.

"Mine, too," assented Locke. "That's why you mustn't leave me. I just
won't let you. Remember, you agreed to see me off."

"'S'right, fellows," Higgins joined in. "We agreed to put him aboard
and we must do it. Don't break up the party, Kirk."

"I don't want to go home," Ringold muttered.

"It's a breach of hospitality to go home," Higgins insisted. "Besides,
after my bloody 'ncounter with that limb of the law I need a stimulant.
You must look after me."

"I shall tuck you in your little bed," Kirk told him. But Higgins would
hear to nothing of the sort, protesting that he was in honor bound to
conduct his old friend Locke to the steamer, and Anthony feared that
without his protection some harm might befall his irresponsible and
impulsive companion. Candor requires it to be said that he did
hesitate, arguing long with the limp-legged Higgins; but Locke was
insistent, the others grew impatient of the delay, and in the end he
allowed himself to be persuaded.

It is often through just such sudden, inconsequent decisions,
influenced perhaps by the merest trifles, that a man's life is made
great or small; just such narrow forkings of the trail may divert him
into strange adventurings, or into worlds undreamed of. Kirk Anthony,
twenty-six years old, with a heritage at hand, and with an average
capacity for good or evil, chose the turning that led him swiftly from
the world he knew into an alien land.

Numbed as they were by the excesses of the evening, it did not take the
young men long to lose all clear and vivid remembrance of this recent
experience; for the time had come when Nature was offering her last
resistance, and their brains were badly awhirl. Of all the four,
Jefferson Locke was the only one who retained his wits to the
fullest--a circumstance that would have proved him the owner of a
remarkably steady head had it not been for the fact that he had
cunningly substituted water for gin each time it came his turn to
drink. It was a commentary upon the state of his companions that they
did not notice the limpid clearness of his beverage.

Dawn found them in an East Side basement drinking-place frequented by
the lowest classes. Ringold was slumbering peacefully, half overflowing
the wet surface of a table; Anthony had discovered musical talent in
the bartender and was seated at a battered piano, laboriously
experimenting with the accompaniment to an Irish ballad; Higgins and
Locke were talking earnestly. It was the slackest, blackest hour in an
all-night dive; the nocturnal habitues had slunk away, and the day's
trade had not yet begun. Higgins, drawn and haggard beneath his drunken
flush, was babbling incessantly; Locke, as usual, sat facing the
entrance, his eyes watchful, his countenance alert. In spite of the
fact that he had constantly plied his companion with liquor in the hope
of stilling his tongue, Higgins seemed incapable of silence, and kept
breaking forth into loud, garbled recitals of the scene at Padden's,
which caused the Missourian to shiver with apprehension. To a sober eye
it would have been patent that Locke was laboring under some strong
excitement; for every door that opened caused him to start, every
stranger that entered made him quake. He consulted his watch
repeatedly, he flushed and paled and fidgeted, then lost himself in
frowning meditation.

"Grandes' fellow I ever met," Higgins was saying for the hundredth
time. "Got two faults, tha's all; he's modesht an' he's lazy--he won't
work."

"Anthony?"

"Yes."

Locke stirred himself, and, leaning forward, said: "You and he are good
friends, eh?"

"Best ever."

"Would you like to play a joke on him?"

"Joke? Can't be done. He's wises' guy ever. I've tried it an' always
get the wors' of it. Yes, sir, he's wise guy. Jus' got two faults: he
won't work an'--"

"Look here! Why don't you make him work?"

"Huh?" Higgins turned a pair of bleared, unfocusable eyes upon the
speaker.

"Why don't somebody make him work?"

The lean-faced youth laughed moistly.

"Tha's good joke."

"I mean it."

"Got too much money. 'S old man puts up reg'lar."

"Listen! It's a shame for a fine fellow like him to go to the dogs."
Higgins nodded heavily in agreement. "Why don't you send him away where
he'll have to rustle? That's the joke I meant."

"Huh?" Again the listener's mind failed to follow, and Locke repeated
his words, concluding: "It would make a new man of him."

"Oh, he wouldn't work. Too lazy."

"He'd have to if he were broke."

"But he AIN'T broke. Didn't I tell you 's old man puts up reg'lar? Fine
man, too, Misser Anthony; owns railroads."

"I'll tell you how we can work it. I've got a ticket for Central
America in my pocket. The boat sails at ten. Let's send him down there."

"Wha' for?"

Locke kept his temper with an effort. "To make a man of him. We'll go
through his clothes and when he lands he'll be broke. He'll HAVE to
work. Don't you see?"

"No." Anthony's friend did not see. "He don't want to go to Central
America," he argued; "he's got a new autom'bile."

"But suppose we got him soused, went through his pockets, and then put
him aboard the boat. He'd be at sea by the time he woke up; he couldn't
get back; he'd have to work; don't you see? He'd be broke when he
landed and have to rustle money to get back with. I think it's an awful
funny idea."

The undeniable humor of such a situation finally dawned upon Higgins's
mind, and he burst into a loud guffaw.

"Hey there! Shut up!" Anthony called from the piano. "Listen here! I've
found the lost chord." He bore down with his huge hands upon the yellow
keyboard, bringing forth a metallic crash that blended fearfully with
the bartender's voice. "It's a great discovery."

"I'll get him full if you'll help manage him," Locke went on. "And
here's the ticket." He tapped his pocket.

"Where'd you get it?"

"Bought it yesterday. It's first class and better, and he'll fit my
description. We're about the same size."

"Ain't you goin'?"

"No. I've changed my mind. I may jump over to Paris. Come, are you on?"

Higgins giggled. "Darn' funny idea, if you can get him full."

"Wait." Locke rose and went to the bar, where he called loudly for the
singer; then, when the bartender had deserted the piano, he spoke to
Anthony: "Keep it up, old man, you're doing fine."

For some moments he talked earnestly to the man behind the bar; but his
back was to Higgins, Anthony was occupied, and Ringold still slumbered;
hence no one observed the transfer of another of those yellow bills of
which he seemed to have an unlimited store.

Strangely enough, Mr. Jefferson Locke's plan worked without a hitch.
Within ten minutes after Kirk Anthony had taken the drink handed him he
declared himself sleepy, and rose from the piano, only to seek a chair,
into which he flung himself heavily.

"It's all right," Locke told his drunken companion. "I've got a taxi
waiting. We'll leave Ringold where he is."

Twenty-four hours later Adelbert Higgins undertook to recall what had
happened to him after he left Muller's place on East Fourteenth Street,
but his memory was tricky. He recollected a vaguely humorous discussion
of some sort with a stranger, the details of which were almost entirely
missing. He remembered that dawn had broken when he came out of the
saloon, but beyond that he could not go with any degree of certainty.
There was a hazy memory of an interminable ride in a closed vehicle of
some sort, a dizzy panorama of moving buildings, bleak, wind-swept
trees, frosty meadows, and land-locked lakes backed by what were either
distant mountain ranges or apartment houses. This last, however, was
all very blurred and indistinct.

As to who was with him on the ride, or what took place thereafter, he
had no memory and no opportunity of learning, owing to certain
unexpected and alarming occurrences which made it imperative for him to
terminate his connection with his college, as big Marty Ringold had
done earlier in the day, and begin to pack his belongings. Partly out
of deference to the frantic appeals of his widowed mother, partly owing
to the telephoned advice of Mr. Michael Padden, of Sixth Avenue, who
said the injured man had recognized one of his assailants, he booked
passage to Japan by the next steamer out of Vancouver. He left New York
that afternoon by the Twentieth Century Limited, taking with him only
one suit-case and a determination to see the world.




III

A GAP


Strictly speaking, Kirk Anthony did not awake to a realization of his
surroundings, but became conscious of them through a long process of
dull, dreamy speculation. He never knew the precise moment when his
eyes opened and sleep left him, but at cost of considerable mental
effort he finally brought himself to the conviction that hours had
passed and another day had arrived. More than once after long, white
nights in New York City, he had awakened amid strange surroundings and
had been forced to wait upon his lagging memory; but this time his mind
refused to work, even after he knew himself to be fully roused. So he
closed his eyes with the admonition:

"Now, begin all over again, Kirk. When you left Padden's place you went
to Maxim's and listened to the fat quartette, then to the place where
the waiter held out a dollar. After the trouble at that point, you
tried to get into Tony's rathskeller and couldn't, so you started for
the East Side. Ringold was very drunk. Good! Everything is clear so
far. Next you were playing a piano with yellow teeth while somebody
sang something about a 'Little Brown Cot.' After that--Lord, you must
have been drinking! Well, let's run through it again."

But his efforts were vain; he could recall nothing beyond the piano, so
fell to wondering what hotel this could be.

"Some East Side joint," he decided, "and a cheap one too, from the size
of this stall." He noted another brass bed close at hand and reasoned
that Ringold or Higgins must have risen early, leaving him to finish
his sleep. That was considerate, of course, but--Good heavens, it must
be late! And he was due to motor to New Haven at noon! He raised
himself suddenly, and was half out of bed when he fell back, with a
cry, as if an unseen hand had smitten him. He clapped both palms to his
head, realizing that he was very sick indeed. The sensation was unlike
anything he had ever felt before. His head was splitting, he felt a
frightful nausea, the whole room was rocking and reeling as if to pitch
him out of bed. It was terrible; so he arose blindly and felt his way
toward the telephone. Failing to find it, he pushed a button instead,
then tumbled back to bed, reviling the luck that had brought him to
such a miserable place. He closed his eyes tightly and calmed his
stomach by an effort of will. At last he heard the door open and a
voice inquire:

"Did you ring, sir?"

"An hour ago. Haven't you more than one bell-hop in this place?"

"I'm sorry, sir."

"And I'm sick, mighty sick. I'm going to die."

"I think not, sir; the others are sick, too."

"That's good! I was afraid they'd dressed and gone." It was some
consolation to know that Ringold and Higgins had not escaped their
share of suffering. "How is Hig--the bony fellow?"

"Do you mean the gentleman in thirty-two?"

"How should I know his number? That's not Hig's description,
however--even you could tell that he is no gentle--Oh, Lord!"

"Can I get you something, sir--a little champagne, perhaps, to settle
your stomach?"

"NO, NO! Get me a taxicab. I want to go up-town."

"Rather a long drive, isn't it?" snickered the bell-boy.

"Never mind the comedy." Anthony opened his eyes. "Hello! Are you the
clerk?" Instead of the bell-hop he had expected he beheld a man in
white jacket and black trousers.

"No, sir, I'm the steward."

The invalid shook his head faintly. "Funny place I've got into. What's
the name of it?"

"This? Oh! The SANTA CRUZ."

"Never heard of it. Why didn't they give me a good room? This is
fierce."

"Suite A is considered very good, sir. It is one of the best on the
line."

"Line?" Kirk grunted. "So this is some dead-line dump. Well, I'm going
to get out--understand? Hand me my trousers and I'll slip you a
quarter."

The steward did as desired, but a blind search showed the pockets to be
empty.

"Give me the coat and vest." But here again Kirk found nothing, and was
forced to apologize. "Sorry, old man, but I must have left it at the
office. Now be a good fellow and hustle up that taxi. I'm getting
sicker every minute."

"Perhaps you had better have the doctor?"

"Is there a good one handy?"

"Yes, sir."

"Here in the hotel?"

The steward seemed undecided whether to treat the occupant of Suite A
as a humorist or a lunatic, but finally he observed, "This isn't a
hotel, sir."

"That's what I though-t-more like a roadhouse," "This is a ship."

"A--WHAT?" Anthony raised himself and stared at the white-clad figure
over the foot of his little brass bed.

"This is a ship, sir."

"You get out of here!" yelled the infuriated young man. He cast his
eyes about for some missile to hurl at this insolent menial, and,
spying a heavy glass pitcher upon a stand beside him, reached for it,
whereat the steward retreated hastily to the door.

"I beg pardon, sir. I will send the doctor at once."

"Must think I'm still drunk," mumbled Anthony, dazedly, as he once more
laid his head upon his pillow with a groan.

When his dizziness had diminished sufficiently to permit him to open
his eyes he scanned his surroundings more carefully; but his vision was
unreliable. His head, too, continued to feel as if his skull were being
forcibly spread apart by some fiendish instrument concealed within it.
His mouth was parched, his stomach violently rebellious. In spite of
these distractions he began to note certain unfamiliar features about
this place. The wall-paper, for instance, which at first glance he had
taken for the work of some cheap decorator, turned out to be tapestry,
as he proved by extending a shaky hand. The low ceiling, the little
windows with wooden blinds, the furniture itself, were all out of
keeping with hotel usages. He discovered by rolling his head that there
was a mahogany dresser over by the door and a padded couch covered with
chintz. There were folding brass clothes-hooks on the wall, moreover,
and an electric fan, while a narrow door gave him a glimpse of a tiny,
white-enamelled bath-room.

He took in these details laboriously, deciding finally that he was too
intoxicated to see aright, for, while the place was quite unlike an
ordinary hotel room, neither did it resemble any steamship stateroom he
had ever seen; it was more like a lady's boudoir. To be sure, he felt a
sickening surge and roll now and then, but at other times the whole
room made a complete revolution, which was manifestly contrary to the
law of gravitation and therefore not to be trusted as evidence. There
were plenty of reasons, moreover, why this could not be a ship. The
mere supposition was absurd. No, this must be a room in some up-town
club, or perhaps a bachelor hotel. Kirk had many friends with quarters
decorated to suit their own peculiar fancies, and he decided that in
all probability one of these had met him on the street and taken him
home for safe-keeping. He had barely settled this in his mind when the
door opened for a second time and a man in uniform entered.

"The steward said you wanted me," he began.

"No; I want a doctor."

"I am the doctor."

"I thought you were the elevator man. I'm sick--awful sick--"

"Can you vomit?"

"Certainly! Anybody can do that."

The stranger pulled up a stool, seated himself beside the bed, then
felt of Anthony's cheek.

"You have a fever."

"That explains everything." Kirk sighed thankfully and closed his eyes
once more, for the doctor had begun to revolve slowly, with the bed as
an axis. "How are the other boys coming on?"

"Everybody is laid out. It's a bad night."

"Night? It must be nearly daylight by this time."

"Oh no! It is not midnight yet."

"Not midnight? Why, I didn't turn in until--" Anthony raised himself
suddenly. "Good Lord! have I slept all day?"

"You certainly have."

"Whose room is this?"

"Your room, of course. Here, take one of these capsules; it will settle
your stomach."

"Better give me something to settle my bill if I've been here that
long. I'm broke again."

"You're not fully awake yet," said the doctor. "People have funny ideas
when they're sick."

"Well, I know I'm broke, anyhow! That's no idea; it's a condition. I
went through my clothes just now and I'm all in. I must get back to the
Astor, too, for I had arranged to motor up to New Haven at noon."

"Let me feel your pulse," said the doctor, quietly.

"The boys will think I'm lost. I never did such a thing before."

"Where do you think you are?" inquired the physician.

"I don't know. It's a nice little hotel, but--"

"This isn't a hotel. This is a ship."

Anthony was silent for a moment. Then he sighed feebly and said:

"Doctor, you shouldn't make fun of a man at the point of death. It
isn't professional."

"Fact," said the doctor, abstractedly gazing at his watch, while he
held Anthony's wrist between his fingers. "We are one hundred and fifty
miles out of New York. The first officer told me you were considerably
intoxicated when you came aboard, but," he continued brusquely, rising
and closing his watch with a snap, "you will remember it all in a
little while, Mr. Locke."

"What did you call me?"

"Locke. You haven't forgotten your name, too?"

"Wait!"

Again Anthony pressed his throbbing temples with both hot hands and
strove to collect his whirling wits. At last he began to speak,
measuring his words with care.

"Now, I KNOW you are wrong, Doctor, and I'll tell you why. You see, my
name isn't Locke; it's Anthony. Locke went away on a ship, but _I_
stayed in New York; understand? Well, he's the fellow you're talking to
and I'm asleep somewhere down around the Bowery. I'm not here at all.
_I_ didn't want to go anywhere on a ship; I couldn't go; I didn't have
the price. That supper was a hundred and seventy."

"Nevertheless, this is a ship," the physician patiently explained, "and
you're on it and I'm talking to you. What is more, you have not
exchanged identities with your friend Anthony, for your ticket reads
'Jefferson Locke.' You'll be all right if you will just go to sleep and
give that capsule a chance to operate."

"Ask Higgins or Ringold who I am."

"There's no one aboard by either of those names."

"Say!" Anthony raised himself excitedly on one arm, but was forced to
lie down again without delay. "If this is a ship, I must have come
aboard. How did I do it? When? Where?"

"You came on with two men, or rather between two men, about
eight-thirty this morning. They put you in here, gave your ticket to
the purser, and went ashore. The slim fellow was crying, and one of the
deck-hands had to help him down the gangway."

"That was Higgins all right. Now, Doctor, granting, just for the sake
of argument, that this is a ship and that I am Jefferson Locke, when is
your next stop?"

"One week."

"What?" Kirk's eyes opened wide with horror. "I can't stay here a week."

"You will have to."

"But I tell you I CAN'T, I just can't. I bought a new car the other day
and it's standing in front of the New York Theatre. Yes, and I have two
rooms and a bath at the Astor, at fifteen dollars a day."

The physician smiled heartlessly. "You must have been drinking pretty
heavily, but I guess you will remember everything by-and-by."

"I can't understand it," groaned the bewildered invalid. "What ship is
this--if it is really a ship?"

"The SANTA CRUZ. Belongs to the United Fruit Company. This is one of
the bridal suites; it is 11:30 P.M., November 21st. We are bound for
Colon."

"Where is that?"

"Panama."

"Panama is in Central America or Mexico or somewhere, isn't it?"

"It is. Now, do you remember anything more?"

"Not a thing."

"Well, then, go to sleep. You'll be all right in the morning, Mr.
Locke."

"Anthony."

"Very well, Mr. Anthony, if you prefer. Is there anything more you
would like to ask me?"

"No."

"Of course, there may have been some mistake," the medical man
observed, doubtfully, as he opened the door. "Maybe you intended to
take some other ship?"

"No mistake at all," the sick man assured him. "I'm beginning to
remember now. You see, I lost my hat and decided I'd run down to Panama
and get another. Good-night."

"Good-night. That capsule will make you sleep."

When the officer had gone Kirk mumbled to himself: "If it turns out
that I AM in New York, after all, when I wake up I'll lick that
doctor." Then he turned over and fell asleep.

But morning showed him the truth of the doctor's information. He awoke
early and, although his head still behaved queerly and he had moments
of nausea, he dressed himself and went on deck. The shock he had
received on the evening before was as nothing to what he felt now upon
stepping out into the light of day. In spite of his growing conviction,
he had cherished a lingering hope that it was all a dream, and the
feeling did not entirely vanish until he had really seen for himself.
Then his dismay was overwhelming.

A broad deck, still wet from its morning scrubbing and lined with
steamer chairs, lay in front of him. A limitless, oily sea stretched
out before his bewildered eyes; he touched the rail with his hands to
verify his vision. The strangeness of it was uncanny. He felt as if he
were walking in his sleep. He realized that a great fragment had
suddenly dropped out of his life's pattern, and it was intensely
disquieting to think of all it might have carried with it.

He began to pace the deck mechanically, falling in with the other early
risers who were out for a breath of morning air, striving to adjust
himself to this new state of affairs. But even though the solid reality
of his surroundings soon brought him back more nearly to a normal state
of mind, he felt an ever-present expectancy of some new shock, some new
and abrupt transition that might yet bring him back to his
starting-point. But this obsession gradually left him, as the brisk sea
breeze brought him to a proper perspective and braced him to face the
full consequences of his long, restless night's orgy.

No man is so systematic, none is so well ordered in his affairs, that
he can cut out a slice of his life at a moment's notice without
suffering many kinds of loss and inconvenience. Although Anthony was a
youth of few responsibilities, he awoke suddenly to the fact that there
were a thousand things that needed doing, a thousand people who needed
to know his whereabouts, a thousand things that were bound to go wrong.
For instance, there was his brand-new French car, standing with motor
blanketed beside the Forty-fifth Street curb.

What had happened to it, and to the urchin he had left in charge of it?
He owed a thousand dollars on its purchase, which he had promised to
pay yesterday. Then, too, he had neglected his house account at the
University Club, and it was long overdue. That remittance from his
father had come just in the nick of time. Suddenly he recalled placing
the check in his bill-case, and he searched himself diligently, but
found nothing. That reminded him that he had won a bet or two on the
football game and the money needed collecting. There was the shooting
trip to Cape Cod as well. He was due there to-day for a week-end among
the geese and brant. What would Benny Glover think when he failed to
show up or even telegraph? Benny's sister was coming down from Boston
with some friends and--oh, it was simply imperative that he get some
word ashore.

He let his eyes rove over the ship in desperation, then a happy thought
came to him.

"The wireless!" he said aloud. "Bonehead! Why didn't you think of that
long ago?" A glance at the rigging showed him that the Santa Cruz was
equipped with a plant, and a moment later he was hammering at the
operator's door.

"I want to send a message right away!" he cried, excitedly; but the
"wireless" shook his head with a smile.

"I'm sorry, but--"

"It's important; awfully important. I'll pay you anything!" Kirk rammed
a hand mechanically into his empty pocket.

"We're installing a new system," said the operator. "The old apparatus
wasn't satisfactory and it's being changed throughout."

"Then you-you can't send a message--possibly?"

"Nothing doing until the next trip."

Kirk strode forward and stared disconsolately down upon the freight
deck in a vain endeavor to collect his thoughts. How in the devil had
he managed to get into this mess? Could it be one of Higgins's
senseless pranks, or was there something deeper, more sinister behind
it? He recalled the incidents of that wild night and began to have a
disquieting doubt. Did that chance meeting with the chap from St. Louis
have anything to do with his presence here, or had he really decided in
some foolish, drunken whim to take a trip to Central America? He hardly
knew what to think or where to begin his reasoning. He recollected that
Jefferson Locke had not impressed him very favorably at the start, and
that his behavior upon the appearance of the plain-clothes man had not
improved that first impression. It seemed certain that he must have had
his hand in this affair, else how would Anthony now find himself in
possession of his ticket? What had become of the rightful occupant of
Suite A? What had become of Higgins's unfortunate victim with the
cracked head? What did it all signify? Kirk sighed disconsolately and
gave it up. In five days more he would learn the answer, anyhow, for
there must be a cable from Panama to the States. Meanwhile, he supposed
he must reconcile himself to his condition. But it was tough to have
two weeks of valuable time snatched out of his eventful life. It was
maddening.




IV

NEW ACQUAINTANCES


The sound of a bugle, which Kirk interpreted as an invitation to
breakfast, reminded him that he was famished, and he lost no time in
going below. Upon his appearance the steward made it plain to him in
some subtle manner that the occupant of Suite A needed nothing beyond
the mere possession of those magnificent quarters to insure the most
considerate treatment. Kirk was placed at the captain's table, where
his hunger was soon appeased, and his outlook grew more cheerful with
the complete restoration of bodily comfort. Feeling somewhat less
dissatisfied with his surroundings, he began to study the faces of his
fellow-passengers.

"Getting your sea legs, Mr. Locke?" inquired the man at his right.

"My name is Anthony."

"I beg your pardon! The passenger list said--"

"That was a mistake."

"My name is Stein. May I ask where you are bound for?"

"I think the place is Panama."

"Going to work on the canal?"

"What canal? Oh, of course! Now I remember hearing something about a
Panama Canal. Is that where it is?"

"That's the place," Stein replied, dryly.

"I'm not going to work. I don't work--don't know how."

"I see. Pleasure trip?"

"Purely a pleasure trip. I'm having a great time. By-the-way, this
canal affair is something new, isn't it?"

"It was begun about thirty years ago." Mr. Stein regarded the speaker
with puzzled inquiry, as if undecided in what spirit to take him.

"What's the idea? Why don't they finish it up?"

"I thought you were an American," returned the other, politely. "You
have no accent."

"I am an American. I'm the fellow who was born in Albany, New York. If
you look on the map you'll find the town has a little ring around it."

"And really don't you know anything about the Panama Canal?"

"Oh, I've heard it mentioned."

"Well, you won't hear anything else mentioned down here; it's the one
and only subject of conversation. Nobody thinks or talks or dreams
about anything except the canal. Everybody works on it or else works
for somebody who does. For instance, that white-haired man at the other
end of the table is Colonel Bland, one of the commissioners. The man
over there with the black beard is one of the engineers at Gatun."

Stein, who seemed a gossipy person, ran on glibly for a time, pointing
out the passengers of note and giving brief details about them.
Suddenly he laid his hand on Anthony's arm, and said:

"See this fellow coming down the stairs?" Anthony beheld a slender,
bald-headed man of youthful appearance. "That is Stephen Cortlandt.
You've heard of the Cortlandts?"

"Sure! One of them pitched for the Cubs."

"I mean the Cortlandts of Washington. They're swell people, society
folks and all that--" He broke off to bow effusively to the late comer,
who seated himself opposite; then he introduced Kirk.

Mr. Cortlandt impressed Anthony as a cold-blooded, highly schooled
person, absolutely devoid of sentiment. His face was stony, his eyes
were cool, even his linen partook of his own unruffled calm. He seemed
by no means effeminate, yet he was one of those immaculate beings upon
whom one can scarcely imagine a speck of dust or a bead of
perspiration. His hair--what was left of it--was parted to a nicety,
his clothes were faultless, and he had an air of quiet assurance.

"By-the-way, we're getting up a pool on the ship's run," Stein told his
new acquaintance. "Would you like to join?"

"Yes, indeed. I'm for anything in the line of chance."

"Very well. I'll see you in the smoking-room later. It will cost you
only five dollars."

Kirk suddenly recalled his financial condition and hastened to say, a
trifle lamely:

"Come to think about it, I believe I'll stay out. I never gamble."
Chancing to glance up at the moment, he found Mr. Cortlandt's eyes
fixed upon him with a peculiarly amused look, and a few minutes later
he followed Mr. Stein to the deck above.

Once in his own stateroom, the young man began a thorough exploration,
realizing more keenly than before that without baggage or money his
plight might prove distressing. But, look as he would, he could find no
trace of either, and an inadvertent glance in the mirror betrayed the
further fact that his linen was long since past a presentable stage.
Another despairing search showed that even his watch was gone and that
his only asset, evidently overlooked by the hilarious Higgins and his
co-partner in crime, was a modest three-stone finger ring. He was
regarding this speculatively when the purser knocked, then entered at
his call.

"I've just heard that there's a mistake about your ticket," the
new-comer began. "It is made out to 'Mr. Jefferson Locke,' but the
doctor says you insist your name is something else."

"That's right. My name is Anthony."

"Then how did I get this ticket?"

"I'm sure I don't know."

"Have you any baggage?"

"I don't know."

"What is your destination?"

"I don't know. You'll pardon my limited vocabulary?"

"Are you joking?"

"Do I look as if I were?"

"But I don't understand."

"Neither do I. But I must have some luggage--a fellow wouldn't make a
trip like this without baggage, would he?"

"I should think not. I'll look it up for you if you wish. But about
this ticket--"

"My dear man, don't bother me with that. I have worries enough as it
is. What I want now is a clean shirt and collar."

"Yes, but this ticket says--"

"Please! Look at my linen. I'll create a scandal this way."

"Mr. Locke--"

"Anthony."

"Very well, Mr. Anthony. I must straighten out this ticket affair.
Really, I must."

"All right, straighten away."

"If you are not Mr. Locke, it is no good."

"Hurrah! Put me off."

"You don't understand--the ticket is good, but--See here, there's
something mighty strange about this. You say your name isn't Locke, you
have no baggage, you even thought this ship was a hotel--"

"I did. It was a great disappointment. And now I want a shirt." Anthony
began to laugh. "Funny, isn't it?"

"You will have to buy another ticket," said the purser, with dignity.

"A bright idea!" Kirk smiled grimly; then, turning his pockets wrong
side out, continued lightly: "You look me over and if you can find the
price of a ticket I'll give you half."

"Then you have lost your money as well as your baggage and your
identity?"

"So it would seem."

"Impossible!"

It was plain that the officer was growing angry, so Kirk made haste to
say:

"Now let's be friends, at least. By-the-way--pardon the personal nature
of the question--but--what size shirt do you wear?"

"Seventeen."

"Saved! Let me have about six, will you?"

"Certainly NOT," returned the other. "I need all I have."

"Miser! Then you must help me find some one my size."

The purser, however, seemed in no mood to go shirt-hunting, and backed
out of the door, saying: "I'll have a look for your baggage,
Mr.--Anthony, and I'll see the captain about this ticket, also. I don't
know whether you're making fun of me or not, but--I'll look you up
later."

He departed, shaking his head as if this were a form of insanity he had
never before encountered. A moment later Kirk followed him and made a
round of the deck, staring at each man he met and mentally estimating
the girth of his neck; but it seemed that the male passengers of the
Santa Cruz were all of medium size, and he saw no one whose appearance
held out the slightest hope. He did observe one fellow whose neck
seemed as large as his own, but the man looked surly and not too
cleanly, and Kirk was not yet desperate enough to bring himself to the
point of approaching such a fellow for such a favor. He thought of
appealing directly to the captain, but promptly remembered that he was
a small, wiry man whose wardrobe could by no possible chance afford him
relief. At last he made his way toward the smoking-room, determined to
enlist the help of his new acquaintance, Stein.

Midway aft, he paused. A girl had emerged from the deck-house ahead of
him, whose appearance was sufficiently striking to divert him,
momentarily at least, from his quest. She was well above the usual
height, quite slender, yet of an exquisite rounded fulness, while her
snug-fitting tailor-made gown showed the marks of a Redfern or a
Paquin. He noted, also, that her stride was springy and athletic and
her head well carried. Feeling that friendly approval with which one
recognizes a member of his own kind, Kirk let his eyes follow her, then
retraced his way around the deck in the hope of meeting her face to
face.

A woman frequently betrays her beauty by the poise of her head, by the
turn of her neck, or the lines of her figure, just as truly as by a
full glimpse of her features. Hence it was that Anthony felt a certain
pleasurable expectancy as he crossed in front of the deck-house,
realizing that she was approaching. But when they had met and passed he
went his way vaguely disappointed. Instead of a girl, as the first
sight of her youthful figure had led him to expect, he had seen a woman
of perhaps forty. There was little in her countenance to reveal her age
except a certain settled look that does not go with girlhood, and,
while no one could have thought her plain, she was certainly not so
handsome as he had imagined from a distance. Yet the face was
attractive. The eyes were wide-set, gray, and very clear, the mouth
large enough to be expressive. Her hair shone in the morning sun with a
delicate bronze lustre like that of a turkey's wing. It did not add to
the young man's comfort to realize that her one straight, casual glance
in passing had taken him in from his soiled collar to his somewhat
extreme patent leathers with the tan tops and pearl buttons.

Being very young himself and of limited social experience, he classed
all women as either young or old--there was no middle ground. So he
dismissed her from his thoughts and continued his search for a number
seventeen shirt, and collar to match. But he did not fare well. He
found Mr. Stein in the smoking-room, but discovered that his size was
fifteen and a half; and there was no one else to whom he could apply.

For a second time Stein importuned him to buy a chance on the ship's
run, and, failing in this, suggested that they have a drink together.
Had not Kirk realized in time his inability to reciprocate he would
have accepted eagerly, for his recent dissipation had left him
curiously weak and nervous. At the cost of an effort, however, he
refused. It was a rare experience for him to refuse anything, being,
like many indolent youths, an accomplished guest. In fact, he was
usually as ready to accept favors as he was carelessly generous when he
happened to be in funds. The technique of receiving comes to some
people naturally; others cannot assume an obligation without giving
offence. Kirk was one of the former. Yet now he felt a sudden, strange
hesitancy and a self-consciousness that made graceful acquiescence
impossible. He continued firm, therefore, even when Stein gibed at him
good-humoredly:

"I suppose it's against your principles to drink, as well as to gamble?"

"Exactly."

"That's good, after the way you came aboard."

"How did I come aboard?"

"Oh, I didn't see you, but I heard about it."

Kirk flushed uncomfortably, muttering: "The acoustics of this ship are
great. A man can't fall asleep but what somebody hears it."

Stein laughed: "Don't get sore; all ships are alike--we have to talk
about something. Sorry I can't help you with the shirt question. Deuced
careless of them to lose your luggage."

"Yes! It makes one feel about as comfortable as a man with a broken arm
and the prickly heat. Something's got to be done about it, that's all."
He glared enviously at the well-dressed men about the room.

Over in a corner, propped against the leather upholstery, was Mr.
Cortlandt, as pale, as reserved, and as saturnine as at breakfast. He
was sipping Scotch-and-soda, and in all the time that Anthony remained
he did not speak to a soul save the waiter, did not shift his position
save to beckon for another drink. Something about his sour,
introspective aloofness displeased the onlooker, who shortly returned
to the deck.

The day was warming up, and on the sunny side of the ship the steamer
chairs were filling. Two old men were casting quoits; a noisy quartette
was playing shuffle-board. After idling back and forth for a time, Kirk
selected a chair and stretched himself out; but he was scarcely seated
before the deck steward approached him and said:

"Do you wish this chair for the voyage, sir?"

"Yes, I think so."

"I'll put your name on it."

"Anthony, Suite A, third floor, front."

"Very well, sir." The man wrote out a card and fitted it to the back of
the chair, saying, "One dollar, if you please."

"What?"

"The price of the chair is one dollar."

"I haven't got a dollar."

The steward laughed as if to humor his passenger. "I'm afraid then you
can't have the chair."

"So I must stand up all the way to Panama, eh?"

"You are joking, sir. I'll have to pay it myself, if you don't."

"That's right--make me as uncomfortable as possible. By-the-way, what
size collar do you wear?"

"Sixteen."

Kirk sighed. "Send the purser to me, will you? I'll fix up the chair
matter with him."

While he was talking he heard the rustle of skirts close by and saw the
woman he had met earlier seating herself next to him. With her was a
French maid bearing a rug in her hands. It annoyed the young man to
realize that out of all the chairs on deck he had selected the one
nearest hers, and he would have changed his position had he not been
too indolent. As it was, he lay idly listening to her words of
direction to the maid; but as she spoke in French, he was undecided
whether she was telling her companion that bad weather was imminent, or
that the laundry needed counting--his mind, it seemed, ran to laundry.

Then the purser appeared. "Did you send for me?" he inquired.

"Yes. There was a strange man around just now, and he wanted a dollar
for this chair."

"Well?"

"I want to establish a line of credit."

The purser grunted.

"And say!" Kirk ran on, seriously. "I've been all over your little
ship, but the passengers are boys' size. I can't wear this collar any
longer."

"And I can't find any baggage of yours."

"Then there isn't any. I never really expected there was. Come now, be
a good fellow. This is my 'case shirt."

"If you really wish some clothes, I'll see what I can find among the
stewards."

"No, no," Kirk hastily interposed, "I can't wear a shirt with soup
stains on it. Let me have one of yours--we're twin brothers."

"I have no more than I need," said the purser, coldly. He opened a
cigarette case, at which Anthony gazed longingly. It seemed ages since
he had had a smoke; but the other seemed disinclined for small
courtesies.

"I've seen the captain about that ticket matter," he went on, "and he
says you must buy another."

Kirk shook his head languidly. "Once more I tell you there is nothing
doing."

The officer broke out with some heat: "If you are joking, you've
carried this thing far enough. If you are really strapped, as you say
you are, how does it happen that you are occupying the best suite on
the ship?"

"It is a long story."

"Humph! You will have to give up those quarters and go forward."

"Why? You have your money for that ticket?"

"Yes, but you're not Mr. Locke."

Kirk smiled meditatively. "How do you know?" he queried.

"Good heavens! You've told me so a dozen--"

"Ah! Then you have nothing except my word. Well, sir, now that I come
to think it over, I believe my name is Locke, after all." He grinned.
"Anyhow, I love my little room and I think I'll keep it. Please don't
be peevish. I want you to do me a favor." He removed the ring from his
finger, and, handing it to the Purser, said "I want you to get me two
diamonds' and a ruby's worth of shirts and collars; and also a safety
razor. My mind has stopped working, but my whiskers continue to grow."

The officer managed to say with dignity: "You wish to raise money on
this, I presume? Very well, I'll see what can be done for you, Mr.
Locke." As he turned away, Kirk became conscious that the woman in the
next chair had let her book fall and was watching him with amused
curiosity. Feeling a sudden desire to confide in some one, he turned
his eyes upon her with such a natural, boyish smile that she could not
take offence, and began quite as if he had known her for some time:

"These people are money-mad, aren't they? Worst bunch of gold-diggers I
ever saw." Surprised, she half raised her book, but Kirk ran on:
"Anybody would think I was trying to find a missing will instead of a
shirt. That purser is the only man on the ship my size, and he
distrusts me."

The woman murmured something unintelligible. "I hope you don't mind my
speaking to you," he added. "I'm awfully lonesome. My name is Anthony,
Kirk Anthony."

Evidently the occupant of the next chair was not a football enthusiast,
for, although she bowed her acknowledgment, her face showed that the
name carried no significance.

"I understood you to tell the purser your name was Locke," said she, in
a very low-pitched, well-modulated voice. "I couldn't help overhearing."

"But it isn't really, it's Anthony. I'm the undignified heir to the
stocks and bonds of an old party by that name who lives in Albany."

"Darwin K. Anthony?" questioned she, quickly. "Is he your father?" Her
face lighted with a flash of genuine interest.

Kirk nodded. "He's my prodigal father and I'm the fatted son. Do you
know the governor?"

"Yes, slightly."

"Well, what do you think of that? He's a great old party, isn't he?" He
chuckled irrepressibly. "Did you ever hear him swear?"

The woman shook her head with a smile. "I hardly know him well enough
for that."

"Oh, he's a free performer; he swears naturally; can't help it.
Everybody knows he doesn't mean anything. It's funny, isn't it, with
all his credit, that I can't get a shirt until I put up a diamond ring?
He could buy a railroad with half that security."

"You are joking, are you not?"

"No indeed. I never needed a shirt so badly in my life. You see, I
didn't intend to take this trip; I didn't even know I had sailed. When
I woke up I thought this was a hotel. I've got no more baggage than a
robin."

"Really?" The woman by now had closed her book and was giving him her
full attention, responding to some respectful quality in his tone that
robbed his frankness of offence. "How did it happen?"

"Well, to be perfectly honest, I got drunk--just plain drunk. I didn't
think so at the time, understand, for I'd never been the least bit that
way before. Hope I don't shock you?"

His new acquaintance shrugged her shoulders. "I have seen something of
the world; I'm not easily shocked."

"Well, I was perfectly sober the last I remember, and then I woke up on
the Santa Cruz. I'd never even heard the name before."

"And hadn't you intended taking an ocean trip?"

"Good Lord, no! I had just bought a new French car and was going to
drive it up to New Haven yesterday. It's standing out on Forty-fifth
Street now, if somebody hasn't stolen it. Gee! I can see the news-boys
cutting their monograms in those tires."

"How remarkable!"

"You see, it was a big night--football game, supper, and all that. I
remember everything up to a certain point, then--curtain! I was 'out'
for twelve hours, and SICK!--that's the funny part; I'm still sick." He
shook his head as if at a loss what to make of this phenomenon. He
noted how the woman's countenance lighted at even a passing interest,
as he continued: "What I can't understand is this: It took all my money
to pay for the supper, and yet I wake up with a first-class ticket to
Panama and in possession of one of the best suites on the ship. It's a
problem play."

"You say you were sick afterward?"

"WAS I?" Kirk turned his eyes upon the speaker, mournfully. "My head
isn't right yet."

"You were drugged," said the woman.

"By Jove!" He straightened up in his chair. "Knockouts!"

"Exactly. Some one drugged you and bought a ticket--"

"Wait! I'm beginning to see. It was Locke. That's how I got his name.
This is his ticket. Oh! There's going to be something doing when I get
back."

"What?"

"I don't know yet, but I'm going to sit right here and brood upon some
fitting revenge. After that chap gets out of the hospital--"

"You did not impress me as a college student," said the stranger.

"I'm not. I graduated four years ago. I barely made it, but I did get
through."

"And you have never been to the tropics?"

"Not since I had my last row with the governor. Have you?"

"Many times. It will prove an interesting trip for you. At least you
have that consolation."

"What is it like?"

Evidently the artless effrontery of the young man had not offended, for
his neighbor talked freely, and in a short time the two were conversing
as easily as old acquaintances. This was due, perhaps, to the fact that
he had appealed to her with the same frankness he would have used
toward a man and, thus far at least, had quite ignored her sex. She was
sufficiently quick to appreciate the footing thus established, and
allowed herself to meet him half-way. Had he presumed in the slightest,
she would have chilled him instantly; but, as it was, she seemed to
feel the innate courtesy back of his boldness, seeing in him only a
big, unaffected boy who needed an outlet for his feelings. In the same
way, had a fine St. Bernard dog thrust a friendly head beneath her hand
she would have petted it.

When at last she rose, after an hour that had swiftly sped, she was
gratified at the look of concern that came into his eyes. She looked at
him with genuine approval as he bowed and said:

"Thank you for the pointers about Panama. I hope I may have the
pleasure of talking to you again."

When she had disappeared he murmured, admiringly:

"Jove! She's a corker! And she's not so old, after all. I wonder who
she--" He leaned over and read the card on the back of her steamer
chair. "Mrs. Stephen Cortlandt, Suite B," it was lettered.
Straightening up, he grumbled with genuine disappointment: "Just my
blamed luck! She's MARRIED."




V

A REMEDY IS PROPOSED


By pledging his one article of jewelry Kirk became possessed that
afternoon of several shirts, collars, and handkerchiefs--likewise a
razor, over which he exercised a sort of leasehold privilege. The
purser made it plain, however, that he had not sold these articles, but
merely loaned them, holding the ring as security for their return, and
this arrangement allowed Kirk no spare cash whatever. Even with all his
necessities paid for, it surprised him to find how many channels
remained for spending money. For instance, the most agreeable loafing
spot on the ship was the smoking-room, but whenever he entered it he
was invited to drink, smoke, or play cards, and as he was fond of all
these diversions, it required such an effort of will to refuse that it
destroyed all the pleasure of good company. It was very hard always to
be saying no; and in addition it excited his disgust to learn that he
had inadvertently founded a reputation for abstemiousness.

Before long he discovered that the passengers considered him an
exceptionally sober, steady youth of economical habits, and this
enraged him beyond measure. Every tinkle of ice or hiss of seltzer made
his mouth water, the click of poker chips drew him with magnetic power.
He longed mightily to "break over" and have a good time. It was his
first effort at self-restraint, and the warfare became so intense that
he finally gave up the smoking-room almost entirely, and spent his
hours on deck, away from temptation. He suffered most, perhaps, from
the lack of tobacco, but even in the matter of cigarettes he could not
bring himself to accept favors that he could not return. In the
solitude of his richly appointed suite he collected a few cork-bound
stumps, which he impaled on a toothpick in order to light them.

Meanwhile he amused himself by baiting the purser. He dogged that
serious-minded gentleman through all his waking hours, finding a rare
delight in playing upon his suspicion and lack of humor. To him Kirk
was always Mr. Locke, while he insisted upon being called Mr. Anthony
by the others, and the officer never quite got the hang of it.
Moreover, the latter was full of dignity, and did not relish being
connected with a certainly dubious and possibly criminal character, yet
dared not resort to rudeness as a means of riddance.

The situation was trying enough to the young man at best; for the
ship's hirelings began to show a lack of interest in his comfort, once
it became known that he did not tip, and he experienced difficulty in
obtaining even the customary attentions. It was annoying to one who had
never known an unsatisfied whim; but Kirk was of a peculiarly sanguine
temperament that required much to ruffle, and looked upon the whole
matter as a huge joke. It was this, perhaps, that enabled him to make
friends in spite of his unsociable habits, for the men liked him. As
for the women, he avoided them religiously, with the exception of Mrs.
Cortlandt, whom he saw for an hour or two, morning and afternoon, as
well as at meal-times. With her he got on famously, finding her nearly
as entertaining as a male chum, though he never quite lost his dislike
for her husband. Had she been unmarried and nearer his own age, their
daily intimacy might have caused him to become self-conscious, but,
under the circumstances, no such thought occurred to him, and he began
to look forward with pleasure to their hours on deck.

The Santa Cruz was four days out before Cortlandt joined them, and when
he did he merely nodded casually to Kirk, then, after exchanging a
polite word or two with his wife, lapsed into his customary silence,
while Mrs. Cortlandt continued her conversation without a second glance
in her husband's direction.

"That's what I call an ideal married couple," Kirk reflected--"complete
understanding, absolute confidence." And the more he saw of them, the
stronger this impression grew. Cortlandt was always attentive and
courteous, without being demonstrative, while his wife showed a
charming graciousness that was plainly unassumed. Their perfect
good-breeding made the young man feel at ease; but though he endeavored
to cultivate the husband on several occasions, he made little headway.
The man evidently possessed a wide knowledge of current events, a keen
understanding of men and things, yet he never opened up. He listened,
smiled, spoke rarely, and continued to spend nine-tenths of his time in
that isolated corner of the smoking-room, with no other company than a
long glass and a siphon.

One day when Kirk had begun to feel that his acquaintance with Mrs.
Cortlandt was well established, he said to her:

"Stein told me to-day that your husband is in the diplomatic service."

"Yes," said she. "He was Consul-General to Colombia several years ago,
and since then he has been to France and to Germany."

"I thought you were tourists--you have travelled so much."

"Most of our journeys have been made at the expense of the Government."

"Are you diplomatting now?"

"In a way. We shall be in Panama for some time."

"This Stein seems to be a nice fellow. He's taken quite a liking to me."

Mrs. Cortlandt laughed lightly. "That is part of his business."

"How so?"

"He is one of Colonel Jolson's secret agents."

"Who is Colonel Jolson?"

"Chairman of the Isthmian Canal Commission. Your father knows him."

"Do you mean that Stein is a--detective?" Kirk looked uncomfortable.

"I do! Does he know you are the son of Darwin K. Anthony?"

"Why, yes, I suppose so."

"Colonel Jolson will be interested."

"Again I don't see the point."

"Your father is one of the most powerful and aggressive railroad men in
the country. Perhaps you know something about the railroad opposition
to the canal?"

Kirk smiled. "Well, to tell you the truth," said he, "the governor
doesn't consult me about his business as much as he ought to. He seems
to think he can run it all right without me, and we've only been
speaking over the telephone lately."

"One of the strongest forces the Government had to combat in putting
through the canal appropriations was the railroads. Colonel Jolson has
no reason to love your father."

"Yes, but _I_ don't object to this canal. I think it must be a rather
good idea."

Mrs. Cortlandt laughed for a second time. "The Colonel's dislike for
your father will not affect you, inasmuch as you are returning so soon,
but if you intended to stay it might be different."

"In what way?"

"Oh, in many ways. There are two classes of people who are not welcomed
on the Canal Zone--magazine writers and applicants for positions who
have political influence back of them. The former are regarded as
muckrakers, the latter as spies."

"That's rather rough on them, isn't it?"

"You must understand that there is a great big human machine behind the
digging of this canal, and, while it is more wonderful by far than the
actual machinery of iron and steel, it is subject to human weaknesses.
Men like Colonel Jolson, who form a part of it, are down here to make
reputations for themselves. They are handicapped and vexed by constant
interference, constant jealousy. It is a survival of the fittest, and I
suppose they feel that they must protect themselves even if they use
underhand means to do so. It is so in all big work of this character,
where the individual is made small. You would find the same condition
in your father's railroad organization."

"Oh, now! My old man is a pretty tough citizen to get along with, but
he wouldn't hire detectives to spy on his employees."

Mrs. Cortlandt smiled. "By-the-way, when are you going into business
with him?" she said.

"I? Oh, not for a long time. You see, I'm so busy I never seem to have
time to work. Work doesn't really appeal to me, anyway. I suppose if I
had to hustle I could, but--what's the use?"

"What is it that keeps you so busy? What are you going to do when you
get back, for instance?"

"Well, I'm going to Ormond for the auto races, and I may enter my new
car. If I don't get hurt in the races I'll take a hunting trip or two.
Then I want to try out an iceboat on the Hudson, and I'll have to be
back in New Haven by the time the baseball squad limbers up. Oh, I have
plenty of work ahead!"

Mrs. Cortlandt let her eyes dwell upon him curiously for a moment; then
she said:

"Have you no ambition?"

"Certainly."

"What is it?"

"Why--" Kirk hesitated. "I can't say right off the reel, but I've got
it--lots of it."

"Is there no--girl, for instance? Have you never been in love?"

"Oh, see here, now!" Anthony blushed in a manner to excite the envy of
any woman. "I don't like 'em. I'd rather play football."

"That explains something. When the time comes you will cease wasting
your life and--"

"I'm NOT wasting my life," the young man denied hotly. "I'm having a
great time; simply immense."

"I remember reading an article once by a man who attacked American
colleges with bitter personal feeling, on the ground that they fostered
exactly the attitude toward life which you have just expressed."

Anthony looked sober. "That was my father," he said.

"Really! How stupid of me to forget the name. But I don't agree with
him," she continued, gently. "You merely lack stimulus. If you should
meet the right woman--" Then, seeing the amusement in his face;
"Believe me, I know what I am talking about. I know what a woman can
do. Your life has been too easy and placid. You need some disturbing
element to make it ferment."

"But I don't want to ferment."

"Why don't you stay in Panama and go to work?"

"Work? Hideous word! For one thing, I haven't time. I must get back--"

"You will find great opportunities there."

"But how about the girl who is to sour the syrup of my being and make
it ferment?"

"Oh, she may appear at any moment; but, joking aside, you had better
think over what I have said." She left him with an admonitory shake of
her head.

The SANTA CRUZ was now rapidly drawing out of the cold northern winter
and into a tropic warmth. Already the raw chill of higher latitudes was
giving way to a balmy, spring-like temperature, while the glittering
sunshine transformed the sea into a lively, gleaming expanse of
sapphire. The nights were perfect, the days divine. The passengers
responded as if to a magic draught, and Kirk found his blood filled
with a new vigor.

A brief sight of Columbus' Landfall served to break the monotony; then
followed a swift flight past low, tropical islands ringed with coral
sand, upon which broke a lazy, milk-white surf. Through the glasses
villages were spied, backed by palm groves and guarded by tall sentinel
lighthouses; but the Santa Cruz pushed steadily southward, her decks as
level as a dancing floor, the melancholy voice of her bell tolling the
leagues as they slipped past. The eastern tongue of Cuba rose out of
the horizon, then dropped astern, and the gentle trades began to fan
the travellers. Now that they were in the Caribbean, schools of flying
fish whisked out from under the ship's prow, and away, like tiny
silver-sheathed arrows. New constellations rose into the evening sky.
It became impossible to rest indoors, with the trade-winds calling, and
the passengers spent long, lazy hours basking in the breath of the
tropics and grudging the pleasure of which sleep deprived them.

It was the last night of the voyage, and the thrill of approaching land
was felt by all. As usual, the monotony of the first day or two had
given way to an idle contentment and a vague regret at leaving the ship
and severing the ties so newly made. Home, instead of looming close and
overshadowing, had become a memory rather indistinct and blurred,
clouded by the proximity of the new and unknown.

Kirk Anthony acknowledged to a reluctant enjoyment of the change and
found himself less eager to go back. As he paced the deck after dinner
he felt a lurking desire to defer his return until he had absorbed
something more of this warmth and languor; he even reflected that he
might welcome a stay of some length in the tropics if it were not for
the fact that he had so much to do.

Mrs. Cortlandt joined him as usual, and they did a mile around the
promenade, chatting idly of many things. The evening was too glorious
to permit of early retiring, and a late hour found them leaning over
the rail, side by side, while Anthony bewailed the fact that he knew
nothing of the country just beyond the dark horizon ahead of them.

"You are quite right," his companion agreed. "You will miss its best
flavor if you don't know the history back of it. For instance, we are
now on the Spanish Main, the traditional home of romance and adventure."

"I always wanted to be a pirate," he acknowledged gravely, "up to
fifteen. Then I thought I'd rather run a candy store."

"The ships of Sir Henry Morgan and the galleons of His Catholic Majesty
Philip of Spain sailed these waters. Over yonder"--she waved a graceful
hand to the north and east--"are the haunts where the adventurers of
old England used to lie in wait for their prey. Ahead of us is the land
that Pizarro soaked with blood. We're coming into the oldest country on
this side of the globe, Mr. Anthony, where men lived in peace and
plenty when most of Europe was a wilderness. I suppose such things
appeal more to a woman's fancy than to a man's, but to me they're
mightily alluring."

Kirk wagged his head admiringly, as he said:

"I wish I could make language behave like that," and Edith Cortlandt
laughed like a young girl.

"Oh, I'm not a perfervid poet," she disclaimed, "but everything down
here is so full of association I can't help feeling it."

"I'm beginning to notice it myself. Maybe it's the climate."

"Perhaps. Anyhow, it is all very vivid to me. Did you ever stop to
think how brave those men must have been who first went venturing into
unknown seas in their little wooden boats?"

"They were looking for a short cut to the East Indies, weren't they?"

"Yes, to Cathay. And then the people they found and conquered! The
spoils they exacted! They were men--those conquistadores--whatever else
they were--big, cruel, heroic fellows like Bastida, Nicuesa, Balboa,
Pedrarias the Assassin, and the rest. They oppressed the natives
terribly, yet they paved the way for civilization, after all. The
Spaniards did try to uplift the Indians, you know. And the life in the
colonies was like that in old Spain, only more romantic and
picturesque. Why, whenever I pass through these Latin-American cities I
see, in place of the crumbling ruins, grand cathedrals and palaces; in
place of the squalid beggars idling about the market-places I see
velvet-clad dons and high-born ladies."

"Aren't there any beautiful ladies left?"

"A few, perhaps."

"What happened to the cathedrals and the velvet fellows and all that?"

"Oh, the old state of affairs couldn't last forever. The Spanish
administration wasn't so bad as is generally supposed, yet of course
there was too much rapacity and not enough industry. Central America,
broadly speaking, was known as the treasure-chest of the world, and
there were constant wars and disturbances. The colonies as a whole did
not progress like those in the North, and in course of time
deteriorated. The old cathedrals decayed and were not rebuilt. The old
Spanish stock died out and in its stead grew up a motley race given to
revolt, revolution, and corruption. Even when the provinces became
free, they weren't able to unite and form a strong nation. The Isthmus
of Panama became a pest-hole where the scum of the Four Seas settled.
The people became mean and unhealthy in mind and body and morals,
preserving nothing except the cruelty of their forefathers. Here and
there, to be sure, one comes across the old Castilian breed, like a
silver thread running through a rotting altar-cloth, but only here and
there, and most of those silver threads have become tarnished from
contact with the fabric."

"It must be a nice place," Kirk observed with gentle sarcasm.

"It affords one a great chance to moralize, at any rate. Take the
building of this canal, for instance. First, the French came, led by a
dreamer, and poured in the wealth of an empire in order that they might
exact toll from the world. You see, they were all lured by the love of
gain--the Spaniards, who pillaged the natives to begin with, and the
French, who set out to squeeze profit from all the other nations. But
it seems as if the spot were infected. The French lost an army in their
project; corruption gnawed through, and the thing ended in disgrace and
disaster. Spain and France have come and gone, and at last we Yankees
have arrived. It seems to be the will of God that the youngest,
lustiest people on the earth should finally be sent to clean this
Augean stable."

"By Jove! I never thought of it that way."

"It is a big task, Mr. Anthony, and the mere digging of the ditch is
the smallest part. There is a great deal more to be done. You see, as
men attain culture, they require more than mere food and drink and
bedding, and in the same way, as nations attain to greatness, they
require more than mere territory--they reach out and absorb power and
prestige. Our decision to build the Panama Canal is like the landing of
another Columbus; the conquest is to follow. After that will come--who
knows what? Perhaps more wars, more pillage, more injustice."

"You talk like a man," Anthony said, admiringly. "I had no idea you
looked at things in such a big way."

"You are laughing at me."

"No, indeed."

"You see, it is part of my husband's profession. As to the
romance--well, all women are romantic and imaginative, I suppose, and
you've been an inspiring listener."

"I don't know about that, but--you're a corking good talker. Excuse my
archaic English." Mrs. Cortlandt turned her eyes upon the speaker, and
he saw that they were very bright. "I've been thinking about what you
told me the other day," he ran on, "about myself. Remember?"

"I'm glad I have the knack of making something besides football signals
stick in your memory," said she. "Have you been thinking about that
girl I spoke of?"

"Yes," he replied, ingenuously. "I've been making up my mind to ask you
if you happen to have a sister--an unmarried sister, I mean."

Mrs. Cortlandt laughed appreciatively. "No, I have no sister, but I
thank you for the compliment. I suppose you meant it for one?"

"Yes. I hope you don't mind."

"Not at all. I'm quite sure now that my notion about you was right. It
will take a woman to make a man of you."

"It used to be my wind that troubled me," said the athlete, mournfully.
"Now it seems to be my heart."

"It doesn't seem to be seriously affected as yet, but it's remarkable
the number of ways in which the heart of man may be reached. I remember
once having breakfast in a queer little restaurant in the French
quarter of New Orleans, famous for its cooking and for the well-known
people who had eaten there. There was a sort of register which the
guests were asked to sign, and in looking it over I read the
inscription of one particularly enthusiastic diner. It ran, 'Oh, Madame
Begue, your liver has touched my heart,' and the story is that the
writer made desperate love to the proprietor's wife."

"Oh, come, that's rather hard on me. I have some emotions besides a
hearty appreciation of food."

"No doubt. I only mentioned that as one of the ways, and, seriously, I
am convinced that, however your awakening may come, you will be the
better for it."

"I do hope the cook will prove to be unmarried," he mused. "Imagine
having to do away with a husband who can handle a cleaver."

"Oh, I don't mean you should necessarily marry the woman. It would be
quite as good for you if she refused even to look at you. However, let
us hope that you meet some nice American girl--"

"Why not a senorita? You have inspired me with Spanish romance."

But Mrs. Cortlandt shook her head. "Wait until you have seen them."

"Already I imagine myself under some moonlit balcony teasing chords out
of a guitar. I have rather a good singing voice, you know."

"It is not done that way nowadays. Panama is Americanized. You will need
a pianola and an automobile."

"And all the romance is gone?"

"Oh, there is romance everywhere; there is quite as much in Pittsburg
as in Andalusia. But to speak of more practical things"--Mrs. Cortlandt
hesitated slightly--"I heard you tell the purser the other day about
your financial troubles, and it occurred to me that Mr. Cortlandt might
assist you."

"Thanks, awfully," Kirk hastened to say, feeling himself flush
uncomfortably. "But I sha'n't need anything. The old gentleman will
wire me whatever I ask for. Does Mr. Cortlandt know how I am fixed?"

"No."

"Please don't tell him. I--I'm a little bit ashamed of myself. You're
not going?"

"Yes. It is getting late, and my maid is looking for me."

"Oh, I'm sorry. It's lonesome around here without--somebody to talk
to." He took her hand and shook it as if she were a man. "You've been
mighty good to me and--I wish you had a sister. That's all."

She left him the memory of a very bright and very girlish smile, and he
found himself thinking that she could not be so much older than he,
after all.

Mr. Cortlandt was awaiting his wife and rose courteously as she entered
their suite.

"Did you send Annette for me?" she inquired.

"Yes. I thought you had forgotten the hour. We rise at six."

"My dear," she returned, coolly, "I was quite aware of the time. I was
talking to Mr. Anthony."

"Do you find him so amusing?"

"Very much so."

"He's such a boy. By-the-way, some of the passengers are remarking
about your friendship for him."

Mrs. Cortlandt shrugged. "I expected that. Does it interest you?"

The man favored her with his wintry smile. "Not at all."

"If he should need assistance while in Panama, I should be obliged if
you would accommodate him."

"Money?"

"Yes, or anything else. He left New York unexpectedly."

"Don't you think that is going a bit too far? You know I don't fancy
him."

Mrs. Cortlandt frowned slightly. "We won't discuss it," she said. "I
assured him he was at liberty to call on us for anything and--naturally
that ends the matter."

"Naturally!" he agreed, but his colorless cheeks flushed dully.




VI

IN WHICH KIRK ANTHONY IS GREATLY SURPRISED


When Kirk came on deck early the following morning, he found the Santa
Cruz nosing her way into Colony harbor. A land fog obscured his view
somewhat, but through it he beheld a low, irregular line of mountains
in the background, and close at hand a town. The ship came to anchor
abreast of a point upon which he descried a squat little spider-legged
lighthouse and long rows of frame dwellings half hidden behind slender
palm-trees. Beyond were warehouses and docks and the funnels of many
ships; on either side of the bay was a dense tropic wilderness. As the
sun dissipated the morning haze, he saw that the hills were matted with
a marvellous vivid green. There were no clearings on the slopes, no
open spaces dotted with farm-houses or herds, the jungle flowed down to
the water's edge in an unbroken sweep, and the town was cut out of it.

A launch came plunging through the swells, and the deck steward made
his rounds requesting the passengers to assemble for medical
examination.

Kirk found the Cortlandts ahead of him.

"What's coming off?" he inquired.

"Vaccination," Cortlandt explained, briefly. "They are very particular
about disease."

His wife added: "This used to be the worst fever-spot in the world, you
know. When we were here five years ago, we saw car-loads of dead people
nearly every day. A funeral train was a familiar sight."

"What a pleasant place to spend my vacation!" exclaimed Kirk. "Now if I
can rent a room over the morgue and board with the village undertaker,
I'll have a nice time."

"Oh, there's no more yellow fever--no sickness at all, in fact," said
Mr. Cortlandt. "Will you go over to Panama City, or will you stay in
Colon?"

"I think I'll remain on the ship; then she can't get away without me,"
Kirk answered. But when, after taking his turn before the doctors, he
explained his desire to the purser, that worthy replied:

"I'm sorry, but you'll have to arrange that with the agent. We make a
charge, you know, just like a hotel."

"I'm going to cable my old man for money."

The officer shook his head with finality. "Nothing doing, Mr. Locke."

"Anthony."

"I'll take no chances. If you don't pay, I'll have to. Look here! Do
you want to know what I think of you, Mr.--Anthony Locke?"

"I haven't any special yearnings in that direction, but--what do you
think about me?"

"Well, I don't think your name is either Locke or Anthony."

"Marvellous!"

"And I don't think you have any money coming to you, either."

"Mighty intellect!"

"I think you are no good."

"You're not alone in that belief. But what has all that to do with my
sleeping aboard the Santa Cruz?"

"If you want to stay aboard, you'll have to pay in advance. You're not
so foolish as you try to make out."

"Those are glorious words of praise," Kirk acknowledged, "but I'll make
a bet with you."

"What?"

"That you change your mind. I am just as foolish as I appear, and I'll
prove it. I'll bet my ring against your shirts that my name is Anthony,
and if I don't come through with the price of a ticket to New York you
can keep the ring."

"Very well, but meanwhile I don't intend to be stuck for your bill."
The purser was a man of admirable caution.

"All right, then, I shall throw myself upon the mercy of strangers and
take your belongings with me."

By this time the ship was being warped into her berth, and the dock was
crowded. There were little brown customs inspectors in khaki, little
brown policemen in blue, little brown merchants in white, and huge
black Jamaicans in all colors of rags. Here and there moved a bronzed,
businesslike American, and Anthony noticed that for the most part these
were clean-cut, aggressive-looking young fellows.

He was delayed but an instant by the customs officials, then made his
way out through a barnlike structure to the street, reflecting that,
after all, there are advantages in travelling light. He came into a
blazing-hot, glaring white street jammed with all sorts of vehicles,
the drivers of which seemed perpetually upon the point of riot. Before
him stretched a shadeless brick pavement, with a railroad track on one
side, and on the other a line of naked frame buildings hideous in their
sameness. The sun beat down fiercely. Kirk mopped his face with the
purser's handkerchief and wondered if this were really December.

Clumsy two-wheeled carts came bumping past, some with prehensile-footed
negroes perched upon them, others driven by turban-crowned Hindoos. A
fleet of dilapidated surreys and coaches, each equipped with a musical
chime and drawn by a flea-bitten, ratlike horse, thronged the square.
Kirk noticed with amusement that the steeds were of stronger mentality
than the drivers, judging from the way they dominated the place,
kicking, biting squealing, ramming one another, locking wheels and
blocking traffic, the while their futile owners merely jerked the reins
after the fashion of a street-car conductor ringing up fares, or swore
softly in Spanish. Silent-footed coolies drifted past, sullen-faced
negroes jostled him, stately Martinique women stalked through the
confusion with queenly dignity. These last were especially qualified to
take the stranger's eye, being tall and slender and wearing gaudy
head-dresses, the tips of which stood up like rabbits' ears. Unlike the
fat and noisy Jamaicans, they were neat and clean, their skirts
snow-white and stiffly starched, and they held themselves as proudly
erect as if pacing a stage.

The indescribable confusion of races reminded the young American of a
Red Sea port where the myriad peoples of the far East intermingle. He
heard a dozen different dialects; even the negroes used an accent that
was difficult to understand. One thing only struck a familiar note, and
that with peculiar force and sharpness. Down the railroad track toward
him came a locomotive with the letters "P. R. R." upon it, at which he
said aloud:

"Hurrah, I'm in Jersey City! I'll take the Twenty-third Street Ferry
and be at the Astor in no time."

He made his way slowly through the turmoil to the cable office, where
he wrote a message, only to have it refused.

"We don't send C. O. D.," the operator told him.

"Must have coin in advance, eh?"

"Yes, sir."

"I left my gold-purse on the dresser," Kirk said, cheerfully. "I'll be
back later." Then he wandered forth again, bearing his bundle of shirts
beneath his arm. He thought of appealing to the Cortlandts before they
left for Panama City, but could not bring himself to ask a favor from
that slim, agate-eyed man for whom he felt such an instinctive
distaste. Instead, he resolved to enlist the services of the American
consul.

He began to feel the heat now, and his borrowed collar drooped, but as
he neared the seaward side of town there was a remarkable
transformation. A delightful, cooling breeze swept in from the ocean,
and, when he finally came out upon a palm-guarded road along the
breakers, he paused in silent enjoyment. The trade-winds were drawing
inward as steadily as if forced by a great electric fan, piling the
green waters upon the rocks in a ceaseless, soothing murmur, making the
palm fronds overhead rustle like the silken skirts of an aerial ballet.
The effect was wonderful, for, while the air was balmy and soft, it was
also deliciously refreshing and seemed to have magic properties.

After some further wandering, he found the consul's house and knocked
at the door, whereupon a high-pitched, querulous voice from inside
cried:

"Come in. Dammit, don't stand there hammering!"

Kirk entered to find a huge, globular man clad in soiled linens
sprawled in a musty Morris chair and sipping a highball. The man's face
and neck were of a purplish, apoplectic hue; he seemed to radiate
heat-waves like a base-burner.

"Is this Mr. Weeks?" Kirk inquired.

"That's me."

"My name is Anthony."

"Glad to meet you," wheezed the fat man, extending a limp, moist hand
without rising. When Kirk had grasped it he felt like wiping his own
palm. "Have a seat." The speaker indicated a broken-backed rocker
encumbered with damp clothes, newspapers, and books. "Just dump that
rubbish on the floor; it don't matter where." Then he piped at the top
of his thin, little voice, "Zeelah! Hey, Zeelah! Bring some more ice."

One glance showed Anthony that the place was indescribably disordered;
a rickety desk was half concealed beneath a litter of papers, books,
breakfast dishes, and what not; a typewriter occupied a chair, and all
about the floor were scattered documents where the wind had blown them.
Shoes and articles of clothing were piled in the corners; there was not
a sound piece of furniture in the place, and through an open door
leading to another room at the rear could be seen a cheap iron bed,
sagging hammock-like, its head and foot posts slanting like tepee
poles, doubtless from the weight of its owner.

In answer to Mr. Weeks's shout a slatternly negress with dragging
skirts and overrun shoes entered, carrying a washbowl partly filled
with ice.

"Just get in, Mr. Anthony?"

"Yes, sir, on the Santa. Cruz."

"Fine ship." Mr. Weeks rose ponderously and wiped out a glass with a
bath towel, while Kirk noticed that two damp half-moons had come
through his stiffly starched linen trousers where his dripping knees
had pressed. He walked with a peculiar, springy roll, as if pads of fat
had grown between his joints, and, once an impulse had been given his
massive frame, it required time in which to become effective. The sound
of his breathing was plainly audible as he prepared his guest's
beverage.

"You'll like that," he predicted. "There's one good thing we get in
Colon, and that's whiskey." With a palsied hand he presented the glass.
His cuffs were limp and tight, his red wrists were ringed like those of
a baby. As he rolled back toward the Morris chair, his stomach surged
up and down as if about to break from its moorings.

"I came in to ask a favor," Anthony announced, "I suppose every tourist
does the same."

"That's part of a consul's duty," Mr. Weeks panted, while his soft
cheeks swelled with every exhalation. "That's what I'm here for."

"I want to cable home for money."

"A little poker game on the way down, eh?" He began to shake
ponderously.

"I'm broke, and they won't take a collect message at the cable office.
You see, I didn't know I was coming; some of my friends gave me a
knockout and shipped me off on the Santa Cruz. The wireless wasn't
working, we didn't stop at Jamaica, so this is my first chance to get
word home."

"What do you wish me to do?"

"Cable for me and see that I have a place to stop until I get an
answer."

A look of distrust crept slowly into the consul's little eyes.

"Are you absolutely broke?"

"I haven't got a jingle."

"How long will it take to hear from your people?"

"If my father is at home, I'll hear instantly."

"And if he isn't?"

"I'll have to wait."

"What makes you think he'll wire you money?"

"He's never failed yet. You see, I'm something like a comet; he knows
I'll be around every so often."

Mr. Weeks began to complain. "I don't know you, Mr.--what's the name
again? Anthony? I'm a poor man and I've been an easy mark for every
tropical tramp from Vera Cruz to Guayaquil. Your father may not be able
to help you, and then I'll be holding the bag."

"I think you don't understand who he is. Did you ever hear of Darwin K.
Anthony, of Albany, New York?"

Mr. Weeks's thick lids opened, this time to display a far different
emotion. "Certainly."

"Well, he's the goat."

Slowly, grandly, the American consul set his frame in motion, whereat
Kirk said, quickly, "Don't get up; I understand." But Mr. Weeks had
gone too far to check himself, so he lurched resiliently into an
upright position, then across the floor, and, reaching out past his
undulating front, as a man reaches forth from the midst of a crowd,
shook his guest heartily by the hand.

"Why didn't you say so?" he bubbled. "I'm here to accommodate folks
like you. Darwin K. Anthony! Well, RATHER."

"Thanks." The young man wiped his hand surreptitiously. "If you will
fix it so I can cable him and sleep aboard the ship, I'll be greatly
obliged."

"Nothing of the sort," Mr. Weeks blew through his wet lips. "I'll cable
him myself and you'll stay right here as my guest. Delighted to have
the privilege."

Kirk cast another glance over the place, and demurred hastily. "Really,
I couldn't think of putting you out. I can stay on the Santa Cruz as
well as not."

"I couldn't hear to such a thing. You're tired of ship life--everybody
is--and I have lots of room--too much room. It's a pleasure to meet
real people--this damn country is so full of crooks and dead-beats. No,
sir, you'll stay right here where it is cool and comfortable." With a
pudgy forefinger he stripped his purple brow of a row of glistening
sweat-drops. "I'll have Zeelah fix up a bed where this glorious breeze
will play on you. Mr. Anthony, that trade-wind blows just like that all
the time--never dies down--it's the only thing that makes life bearable
here--that and the whiskey. Have another highball?"

"No, I thank you."

"Darwin--Say, I'll send a cart for your baggage, right now."

"I have it with me--six shirts, all guilty."

"Then I'll send your father a message this minute. I'm delighted at the
privilege of being the first to advise him of your safety and to
relieve his mental anguish." Mr. Weeks rocked toward the desk, adjusted
a chair behind him, spread his legs apart, and sat down sidewise so
that he could reach the inkwell. He overhung his chair so generously
that from the front he appeared to be perched precariously upon its
edge or to be holding some one in his lap. "Where are those cable
blanks!" he cried, irritably, stirring up the confusion in front of him.

"Here they are." Anthony picked one up from the floor.

"It's that damn wind again. I can't keep anything in place unless I sit
on it. That's the trouble with this country--there's always a breeze
blowing. Thanks! I'm getting a trifle heavy to stoop--makes me dizzy."

In a moment he read what he had written:

DARWIN K. ANTHONY,  Albany, New York.

Your son well and safe. Here as my guest. Asks you cable him money for
return. WEEKS, American Consul.

"That tells the story. It'll please him to know I'm looking after you,
my boy."

"You are very kind."

"Don't speak of it. I'm glad to get in touch with your father. We need
capital in this country."

"He's a hard man in money matters," said Darwin K. Anthony's son. "I
believe I enjoy the distinction of being the only person who ever made
him loosen."

"All successful men are cautious," Weeks declared. "But if he knew the
wonderful opportunities this country presents--" The speaker leaned
forward, while his chair creaked dangerously, and said, with
impressiveness, "My dear sir, do you realize that a cocoa palm after it
is seven years old drops a nut worth five cents every day in the year
and requires no care whatever except to gather the fruit?"

"No."

"Fact! And we grow the best ones in the world right here. But the
demand is increasing so rapidly that in ten years there will be a
famine. Think of it--a famine of cocoanuts!" Mr. Weeks paused to lend
dramatic effect.

"That's fierce," Kirk acknowledged. "What are they good for?"

"Eating! People make cakes out of them, and oil, and candy. Good
cocoanut land can be bought for fifty cents an acre, selected seeds for
five cents each, labor is sixty cents a day. No frosts, no worms, no
bugs. You sit still and they drop in your lap."

"The bugs?"

"No! No! The cocoanuts."

"Fine!"

"But that's nothing. Do you realize that this soil will raise
sugar-cane the size of your--of my--thigh, and once you plant it you
can't keep it cut out?"

"It's all news to me."

"You can buy sugar-cane land for a dollar an acre; it costs--"

"I'm no good at figures, Mr. Weeks."

"And rubber! THERE'S the chance for a man with capital. Rubber!"

"I will--I mean, is that so?"

"Ever see any rubber-trees?"

"Only in Brooklyn."

"I mean wild rubber. This country is full of it; the natives bring it
in. All you have to do is buy timber land--you can get it for a
song--plant your rubber-seed, and let 'er go, Gallagher! In ten years
you go back, cut off your timber, sell it for enough to make you rich,
and there is your rubber--velvet!" he concluded, triumphantly.

"Rubber velvet?"

"Yes. It's 'velvet'--all clear. You can't lose. My boy, there's a
thousand ways to get rich down here, and I know 'em all. What I need is
capital. If I had your father's backing--Say! It's a mighty good thing
you came to see me. I can do your old man a lot of good. I'm
conservative, I am, and what he needs is a good, conservative man to
manage his investments. Why, talk about quick money"--the speaker
thrust forth a finger that looked like a peeled banana--"I've got a
gold-mine--"

"Not a bit like it." Kirk shook his head. "They don't behave."

"This one will. It's an old Spanish mine and hasn't been worked for
three centuries. It's rich, RICH! I'll take you in as my partner, and
we'll get your father to open it up. What do you say? If he doesn't
like that, we'll get him a street-railway franchise; I'm close to the
government, and there isn't a steel rail in any city of the republic. I
know all the Spiggoty politicians."

"The what?"

"The Spiggoties! That's what we call the Panamanians. They 'no spiggoty
English'; understand?"

"It's a funny name."

"Now, my boy, there's one thing I want you to be careful of. Don't let
some of these fellows around here get you excited. This country is full
of promoters, cheap skates, and that sort, and they'll try to stampede
you into some investment. You trust to me; I'm conservative. I'll put
you up at the club, and when you get straightened around we'll talk
business. Meanwhile, I'll send this cable."

Mr. Weeks was even better than his word. He took Kirk with him, and
went heaving down the street, his body quivering at every step as if
hung upon a whalebone framework, the breath wheezing noisily in and out
of his chest, the perspiration streaming from his purple face in
rivulets. He put up his guest at the club and invited some of his
friends to join them for dinner that evening on the wide balcony; then,
noting Anthony's heavy clothing, he said:

"You need some linens, Kirk. That suit looks like a dog bed. You don't
mind my calling you Kirk, do you?"

"I'm flattered. However, I can't get ready-made clothes large enough,
and, besides, it's hardly worth while for the length of time--"

"Nonsense. Now you're here we won't let you go right back. There's a
Chinese tailor on Bottle Alley who'll have you a suit to measure by
noon to-morrow, and he only charges seven dollars, goods and all."

Accordingly, the two journeyed to Bottle Alley and selected some linen,
whereupon, instead of one suit, the consul ordered three, having them
charged to his account.

Kirk really enjoyed that evening at the Wayfarers Club, for, once the
cool of evening had come, the place filled up rapidly with as fine a
crowd of men as he had ever met. There were young fellows from the
railroad offices, merchants from the town, engineers from the big job,
the proximity of which made itself felt like a mysterious presence.
There was a trader from down the San Blas coast; a benevolent,
white-haired judge, with a fund of excellent stories; a lieutenant in
the Zone Police who impressed Kirk as a real Remington trooper come to
life; and many another. They all welcomed the Yale man with that
freedom which one finds only on the frontier, and as he listened to
them he began to gain some idea of the tremendous task that occupied
their minds. They were all men with work to do; there were no idlers;
there was no class distinction. One topic of conversation prevailed,
and, although the talk drifted away from it at times, it invariably
came back to The Job in the end.

Weeks did himself credit as a host. His table, spread on the latticed
balcony where the never-failing trade-winds fanned it, was decorated
tastefully with flowers, red-shaded candles, white linen, and gleaming
silver gave it a metropolitan air. Both the food and the wine were well
served, and the consul's half-dozen guests soon became mellowed and
friendly. Kirk felt he had fallen among kindred spirits, for it was
almost like a fraternity dinner.

When finally they arose, some one proposed a game of draw poker and
insisted upon Kirk's joining. He was about to refuse when Weeks drew
him aside to say:

"Don't let the money question stand in your way, Kirk. You're my guest,
and your I.O.U. is as good as a government bond; so go as far as you
like."

A considerable portion of Anthony's time in college had been devoted to
a course in draw poker--recitations, so to speak, being conducted in
the upper rooms of a Greek letter "frat," and he cherished the belief
that he had at least learned to distinguish a spade flush from an
"Arkansas blaze." But he soon found that these men had forgotten more
about the game than he could ever hope to learn at any university, and
when the crowd broke up at midnight he signed his name to a tab for
forty dollars.

Early the next day the following cablegram was left at the American
Consulate:

WEEKS, Consul, Colon.

Anthony absent, returns Friday.
  COPLEY.

"Copley is the Governor's secretary," Kirk explained. "That means that
I'll miss the Santa Cruz and have to wait another week."

"I'm delighted," the consul said, heartily.

"Perhaps you could stake me to a ticket. I'll remit when I get to New
York."

"My pay isn't due for a fortnight," Weeks explained after an instant's
hesitation. "You see, I'm interested in so many ventures it keeps
me--well, broke. Anyhow, you can't go until we have arranged an
investment for your father."

Kirk could not help thinking that a man of the consul's wide
acquaintance and business capacity could have raised the necessary
funds without much trouble; but, not wishing to embarrass his host, he
refrained from pressing the matter, and resigned himself as best he
could to an extension of his exile. Meanwhile, he decided to visit the
Canal, for on every side he heard nothing but echoes of the great work,
and he began to feel that he owed it to himself to view it. But his
plans were upset by the weather. On the following day it began to rain,
and it continued to rain day and night thereafter until Colon became a
sodden, dripping horror. The soil melted into a quagmire, the streets
became sluices, the heavens closed down like a leaden pall, and the
very air became saturated. It was hot also, and sticky. Indoors a mould
began to form, rust grew like a fungus; outdoors the waving palm tops
spilled a deluge upon roof and sidewalk at every gust; their trunks
streamed like hydrants.

Kirk had never seen such a rain; it kept up hour after hour, day after
day, until the monotony became maddening. The instant he stepped out
from shelter he was drenched, and even in his rooms he could discover
no means of drying his clothes. His garments, hanging beside his bed at
night, were clammy and overlaid with moisture in the morning. Things
began to smell musty; leather objects grew long, hoary whiskers of
green mould. To his amazement, the inhabitants seemed quite oblivious
to the change, however, and, while they agreed that the weather was a
trifle misty, they pursued their duties as usual, assuring him that the
rain might continue for a month.

It was too much for Kirk, however, and he deferred his trip over the
"Line," spending his time instead at the Wayfarers Club. In his
daylight hours he listened to Weeks's unending dissertations upon the
riches of the tropics; at night he played poker with such uniform bad
luck that his opponents developed for him an increasing affection.

But all things have an end, and Friday morning broke clear and hot.

"We'll hear from the old gentleman to-day, sure," he told Weeks at
breakfast. "He's regularity itself. The train despatchers set their
watches by him."

"Now that it has cleared off, we must look into the cocoanut business,"
the consul announced. "I'll make you a rich man, Kirk."

"I'm rich, anyhow, or I will be. Money doesn't mean much to me."

"Your father is--many times a millionaire, isn't he?" Weeks' little red
eyes were very bright and curious. Kirk had seen that look many times
before and knew its meaning. Hence he replied rather brusquely:

"So I believe." And a moment later declared his determination to avail
himself of the good weather and see something of the town. The prospect
of squaring his account with this fawning fat man filled him with
relief, and once away from the Consulate he stayed until late in the
afternoon. It was nearly dark when he strolled in, to inquire:

"Well, did you get an answer?"

"Yes." Weeks fumbled excitedly through the papers on his desk.

"How much did he send?

"Here's the message; read it yourself."

Kirk read as follows:

WEEKS, Consul,  Colon.

Your guest an impostor. Have no son.
  ANTHONY.

"Well, I'll be damned!" he ejaculated. "This is a joke!"

Weeks was beginning to pant. "A joke, hey? I suppose it was a joke to
impose on me?"

"Don't you believe I'm Kirk Anthony?"

"No, I do not. I just discovered to-day that your name is Jefferson
Locke. Stein told me."

Anthony laughed lightly.

"Oh, laugh, if you want to. You're a smooth article with your talk
about football and automobiles and millionaire fathers, but you
happened to select the wrong millionaire for a father this time, and
I'm going to give you a taste of our Spiggoty jails."

"You can't arrest me. You offered to take me in."

The fat man grew redder than ever; he seemed upon the point of
exploding; his whole body shook and quivered as if a head of steam were
steadily gathering inside him.

"You can't get out of it that way," he cried at the top of his little
voice. "I've fed you for a week. I put you up at my club. That very
suit of clothes you have on is mine."

"Well, don't burst a seam over the matter. My Governor doesn't know the
facts. I'll cable him myself this time."

"And live off me for another week, I suppose? Not if I know it! He says
he has no son; isn't that enough?"

"He doesn't understand."

"And how about those gambling debts?" chattered the mountain of flesh.
"You thought you'd fool me for a week, while you won enough money from
my friends to get away. Now I'LL have to pay them. Oh, I'll fix you!"

"You go slow about having me pinched," Kirk said, darkly, "or I'll make
you jump through a hoop. I'll pay my debts."

"You're a rich man, eh? Money doesn't mean much to you, hey?" mocked
the infuriated Consul. "I suppose this is an old game of yours. Well,
you stuck me all right, because you knew I couldn't have you
arrested--I'd be a laughing-stock forever. But I've had your card
cancelled, and I've left word for the waiters to throw you out if you
show up at the Wayfarers."

"Will you lend me enough money to cable again?" asked Anthony, with an
effort.

"More money? NO!" fairly screamed the other. "You get out of my house,
Mr. 'Kirk Anthony,' and don't you show yourself around here again. I'll
keep the rest of your wardrobe."

His erstwhile guest underwent an abrupt reversal of emotion. To the
indignant amazement of Mr. Weeks, he burst into a genuine laugh, saying:

"All right, landlord, keep my baggage. I believe that's the custom,
but--Oh, gee! This IS funny." He was still laughing when he reached the
public square, for at last he had begun to see the full humor of
Adelbert Higgins' joke.




VII

THE REWARD OF MERIT


Facing for the first time in his life an instant and absolute need of
money, Kirk found himself singularly lacking in resource; and a period
of sober contemplation brought him no helpful thought. Perhaps, after
all, he decided, his best course would be to seek relief from the
Cortlandts. Accordingly, he strolled into the offices of the steamship
company near by and asked leave to telephone. But on calling up the
Hotel Tivoli, he was told that his friends were out; nor could he learn
the probable hour of their return. As he hung up the receiver he
noticed that the office was closing, and, seeing the agent about to
quit the place, addressed him:

"I'd like to ask a favor."

"What is it?"

"Will you introduce me to the best hotel in town? I have friends in
Panama City, but they're out and it's getting late."

"There isn't a good hotel here, but you don't need an introduction;
just walk in. They're not full."

"I'm broke, and I have no baggage."

"Don't you know anybody?"

"I know the American consul--been stopping at his house for a week--but
he threw me out."

A great light seemed suddenly to dawn upon the agent. "Oh, you're
Locke!" said he, with the air of one who detects a fraud too obvious to
be taken seriously. "Now I understand. The purser on the Santa Cruz
told me about you. Sorry I can't help you, but I'm a salaried man."

"I've got to sleep," stoutly maintained the other. "Somebody will have
to take care of me; I can't sit up all night."

"See here, my friend, I don't know what your game is, but you can't
sting me." The agent finished locking up, then walked away, leaving his
visitor to reflect anew upon the average human being's ignoble lack of
faith in his fellows.

It was growing dark. From farther down the water-front the lights of
the Wayfarers Club shone invitingly, and Kirk decided to appeal there
for assistance. In spite of Weeks's warning, he felt sure he could
prevail upon some of the members to tide him over for the night, but as
he neared the place he underwent a sudden change of heart. Slowly
mounting the stairs ahead of him like a trained hippopotamus was the
colossal, panting figure of the American consul, at sight of which
Kirk's pride rose up in arms and forbade him to follow. Doubtless Weeks
had spread his story broadcast; it was manifestly impossible for him to
appeal to his recent card partners--they would believe he had
deliberately imposed upon them. It was humiliating, yet there seemed
nothing to do except to await the Cortlandts' return, and, if he failed
to reach them by telephone, to spend the night in the open. It occurred
to him that he might try to locate Stein or some other of his late
fellow-passengers, but they were probably scattered across the Isthmus
by this time.

A band was playing in the plaza when he came back--a very good band,
too--and, finding a bench, he allowed his mind the relief of idly
listening to the music. The square was filling with Spanish people, who
soon caught and held his attention, recalling Mrs. Cortlandt's words
regarding the intermixture of bloods in this country; for every
imaginable variety of mongrel breed looked out from the loitering
crowd. But no matter what the racial blend, black was the fundamental
tone. Undeniably the Castilian strain was running out; not one
passer-by in ten seemed really white. Naturally, there was no color
line. Well-dressed girls, evidently white, or nearly so, went arm and
arm with wenches as black as night; men of every shade fraternized
freely.

It was a picturesque and ever-changing scene. Kirk saw dark-faced girls
wearing their unfailing badge of maidenhood--a white mantilla--followed
invariably at a distance by respectful admirers who never presumed to
walk beside them; wives whom marriage had forced to exchange the white
shawl for the black, escorted by their husbands; huge, slouching
Jamaican negroes of both sexes; silent-footed, stately Barbadians who
gave a touch of savagery to the procession. Some of the women wore
giant firebugs, whose glowing eyes lent a ghostly radiance to hair or
lace, at once weird and beautiful. Round and round the people walked to
the strains of their national music, among them dozens upon dozens of
the ever-present little black-and-tan policemen, who constitute the
republic's standing army.

As the evening drew on, Kirk became conscious of an unwonted sensation.
Once before he had had the same feeling--while on a moose-trail in
Maine. But now there was no guide, with a packful of food, to come to
his relief, and he could not muster up the spirit that enables men to
bear vacation hardships with cheerfulness.

He began to wonder whether a fast of twenty-four hours would seriously
weaken a man, and, rather than make the experiment, he again called up
the Tivoli, rejoicing anew in the fact that there was no toll on
Isthmian messages. But again he was disappointed. This time he was told
that the Cortlandts were doubtless spending the night out of town with
friends.

Soon after his second return to the park, the concert ended, the crowd
melted away, and he found himself occupying a bench with a negro of
about the same age as himself. For perhaps an hour the two sat there
hearkening to the dying noises of the city; then Kirk, unable to endure
the monotony longer, turned sharply on his companion and said:

"Why don't you go home?"

The negro started, his eyes flew open, then he laughed: "Oh, boss, I
got no home."

"Really?"

"No, sar."

Kirk reflected that he had found not only the right place, but also
fitting company, for his vigil.

"What does a person do in that case?" he asked.

"Oh, he goes to work, sar."

"For the night, I mean. Are you going to stay here until morning?"

"Yes, sar, if the policeman will h'admit of it."

The fellow's dialect was so strange that Kirk inquired: "Where did you
come from?"

"Jamaica, sar. I was barn on the narth coast of the h'island, sar."

"Did you just arrive here?"

"Oh, Lard, no! I 'ave been a liver here for two year."

"A liver!" Kirk could not help smiling.

"Yes, sar! Sometimes I labor on the docks, again in the h'office. Lahst
week lose I my position, and to-day my room h'also. Landladies is bad
females, sar, very common."

"You've been shooting craps," said Kirk, accusingly.

"Crops, sar! What is crops?"

"You don't know what craps is! I mean you've been gambling."

"Oh, boss, I h'invest my money."

"Indeed!"

"Lahst Sunday nearly won I the big prize. I 'ad h'all but three
numbers."

"Lottery ticket, eh?"

"H'eight! H'eight chawnces in all," the negro sighed. "But dreams is
false, sar."

"So I've heard. Well, it seems we're in the same boat this beautiful
evening. I have no place to sleep, either."

"You are humbugging me."

"No, I'm flat broke."

"Oh, chot me true, mon."

"I am chatting you true. I'm an outcast of fortune like yourself."

"Such talk! You make I laugh this house."

"What?"

"You make I laugh," repeated the other in a broad Devonshire dialect.
"Praise God, you h'appear like a gentleman."

"I trust this little experience will not permanently affect my social
standing. By-the-way, what is your name?"

"H'Allan."

"Hallan?"

"No, sar. H'Allan."

"Is that your first or last name?"

"Both, sar--h'Allan h'Allan."

"Mr. Allan Allan, you're unusually dark for a Scotchman," said Kirk,
gravely. "Now, speaking as one gentleman to another, do you happen to
know where we can get a hand-out?"

"'And-out?" inquired the puzzled negro.

"Yes; a lunch. Can't you lead me to a banana vine or a breadfruit
bakery? I'm starving. They grow the finest cocoanuts in the world right
here--worth five cents apiece; they require no care, have no worms, no
bugs. You sit still and they drop in your lap. Can't you show me a tree
where we can sit and wait for something to drop?"

Allan replied, seriously: "But when the cocoanut falls, it is no good
for h'eating, sar. The milk is h'acid."

"I see you have a sense of humor; you should be in the consular
service. But h'acid or sweet, h'eating or cooling, I must get something
into my stomach--it's as flat as a wet envelope."

The Jamaican rose, saying: "Step this way, please. I know the place
where a very good female is. Per'aps she will make us a present."

"How far is it?"

"Oh, not too far," Allan replied, optimistically, and Kirk hopefully
followed him.

But at the opposite side of the square they were halted by a sudden
commotion which drove all thoughts of food out of their minds. From a
building across the street issued a bugle-call, upon which an
indescribable confusion broke forth. Men began running to and fro; a
voice in authority shouted orders, each of which was the signal for
another bugle-call. Through the wide-open doors the Panamanians could
be seen, scurrying around a hose-cart, apparently in search of clothes;
some were struggling into red shirts, others were stamping their feet
into short boots or girding themselves with wide canvas belts.
Meanwhile, the chief issued more orders and the bugle continued to blow.

"Oh, look, boss!" Allan cried, quickly. "There must be a 'flagration."

"It's a Spiggoty hose company, as I live. Come on!"

Already a glare could be seen above the crowded portion of the city,
and the two set off in that direction at a run, leaving the bugle
sounding in the rear and the gallant firemen still wrestling with their
uniforms. They had nearly reached the fire when around a corner back of
them, with frightful speed and clangor, came a modern automobile
fire-truck, clinging to which was a swarm of little brown men in red
shirts and helmets. They reminded the American of monkeys on a circus
horse, and, although he had been counted a reckless driver, he
exclaimed in astonishment at the daring way in which the chauffeur took
the turn.

It was truly amazing, for the machine, which was the latest improvement
in imported fire-fighting machinery, skidded the full width of the
street, threatening to rip its tires off and turn turtle, then leaped
upon the curb before its driver could straighten it up, and in a
magnificent sweep carried away the wooden supports of an overhanging
balcony. The timbers parted like straws; there came a shrill uproar
from inside the building as the sleeping occupants poured forth, but
without a pause the Yankee machine whizzed on up the street, its gong
clanging, its occupants holding on for dear life, the peaceful
inhabitants of Colon fleeing from its path like quail before the hoofs
of a runaway horse.

"Hit her up!" Kirk yelled, delightedly, then leaned against a lamp-post
and laughed until he was weak. In the midst of his merriment appeared
the company he had just seen making up. They had found their uniforms
at last, it seemed, down to the final belt and shoelace, and now came
charging gallantly along in the tracks of the more speedy motor. They
were drawing their hand-reel, each brave lad tugging lustily and
panting with fatigue.

Kirk and his guide fell in behind and jogged to the scene of the
conflagration.

A three-storied building was already half gutted; out of its windows
roared long, fiery tongues; the structure snapped and volleyed a chorus
to the sullen monotone of destruction. The street was littered with the
household belongings of the neighborhood, and from the galleries and
windows near by came such a flight of miscellaneous articles as to
menace the safety of those below. Men shouted, women screamed, children
shrieked, figures appeared upon the fire-lit balconies hurling forth
armfuls of cooking utensils, bedding, lamps, food, and furniture,
utterly careless of where they fell or of the damage they suffered.
Kirk saw one man fling a graphophone from a top window, then lower a
mattress with a rope. On all sides was a bedlam which the arrival of
the firemen only augmented. The fire captains shouted orders to the
buglers, the buglers blew feebly upon their horns, the companies
deployed in obedience to the bugles, then everybody waited for further
directions.

Again the trumpet sounded, whereupon each fireman began to interfere
with his neighbor; a series of quarrels arose as couplings were made or
broken; then, after an interminable delay, water began to flow, as if
by a miracle. But except in rare instances it failed to reach the
flames. A ladder-truck, drawn by another excited company, now rumbled
upon the scene, its arrival adding to the general disorder. Meanwhile,
the steady tradewind fanned the blaze to ever-growing proportions.

"Why the devil don't they get closer?" Kirk inquired of his Jamaican
companion.

Allan's eyes were wide and ringed with white; his teeth gleamed in a
grin of ecstasy as he replied:

"Oh, Lard, my God, it is too 'ot, sar; greatly too 'ot! It would take a
stout 'eart to do such a thing."

"Nonsense! They'll never put it out this way. Hey!" Kirk attracted the
attention of a near-by nozzleman. "Walk up to it. It won't bite you."
But the valiant fire-fighter held stubbornly to his post, while the
stream he directed continued to describe a graceful curve and spatter
upon the sidewalk in front of the burning building. "You're spoiling
that old woman's bed," Anthony warned him, at which a policeman with
drawn club forced him back as if resentful of criticism. Other peace
officers compelled the crowd to give way, then fell upon the distracted
property holders and beat them off their piles of furniture.

For perhaps ten minutes there was no further change in the situation;
then a great shout arose as it was seen that the roof of the adjoining
building had burst into flame. At this the fanfare of trumpets sounded
again; firemen rushed down the street, dragging a line of hose and
drenching the onlookers. But, despite their hurry, they halted too
soon, and their stream just failed to reach the blazing roof. By now
the heat had grown really intense, and the more hardy heroes in the
vanguard retreated to less trying positions. The voice of the crowd had
arisen to a roar rivalling that of the flames.

"They must intend to let the whole town burn!" cried Anthony.

"Yes, sar! Very probably, sar."

Kirk pointed to the nearest fireman. "If he'd get up under that wall he
could save the roof and be out of the heat." He undertook to convey
this suggestion to the fellow, but without result. "I can't stand
this," he exclaimed at last. "Let's give him a hand, Allan."

"Very well, sar."

"Here! help me get a kink in this hose. There! Now you hold it until
you feel me pull." Kirk forced his way out through the crowd, to find
the fireman holding the nozzle, from which a feeble stream was
dribbling, and mechanically directing it at the fire. Kirk laid hold of
the canvas and, with a heave, dragged it, along with its rightful
guardian, ten feet forward; but there had been no bugle-blown order for
this, and the uniformed man pulled backward with all his might,
chattering at Kirk in Spanish.

"Well, then let go." Anthony shook the Panamannikin loose, then ran
forward across the street until he brought up at the end of the slack
and felt the hose behind him writhe and swell as Allan released his
hold. The next instant the negro was at his side, and the two found
themselves half blistered by the heat that rolled out upon them. But
the newly ignited roof was within range, and the stream they played
upon it made the shingles fly.

"Oh, Lard!" Allan was crying. "Oh, Lard! I shall h'expire."

"Pull down your hat and shield your face."

The fireman they had despoiled began to drag at the hose from a safe
distance; but when Kirk made as if to turn the nozzle upon him he
scampered away amid the jeers of the crowd. A few moments later, the
American felt a hand upon his arm and saw an angry policeman who was
evidently ordering him back. Behind him stood the excited nozzleman
with two companions.

"He says you should return the 'ose where you found it," Allan
translated.

"Leave us alone," Kirk replied. "You fellows help the others; we'll
attend to this." More rapid words and gesticulations followed, in the
midst of which a dapper young man in a uniform somewhat more impressive
than the others dashed up, flung himself upon Anthony and endeavored to
wrench the hose from his hands. Meanwhile he uttered epithets in broken
English which the other had no difficulty in understanding. Kirk
promptly turned the nozzle upon him, and the full force of Colon's
water-pressure struck him squarely in the stomach, doubling him up like
the kick of a mule. Down the newcomer went, then half rolled, half slid
across the street as the stream continued to play upon him. He
scrambled to his feet, a sorry spectacle of waving arms and dripping
garments, his cries of rage drowned in the delighted clamor of the
beholders.

"I guess they'll keep away now," laughed Kirk, as he turned back to his
self-appointed task.

But Allan exclaimed, fearfully: "Oh, boss, I fear he is some 'igh
h'officer."

"Never mind. We're having a lot of fun. It's medals for us--gold medals
for bravery, Allan. To-morrow the board of aldermen will thank us."

But this prediction seemed ill-founded. An instant later a half-dozen
policemen advanced in a businesslike manner, and their leader
announced: "Come! You are arrest."

"Pinched! What for? We're doing a lot of good here."

"Come, queeck!"

"Oh, Lard, my God!" Allan mumbled. "I shall die and kill myself."

"They won't do anything to us," Kirk assured him. "I've been pinched
lots of times. We'll have to quit, though, and that's a pity. It was
just getting good."

He surrendered the hose to a fireman, who promptly retreated with it to
a discreet position, then followed his captors, who were now buzzing
like bees.

"Don't get excited," he said to Allan, noting his frightened look.
"They'll turn us loose all right."

But a moment after they were clear of the town he was surprised to see
that the negro's captors had snapped "come-alongs" upon him in spite of
his repeated promises to go quietly.

These handcuffs, Kirk saw, were of the type used upon desperate
criminals, consisting of chains fitted with handles so contrived that a
mere twist of the officer's hand would cut the prisoner's flesh to the
bone.

"You don't need to do that," he assured the fellow who had made the
arrest, but, instead of heeding his words, the men on each side of the
Jamaican twisted stoutly, forcing the black boy to cry out in pain. He
hung back, protesting:

"All right, sar, I'll come. I'll come."

But again they tightened their instruments of torture, and their victim
began to struggle. At this an evil-faced man in blue struck him
brutally upon the head with his club, then upon the shoulders, as if to
silence his groans. The boy flung up his manacled hands to shield
himself, and the light from a street lamp showed blood flowing where
the chains had cut. The whole proceeding was so unprovoked, so
sickening in its cruelty, that Kirk, who until this instant had looked
upon the affair as a rather enjoyable lark, flew into a fury and,
disregarding his own captors, leaped forward before the policeman could
strike a third time. He swung his fist, and the man with the club
hurtled across the street as if shot from a bow, then lay still in the
gutter. With another blow he felled one of the handcuff-men, but at the
same time other hands grasped at him and he was forced to lay about
vigorously on all sides.

They rushed him with the ferocity of mad dogs, and he knocked them
spinning, one after another. A whistle blew shrilly, other uniforms
came running, more whistles piped, and almost before he realized it he
found himself in the centre of a pack of lean-faced brown men who were
struggling to pull him down and striking at him with their clubs. With
a sudden wild thrill he realized that this was no ordinary street
fight; this was deadly; he must beat off these fellows or be killed.
But, as fast as he cleared them away, others appeared as if by magic,
until a dozen or more were swarming upon him like hungry ants. They
clung to his arms, his legs, his clothing, with a desperate courage
wholly admirable in itself, while strokes were aimed at him from every
quarter. Time and again they dragged him off his feet, only to have him
shake them loose. But though most of their blows went wild or found a
mark among their own numbers, he was felled at last, and a moment
later, with head reeling and wits flickering, he was dragged to his
knees by handcuffs like those on Allan's wrists. The pain as the chains
bit into his flesh brought him to his feet despite the blows and kicks
that were rained upon him, crying hoarsely:

"Let me go, damn you! Let me go!"

But a wrench at the gyves took the fight out of him, for he felt that
the bones in his wrists must surely be crushed. One side of his head
was strangely big and numb; a warm stream trickled down his cheek; but
he had no time to think of his condition, for his assailants fell upon
him with fresh fury, and he reeled about, striving to shield himself.
Every movement, however, was construed as resistance, and his
punishment continued, until at last he must have fainted from pain or
had his wits scattered by a blow on the head; for when he recovered
consciousness he found himself in a filthy, ill-lighted room, flung
upon a wooden platform that ran along the wall, evidently serving as a
bed. Near him Allan was huddled, his black face distorted with pain and
ashen with apprehension.




VIII

EL COMANDANTE TAKES A HAND


"Where are we?" queried Anthony, as he took in the surroundings.

"This is the prison, sar."

"Gee! I'm sick." Kirk lay back upon the platform and closed his eyes.
"Did they hurt you much?"

"Oh yes. Very considerably."

"Sorry I got you into it, Allan, I never thought they'd be so cranky."
Again he groaned. "I want a drink."

"Let me get it. Those Spiggoties will not give it to you."

Allan went to the door and called to the guard. An instant later he
returned with a tin cup.

"I guess they knocked me out," Kirk said, dazedly. "I never was hit
like that before--and jailed! Say! We must get out of her. Call the
chief or the man in charge, will you? I can't speak the language."

"Please, sar, if you h'anger them they will beat us again."

"Beat! Not here?"

"Oh yes. They might kill us."

"They wouldn't do that!"

"A white man they killed lahst h'autumn, and several of my people have
passed away in this prison. Nobody can 'ear nothing. Nobody knows what
'appens 'ere."

"Oh, well, they wouldn't dare touch us--I'm an American citizen. I'll
notify the consul."

Roused at the mere suggestion. Kirk staggered to the door and shouted
lustily. When no one answered, he shook the iron grating, whereupon a
guard leisurely approached, and, after listening stolidly to his
request, went back to his post at the other end of the hall. This time
the American sent forth such an uproar that a man evidently
corresponding in authority to a sergeant appeared with the command to
be quiet.

"Let me out of here!" loudly demanded the prisoner. "I want the chief,
or the alcalde, or somebody in charge. I want to know what I'm booked
for, I want to telephone--TELEPHONE, don't you understand?--and arrange
bail. Quick, now!"

But the officer merely frowned at him, obviously threatening a resort
to force if this outburst did not cease at once.

"I tell you I want to get out," insisted Kirk. "I want to know what I'm
charged with and have my friends get bail."

The man nodded his understanding and went away, but an hour passed and
he did not return. Then another hour followed, and Anthony, who had now
begun to feel the effect of his drubbing more keenly, renewed his
clamor, with the result that a half-dozen policemen appeared, causing
Allan to retreat to a corner and mumble prayers. From their demeanor it
looked as though they were really bent upon mischief, but Kirk soon saw
that an official had come in answer to his call. He felt less reassured
when he perceived that the person in uniform who now stepped forward
was the same upon whom he had turned the hose earlier in the evening.

This was a black-haired, black-eyed young fellow of, perhaps, thirty.
While his skin was swarthy, even in this poor light it could be seen
that he was of the real Castilian type and of a much better class than
the others. He was slender and straight, his mouth small and decorated
by a carefully pencilled little mustache, which was groomed to a needle
sharpness. His hands and feet were as dainty as those of a woman. He
was undeniably striking in appearance, and might have passed for
handsome had it not been for the scowl that distorted his features.

"Eh! 'ere you are," he began, angrily.

"Yes; I want to get out, too. What does this treatment mean?"

The new-comer stepped toward the other occupant of the cell, at which
Allan broke out in terror: "Don't you touch me. I'm a British object."

But it was evidently not the man's intention to offer any further
indignity to his prisoners at that time. After scanning the Jamaican
carefully, he issued an order to one of his men, who left the room.

"And I'm an American," Anthony declared. "You'll have to answer for
this."

"Per'aps you don' know who I am. I am Ramon Alfarez, Comandante of
Police, an' you dare' to t'row the water of the 'ose-wagon upon my
person. Your gover'ment will settle for those insolt." His white teeth
showed in a furious snarl.

"I don't give a damn who you are. I'll get bail or do whatever your law
requires, but I want to get out and I want to get out now."

The commandant's eyes flashed as he asked, shortly. "W'at is your name?"

"Anthony. Your men tried to kill that boy, and when I wouldn't stand
for it they beat me up."

"You strock me wit' the water of the 'ose-carriage," repeated the
other. "You 'ave assault the dignity of my country."

"I didn't know who you were. I was helping to stop that fire when you
butted in. Now, are you going to let me out, or do you want my people
to pull this jail down around your ears?"

At this threat Senor Alfarez restrained his rage with an obvious
effort. "You will reply to those outrage, senor."

"Sure, I'll reply. But in the mean time I want to telephone to the
American consul. Look at this!" The young man held out his shaking,
swollen wrists, upon which the blood was scarcely dry. "Look at it!
Those runts of yours got handcuffs on me and then beat me up. I'm sick.
So's that boy. We need a doctor."

Alfarez shook his head. "You resis' the police. Even in your country
one mus' not do that. 'Ave I been there, I would keel you both, but I
am 'aving a cheel at the moment from those stream of col' water."

"Will you take me to a telephone?"

"It is not permit."

"Will you notify Mr. Weeks?"

Receiving no reply to this request, Kirk broke out: "Well, then, what
ARE you going to do? Let us stay here all night?"

"W'at is your bizness?"

"I haven't any."

"You don' work on the Canal?"

"No. I'm a tourist. My father is a big railroad man in the States. I'm
telling you this so you'll know how to act."

"W'ere do you leeve--w'at 'otel?"

"I've been stopping with Mr. Weeks."

Senor Alfarez's attitude became somewhat less overbearing.

"In due time he will be notify of your outrage to my person," he
announced.

The fellow who had left the room a moment before now reappeared,
carrying a bucket of water and some towels, with which he directed
Allan to remove the blood from his face and hands. When it came Kirk's
turn, however, he objected.

"I think I'll wait until Weeks sees me," he said.

But Alfarez retorted, sharply: "It is not permit"; and, seeing that
resistance would be useless, Kirk acquiesced as gracefully as he could,
remarking as he did so:

"You'll have hard work washing off this, and this." He indicated the
traces of the handcuffs and the gash in his scalp.

The commandant turned to his men and addressed them at some length,
calling them to task, as Allan later informed his companion, for using
their clubs in a manner to mark their prisoners so conspicuously. Then
he followed them into the corridor, closing the grating behind him.

The hours passed, and daylight came with no word from the American
consul. By this time the two prisoners were really in need of medical
attention. Their contusions pained them severely. Kirk felt as if one
or more of his ribs were broken, and his suffering, combined with
hunger, prevented sleep. He became feverish and fretful, but his
demands for communication with the outside world were calmly ignored,
although he felt certain that his wishes were fully understood. When
the morning had passed without his being arraigned for a hearing he
grew alarmed. Evidently he had been flung into confinement and
forgotten.

Eventually Kirk and Allan were given food, but still no one came to
their relief. Apparently no message had been delivered. This treatment
was so atrocious, so at variance with Anthony's ideas of his own
importance, that he felt he must be suffering from nightmare. How dared
they treat an American so, no matter what the charge? Why didn't they
try him or give him a hearing? These insolent, overbearing Panamaniacs
had no regard for law or humanity, and this was no longer a question of
petty injustice; it was a grave infraction of civilized equity.

But the afternoon wore on without an encouraging sign, till Kirk began
to think that Weeks had refused to intercede for him and intended to
leave him to the mercies of his enemies. With difficulty he managed to
convey to a guard his desire to notify some of the other Americans in
the city, but as usual no heed was paid to his request.

It was considerably after dark when a visitor was at last admitted. He
proved to be the English consul, whom Anthony had never met.

"What are you doing here?" the new-comer inquired. Then, when the facts
had been laid before him, he exclaimed: "Why, I heard that a Jamaican
negro had been arrested, but I heard nothing about mistreatment of a
white man."

"Doesn't anybody know I'm here?"

"I'm sure no one does. Those heathens lied to you--they never
communicated with Weeks or anybody. They're afraid. This is an old
trick of theirs--man-handling a prisoner, then keeping him hidden until
he recovers. If he doesn't recover they get out of it on some excuse or
other, as best they can. Why, they killed a white sailor not long
ago--just plain clubbed him to death without excuse, then asserted that
he resisted arrest. They did the same to one of our negroes. He died in
the jail before I got wind of it, and when I started an investigation
they showed his signed statement declaring that he had not been abused
at all, and had been given the kindest treatment. The matter isn't
settled yet. It's infamous! Why, I had hard work to get in at all just
now. But I'll have Allan here out in two hours or I'll know the reason.
England protects her subjects, Mr. Anthony, and these people know it.
If they don't come to time I'll have a gunboat in the harbor in
twenty-four hours. Color doesn't amount to a damn with us, sir; it's
the flag."

"I guess Uncle Sam is strong enough to command respect," said Anthony.

"Well, I know the circumstances now, and I'll go straight to Weeks. He
can arrange your release without trouble. If you were an Englishman,
I'd have you out in no time, and you'd collect handsome damages, too.
This boy will."

True to the consul's prediction, a little later the Jamaican was led
out of the cell, and from the fact that he was not brought back Kirk
judged that the British intervention had been effectual. But it was not
until the next morning, the second of his imprisonment, that the cell
door opened once more, this time to admit the portly figure of John
Weeks and the spruce person of Senor Ramon Alfarez.

"What's all this trouble about?" inquired the former in none too
amiable a tone.

Kirk told his story as briefly and convincingly as he could. But when
he had finished, the consul shook his head.

"I don't see what I can do for you," he said. "According to your own
declaration you resisted a police officer. You'll have to take your
medicine."

Alfarez nodded agreement. "Quite right!" said he. "He did terrible
'avoc with my men, t'ree of which is now on the 'ospital."

"But why don't they try me or let me get bail? I want to get out."

"You'll be tried as soon as they get around to it."

"Look here!" Kirk showed the marks his assailants had left upon him.
"Will you stand for that? I've been here two nights now without medical
attention." "How about that, Alfarez?"

The commandant shrugged his shoulders. "If he require a doctor, one
shall be secure', but he is not severely injure.' I 'ave explain the
frightful indignity to the honor of my person, yes? As for me, pooh! It
is forget." He waved his hand gracefully and smiled sweetly upon his
fat visitor. "It does not exist. But the brave soldiers of mine! Ah!
Senor Wick, they lofe me, they cannot forget the honor of el
comandante. So! When the prisoner is decide to insurrect, who can say
those gallant soldier don' be too strong? Who can blame for making
roff-'ouse?"

"I guess you ain't hurt much," said Weeks, eying his countryman coldly.
"You didn't get any more than was coming to you."

"I won't stand for this," cried the prisoner, hotly. "The English
consul got that nigger boy out, and I want you to do the same for me."

"You don't understand. I've got business interests in this country, and
I can't dash about creating international issues every time an American
gets locked up for disorderly conduct. How long do you think I'd last
with these people if I did that?"

"Are you really afraid to do anything?" Kirk inquired, slowly. "Or is
it because of our row?"

"Oh, there's nothing personal about it! I can't afford personal
feelings in my position. Really, I don't see where you're so much
abused. You assaulted a government officer and resisted arrest. If you
got hurt it's your own fault. Of course I'll see that you have a fair
trial."

The commandant spoke up with ingratiating politeness: "The prisoner say
he is reech man's son. Now, of course, it is too bad he is injure' wit'
the clob of the policeman; but those officer is ver' polite, senor, and
if he is explain biffore--"

Weeks snorted indignantly. "He gave you that fairy tale, eh? He said
his name was Anthony and his father was a railroad president, didn't
he? Well, he imposed on me, too, but his name is Locke, and, as near as
I can learn, he practically stowed away on the SANTA CRUZ."

"Ah-h!" The officer's eyes widened as he turned them upon his prisoner.
"He is then a w'at you call tramp."

"All I know is, he stuck me for a lot of bills. I'll have to see that
he gets fair treatment, I suppose, because he's an American, but that
ends my duty."

"Is this the best you'll do for me?" Kirk inquired, as Weeks made ready
to go.

"Yes."

"Will you tell some of the men at the Wayfarers that I'm here?"

"Oh, that won't do any good. You're in for it, Locke, so don't holler.
I'll be on hand at your hearing."

"Will you cable my father?"

"At twenty-five cents a word? Hardly!" The speaker mopped his face,
exclaiming: "There's no use of talking, I've got to get out in the air;
it's too hot in here for me." Then he waddled out ahead of Senor
Alfarez, who slammed the door behind him as he followed to escort his
caller to the street.

But a half-hour later the commandant returned to the cell, and this
time he brought with him a number of his little policemen, each armed
with a club. Feeling some menace in their coming, Kirk, who had seated
himself dejectedly, arose to ask: "What's coming off?"

Alfarez merely issued some directions in Spanish, and chain handcuffs
were once more snapped upon the prisoner's wrists.

"So! you're going to hold my trial, eh?" cried Kirk.

But the other snarled: "Senor Locke, you 'ave force' the water of the
'ose-wagon upon my body for making the people laugh. Bueno! Now I shall
laugh." He seated himself, then nodded at his men to begin.




IX

SPANISH LAW


Mrs. Cortlandt answered her telephone for the second time, repeating
with some impatience: "Tell the man I can't see him."

"But he refuses to leave--says he must see you at once; it's
important," came the voice of the clerk.

"Oh, very well. I'll come down." She hung up the receiver with a snap.

"Why don't they send him up?" queried her husband from the sitting-room.

"It's a negro, and the clerk says he'd rather not allow him up-stairs.
Another sick family, I suppose."

"They're beginning to impose on you. It's usually that way with
charities," said Cortlandt.

With unfeminine neglect of the chance for petty discussion, his wife
left the room without replying, and descended to the hotel lobby. Here
she was directed toward a very ragged, very woe-begone young black on
the rear porch, who, at sight of her, began to fumble his hat and run
his words together so excitedly that she was forced to calm him.

"Now, now! I can't understand a word. Who are you?"

"H'Allan, mistress."

"You say some one is ill?"

"Oh yes, he is very h'ill h'indeed, mistress--h'all covered with blood
and his poor 'ands h'all cut."

"Who--?"

"And his 'ead--oh, Lard! His 'ead is cut, too, and he suffers a fever."

"WHO IS IT?"

"Mr. h'Auntony--"

"Anthony!" Mrs. Cortlandt started. "What has happened? Quick!"

Seeing that at last he had found a friend, the Jamaican began to sob
with relief, wailing extravagant praises to God and apparently
endeavoring to kiss Mrs. Cortlandt's hand, whereat she seized him by
the shoulders and shook him, crying:

"Stop that! Behave yourself and tell me what is the trouble, quickly
now, from the beginning."

Without drying his tears, Allan launched himself into the full violence
of his recital, stumbling recklessly over his figures of speech,
lapsing into idioms that it taxed his hearer to follow. Had she been
less acquainted with the Caribbean dialects she would have missed much
of the story, but, as it was, she followed him closely, urging him on
with sharp expressions of amazement and nods of understanding. Rapidly
she gathered the facts of the case, while her cheeks whitened and her
eyes grew dark with indignation. The sight renewed Allan's emotion. His
voice broke, his black hands shook, he began to sob once more, and
great tears stole down his ebony cheeks. But he managed to answer her
terse, shocked questions with some degree of intelligence, calling upon
his vivid imagination for such details as his memory had lost.

"I wait an' wait for him to h'emerge, but he does not come. Perhaps
they 'ave killed the poor mon once more."

"How did you get here?"

"With my feet, mistress. Sometimes rode I on the train, but the train
people are very common; they h'addressed me rudely and threw me by the
wayside."

"Couldn't you telephone?"

"I do not h'understand 'ow."

"Why didn't he notify me at once? If I had only known--"

"Those 'eartless Spiggoties would not h'allow it. Oh, you will h'assist
the poor mon! Say it. Praise be to God, he is bleeding in the prison--"

"Yes, yes, certainly."

Allan reached clumsily this time to kiss the hem of her skirt, but she
stepped aside quickly, fumbling meanwhile in her purse for a bank-note,
while he exclaimed:

"God bless you, good mistress. He told me to find you and present his
recital."

"Here, take this money and go back to Colon by the first train. We may
need you. Now go! I'll be there ahead of you."

She picked up her white skirts and ran up the hotel stairs as if
pursued, bursting in upon her husband so impetuously that he rose in
surprise, inquiring:

"What is it?"

"Young Anthony is in jail in Colon," she panted. "He's been locked up
for three days, and they won't let him out."

"The devil! You said he'd gone back to New York. What is it about?"

"I thought he had. They arrested him for some silly thing, and he's
hurt." She hurriedly recounted Allan's story, adding, in conclusion,
"That black boy came all the way across the Isthmus to tell us!"

"I'll get the American consul by 'phone--"

But Mrs. Cortlandt interrupted. "Weeks is a fool! He wouldn't do
anything. Wait!" She stepped to the instrument and rang violently.
"Give me Colonel Jolson's office, quickly. If he is not there, find
him. I don't care where he is, find him; it is important. This is Mrs.
Cortlandt speaking.'

"What do you mean to do?" said Cortlandt.

"Go to Colon at once. This is young Alfarez's doing--the
whipper-snapper--you must lay him out for this. How dare he!"

"Better go carefully. Remember, General Alfarez is his father."

"I understand. But we are bound to come to a breach sooner or later."

"I hardly think so. I believe we can bring him around all
right--anyhow, I haven't lost hope." Then, as his wife made an
impatient gesture: "Well, if we precipitate a quarrel now, that will
end it." He paced the room feverishly. "Good heavens, Edith! Anthony
chose the worst possible time for this escapade. I suppose it will mean
diplomatic difficulties and all that, and once we lose old Alfarez--"

"We will lose him anyhow," snapped the woman. "I've seen it coming,
although you could not. I'll break Ramon for this."

"Then you'll break us." Cortlandt stared gloomily at his wife, who met
his gaze squarely. "Do you think Anthony is worth it?"

"My dear Stephen, they nearly killed that poor boy, and I sha'n't allow
it. Don Anibal Alfarez is not the only presidential timber in the
republic. If he breaks with us it will cost him dearly. You think he is
friendly, but I know that deep down in his crafty old heart he despises
all us Americans and is only waiting a chance to gratify his spleen.
The moment he dares, he'll turn against us."

Cortlandt's frosty countenance showed signs of unusual agitation as he
answered: "You're mad! You threaten to ruin everything. You understand
perfectly--there's no use of my explaining. Let me call on him this
afternoon. He will instruct his son."

"No! He would procrastinate, as usual. There would be the customary
delays and excuses, and meanwhile Anthony would be in jail at Colon.
They would have a defence all prepared. Besides, if it's to be a fight
we must have all the weapons possible--and this affair may prove a good
one. Anyhow, you mustn't ask a favor of him at this time; he must ask,
not you."

The telephone rang, and the speaker snatched the receiver from its hook.

"Hello! Colonel Jolson, I'm very glad I caught you. This is Mrs.
Cortlandt. Colonel Jolson, young Ramon Alfarez has arrested Kirk
Anthony, of whom I spoke to you. They have maltreated him, as usual,
and have hidden him for three days. Yes, yes! I discovered it quite by
accident while Mr. Cortlandt was down-town. Oh, this is serious, and
I'm furious. ... That will do no good; I have reasons for preferring to
handle it myself. ... Thank you for the compliment. We must go to Colon
at once, and I thought you might give us a special." There was a slight
pause, then: "Good! That will do quite as well. In fifteen minutes.
Thank you. Good-bye."

Turning to her husband, she explained, swiftly: "The Colonel's
automobile will be waiting at the station in fifteen minutes. Are you
ready?"

"I think you are going about this in the wrong way," he said, coldly.
"When will you learn--?" She checked her crisp words at the flush that
leaped to his cheeks. "I beg your pardon, Stephen. Please do as Colonel
Jolson has done and trust me to manage this affair."

He bowed and left her, saying, "I will have a coach waiting at the
door."

Fifteen minutes later a gasoline railroad motor-car with two passengers
in addition to its driver and flagman rolled out of the yards at Panama
City and took the main line, running under orders like a special train.
As it clanked over the switches with ever-increasing speed, Mrs.
Cortlandt leaned forward and spoke to the driver.

"We will have a clear track, and you may go as fast as you like."

The next moment the machine was reeling drunkenly around curves and a
fifty-mile gale was roaring past.

Senor Ramen Alfarez was considerably nonplussed when his two
distinguished visitors made known the nature of their errand. Cortlandt
did most of the talking, his cold hauteur serving a good purpose and
contrasting strongly with the suppressed excitement of his wife.

"Pardon me, there is no necessity for delay," he said, as the
commandant endeavored to formulate an excuse. "I trust I need not
insist upon seeing the prisoner?" He raised his brows with a stare of
inquiry that caused the other to reply, hastily:

"Of a certainty not, senor."

"Then take us to him."

"I will spare your lady the painful sight of the prison-house. The
prisoner shall be fetch' with all despatch."

"We will see him alone."

Again the commandant hesitated, while his bright eyes searched their
faces with a sudden uneasy curiosity. "I am fear soch t'ing is not
permit'."

"Nonsense!" exclaimed Mrs. Cortlandt, unable longer to restrain
herself. "We know the law quite as well or perhaps better than you,
Senor Alfarez. If you wish, Mr. Cortlandt will get permission from the
President. You have a telephone?"

"Oh, soch is farthes' remove' from my thoughts," quickly interposed the
commandant, with his most graceful bow. "If it is in my power to
oblige, w'at matter the law? Pouf! W'at I mean is this: Our prisoner is
not what you call seeck, nor is he ver' well. He is resis' the officer
by force an' he is injure'--oh, but only a leetle--it is not'ing. One
is truly foolish for resis' the policemans, yes?" He shook his dark
head sadly. "I am desolate to 'ear of soch t'ing; it is so useless to
stroggle wit' the officer in disbursement of duty; but you Americans
are so brave! I am force' to admire this prisoner; he is soch a strong
fellow."

"I think we understand the circumstances."

Instead of ringing for an orderly the commandant excused himself, then,
after a seemingly interminable delay returned with Anthony and several
policemen.

At sight of his friends the young man made for them eagerly, crying:
"Jove, I'm glad you came! I'd about given you up."

"Allan only found us to-day," Mrs. Cortlandt replied.

"Did he tell the truth? Have you been abused?"

The young man turned a pair of smouldering eyes upon his enemies. He
looked ill and haggard, although, except for the wound half concealed
beneath his hair, he showed no marks. Then he held out his hands with a
grim smile, and the woman uttered a low cry at what she saw. "They gave
me another good beating yesterday," he said.

"While you were in jail?" Cortlandt queried, incredulously. "God!"

"That's the fellow yonder." Kirk pointed to Alfarez, whose smile had
disappeared.

"Oh, the man is mistake'," the latter hastened to aver. "He is crazee."

"I gave you a wetting in public, and--"

"Si, si! That is correc', Senor Cortlan'. He insolt my person an' fight
my soldiers. He is ver' toff person."

"Did you know he had been maltreated in prison?" Cortlandt demanded.

"Oh, senor!" Alfarez raised his hands in horrified disclaimer of the
very thought, but his victim said, quietly:

"He's a liar. He ordered it, then sat there and enjoyed it."

The Panamanian's face was yellow as he managed to enunciate:

"Eempossible! It is terrible to conceive!"

Kirk made a threatening movement in the Spaniard's direction, despite
the half-dozen soldiers, but Edith Cortlandt checked him.

"Wait, please," she said. Then to the commandant: "This is a serious
matter, and if what he says is true, your government will find itself
in trouble."

"But we 'ave no idea he is frien' of yours. If he should only spik your
'osban's name, all would be different. For my part, I can prove he is
treat' with the 'ighes' courtesy an' kindness in my presence. Every man
in the prison will testify to those fac'. If soch indignity 'ave be'
shown, there shall be investigations." The unhappy officer's excitement
was increasing, and he turned upon his men as if to make good his word,
when Cortlandt interposed:

"Why did you keep him locked up so long? Why didn't you try him?"

"Ah! For that I shall inquire also. I shall conduct investigations in
that respect as well. I am inform', 'owever, that the w'at you call
jodge is seeck."

"We'll look into that later. We're here now to arrange for Mr.
Anthony's release."

"The alcalde will be please' to accommodate at the earlies'. I myself
shall see to it. To-morrow--"

"There will be no to-morrow about it," Mrs. Cortlandt exclaimed,
positively. "If you cannot arrange the bail yourself, my husband will
take up the matter with the Zone Government, and Colonel Jolson will
call upon the President of the republic within an hour. He is waiting
word from us now."

Senor Ramon Alfarez became suddenly galvanized. He broke into effusive
apologies for even so small a delay as had already occurred. He had not
understood the matter to be so urgent, it seemed; but the wishes of his
distinguished guests were his law, and perhaps he might hasten the
wheels of progress if he tried. While, to be sure, no power was vested
in him, and his willing hands were most miserably tied, nevertheless he
would so far exceed his authority as to promise instant freedom to the
prisoner. There were, of course, certain details to be observed, the
necessity of which filled him with unspeakable regret; but if he might
be excused--He hastened forth to set in motion the proper machinery,
and while he was absent Kirk told his story. It left the woman
white-lipped and incoherent, and roused even the icy Cortlandt to
genuine wrath.

"Of course," the latter said, "Alfarez will prove by his men that it's
all imagination on your part, and that your injuries were sustained at
the time of your arrest. He'll assume a righteous indignation and start
a Spiggoty investigation. You see, his father is the Governor of Panama
Province and one of the strongest men in the republic, so Ramon will
probably make good his position. Even so, you may recover damages."

"I don't want damages," Kirk replied. "I want to get that Dago out
alone some time."

"For Heaven's sake, don't think of it!" Mrs. Cortlandt exclaimed. "All
the American influence on the Isthmus wouldn't help you then. Fifty men
would perjure themselves to convict you, and if you succeeded in
getting our government to interfere in time, Ramen has fifty other men
who would lie to any extent to injure an American."

"No. That method doesn't work here," her husband agreed. "You're lucky
to escape so easily. He will arrange bail, never fear, and you will
probably not come to trial. I doubt if you will ever hear anything more
of the matter, provided you keep from further trouble. He'll never
forgive you, of course, but that won't matter to you."

The first part of Mr. Cortlandt's prediction was soon proved true, for
the sick alcalde recovered sufficiently to appear on the scene within
half an hour. Then, after much signing of official documents and
certain other formalities, Kirk Anthony walked out of the Colon jail in
company with his friends.

Allan was waiting at a safe distance from the municipal building, and
on seeing his late companion at large he broke into the wildest
rejoicing. He conjured a flow of tears, he fondled Kirk's hand in his
own, he laughed, he sobbed, he sang.

"Praise be to God!" he cried, loudly. "Free mon you, Master h'Auntony.
Glory, glory! My soul was in 'ell, sar. On my knees I h'implored that
fa-ast wretch to release you."

His emotion appeared so genuine, his service had been so great, that
the object of his adoration felt himself choke up. Of all the people
Kirk had met since leaving home, this one had most occasion to blame
him; yet the boy was in perfect transports of delight at his delivery.

"Don't carry on so," Kirk laughed, awkwardly.

"Oh, boss, I feared they would h'assassinate you again."

Anthony nodded grimly. "They did."

"Oh, oh!" Allan gave himself over to a shrill frenzy and shook his
clenched fists at the jail in a splendidly tragic attitude. "Wretches!
Murderers! 'Ell-ca-ats!"

"Sh-h! Don't make a scene on the street," Mrs. Cortlandt cautioned. But
the Jamaican would not allow the fine effect of his rage to be lost. He
clashed his white teeth, he rolled his eyes fearfully, and twisted his
black features into the wildest expressions of ferocity, crying:

"H'Allan will best them for that! Let 'im tear h'out their 'earts by
his fingers. So!" He made an eloquent gesture. "Blood! Blood!"

"Not so loud. A little pianissimo on the blood," smiled Kirk.

"H'Allan would die and kill himself for you," the excited negro ran on
in an excess of loyalty. "Master h'Auntony fought those wretches for I;
I shall fight them for he."

When he had finally been prevailed upon to exchange his martial threats
for a fresh paean of rejoicing, he fell in behind, declaring firmly
that he intended to follow his new-found hero wherever he might go,
though the course laid were straight for those infernal regions that
played so large a part in his fancy.

In the midst of Kirk's expressions of gratitude for the timely
intercession of Cortlandt and his wife, the former surprised him by
saying, in a genuinely hearty tone:

"My wife has told me all about you, Anthony, and I want you to come
over to Panama as my guest until you hear from your father."

When Kirk informed him of the cablegram that had cast him adrift in
Panama, leading indirectly to his entanglement with the dignity of
Ramon Alfarez and the Spanish law, Cortlandt replied, reassuringly:

"Oh, well, your father doesn't understand the facts in the case, that's
all. You sit down like a sensible person and write him fully. It will
be a great pleasure for us to have you at the Tivoli in the mean time."

Seeing a warm second to this invitation in Mrs. Cortlandt's eyes, Kirk
accepted gracefully, explaining: "You know this is the first time I was
ever up against hard luck, and I don't know just how to act."

"We've missed the four-thirty-five, so we will have to return the way
we came," said Cortlandt. "I'd like to stop at Gatun on a business
matter of some importance, and if you don't mind a half-hour's delay,
we'll do so."

Kirk expressed entire acquiescence in any plans that suited the
convenience of his rescuers, and the three pursued their way to the
station. But here an unexpected embarrassment arose. As they made ready
to board Colonel Jolson's motor-car, they were annoyed to find that
Allan insisted on going, too. He insisted, moreover, in such
extravagant fashion that Mrs. Cortlandt at last was moved to say: "For
Heaven's sake, let the poor thing come along." And thereafter the
Jamaican boy sat on the step of the machine, his hat in hand, his eyes
rolled worshipfully upon the person of his hero, his shining face ever
ready to break into a grin at a glance from Kirk.

Once more the little automobile took on the dignity of a regular train
and sped out of the network of tracks behind Colon. As it gained speed
Mrs. Cortlandt, to divert her guest's mind from his recent ordeal,
began to explain the points of interest as they passed. She showed him
the old French workings where a nation's hopes lay buried, the
mechanical ruins that had cost a king's ransom, the Mount Hope
Cemetery, whither daily trains had borne the sacrifice before science
had robbed the fever of its terrors. She told him, also, something of
the railroad's history, how it had been built to bridge the gap in the
route to the Golden West, the manifold difficulties overcome in its
construction, and the stupendous profits it had made. Having the blood
of a railroad-builder in his veins, Anthony could not but feel the
interest of all this, though it failed to take his attention wholly
from the wonders of the landscape that slipped by on either side. It
was his first glimpse of tropic vegetation, and he used his eyes to
good advantage, while he listened politely to his informant.

The matted thickets, interlaced with vine and creeper, were all ablaze
with blossoms, for this was the wet season, in which nature runs riot.
Great trees of strange character rose out of the tangle, their branches
looped with giant cables and burdened with flowering orchids or half
hidden beneath other parasites. On every hand a vegetable warfare was
in progress--a struggle for existence in which the strong overbore the
weak--and every trunk was distorted by the scars of the battle. Birds
of bright plumage flashed in the glades, giant five-foot lizards
scuttled away into the marshes or stared down from the overhanging
branches. A vivid odor of growing, blooming herbage reached the
nostrils.

Just as Kirk had made up his mind that he could sit and watch this
brilliant panorama forever, the jungle suddenly fell away, and the car
sped up through low, grass-clad hills into a scattered city flung
against the side of a wide valley. There was no sign here of Latin
America; this was Yankeeland through and through. The houses, hundreds
upon hundreds of them, were of the typical Canal Zone architecture,
double-galleried and screened from foundation to eaves, and they
rambled over the undulating pasture land in a magnificent disregard of
distance. Smooth macadam roads wound back and forth, over which
government wagons rolled, drawn by sleek army mules; flower gardens
blazed forth in gorgeous colors; women and children, all clean and
white and American, were sitting upon the porches or playing in the
yards. Everywhere was a military neatness; the town was like the
officers' quarters of a fort, the whole place spick and span and neatly
groomed.

Colon had been surprisingly clean, but it was an unnatural cleanliness,
as if the municipality had been scrubbed against its will. Gatun was to
the manner born.

"Yonder are the locks." Cortlandt pointed to the west, and Kirk saw
below him an impressive array of pyramidal steel towers, from the
pinnacles of which stretched a spider's web of cables. Beneath this, he
had a glimpse of some great activity, but his view was quickly cut off
as the motor-car rumbled into a modern railway station.

"I'd like to have a. look at what's going on over yonder," he said.

"You will have time," Cortlandt answered. "Edith will show you about
while I run in on Colonel Bland."

Out through the station-shed Kirk's hostess led him, then across a
level sward, pausing at length upon the brink of a mighty chasm. It
took him a moment to grasp the sheer magnitude of the thing; then he
broke into his first real expression of wonder:

"Why, I had no idea--Really, this is tremendous."

At his feet the earth opened in a giant, man-made canon, running from
the valley above, through the low ridge and out below. Within it an
army was at work. Along the margins of the excavation ran steel tracks,
upon which were mounted the movable towers he had seen from a distance.
These tapering structures bore aloft long, tautly drawn wire cables,
spanning the gorge and supporting great buckets which soared at regular
intervals back and forth, bearing concrete for the work below. Up and
out of the depths tremendous walls were growing like the massive
ramparts of a mediaeval city; tremendous steel forms, braced and
trussed and reinforced to withstand the weight of the countless tons,
stood in regular patterns. In the floor of the chasm were mysterious
pits, black tunnel mouths, in and out of which men crept like ants. Far
across on the opposite lip of the hill, little electric trains sped to
and fro, apparently without the aid of human hands. Everywhere was a
steady, feverish activity.

From the commanding eminence where the sightseers stood the spectacle
was awe-inspiring; for though the whole vast work lay spread out
beneath them in what looked like a hopeless confusion, yet as their
eyes followed it a great and magic system became manifest. The whole
organism seemed animate with some slow, intricate intelligence. The
metal skips careening across those dizzy heights regulated their
courses to a hand's-breadth, deposited their burdens carefully, then
hurried back for more; the shuttle trains that dodged about so
feverishly, untended and unguided, performed each some vital function.
The great conglomerate body was dead, yet it pulsated with a life of
its own. Its effect of being governed by a single indwelling mind of
superhuman capacity was overpowering.

Kirk heard Mrs. Cortlandt explaining: "The ships will steam up from the
sea through the dredged channel you see over yonder, then they will be
raised to the level of the lake."

"What lake?"

"That valley"--she indicated the tropical plain between the hills,
wherein floating dredges were at work--"will be an inland sea. Those
forests will be under water."

"Where is the Gatun dam I've heard so much about?"

She pointed out a low, broad ridge or hog-back linking the hills
together.

"That is it. It doesn't look much like a dam, does it? But it is all
hand-made. Those are rock trains out there, from Culebra."

"Oh, now I understand. Gee whiz, but this job is a whopper! Say, this
is great!" Mrs. Cortlandt smiled. "It does wake up your patriotism,
doesn't it? I'm glad to have a hand in building it."

"Are you helping to dig this canal?" Anthony regarded the woman
curiously. She seemed very cool and well-dressed and independent for
one engaged in actual work.

"Of course! Even though I don't happen to run a steam-shovel."

"Will they really finish it? Won't something happen?"

"It is already dug. The rest is merely a matter of excavation and
concrete. The engineering difficulties have all been solved, and the
big human machine has been built up. What is more important, the
country is livable at last. Over at Ancon Hospital there is a quiet,
hard-working medical man who has made this thing possible. When the two
oceans are joined together, and the job is finished, his will be the
name most highly honored."

"It must be nice to do something worth while," Anthony mused, vaguely.

"To do anything," his companion observed, with a shade of meaning;
then: "It is amusing to look back on the old Spanish statement that it
would be impious to unite two oceans which the Creator of the world had
separated."

Noting that the sun was setting beyond the distant jungles and the
canon at his feet was filling with shadows, Kirk remarked, "It must be
nearly time they quit work."

"This work doesn't stop. When it grows dark the whole place is lit by
electricity, and the concrete continues to pour in just the same. It is
wonderful then--like the mouth of a volcano. Batteries of search-lights
play upon the men; the whole sky is like a furnace. You can see it for
miles. Now I think we had better go back to the car."

In spite of his bodily misery, that night ride impressed itself
strongly upon Anthony's mind. The black mystery of the jungles, the
half-suggested glimpses of river and hill, the towns that flashed past
in an incandescent blaze and were buried again in the velvet blackness,
the strange odors of a new land riotous in its time of growth, all
combined to excite his curiosity and desire for closer knowledge. And
then the crowning luxury of a bath, clean clothes, and a good meal on
white linen and china! As he dropped asleep that night he reflected
contentedly that, after all, things have a way of coming right in this
world for those who accept them cheerfully as they come.




X

A CHANGE OF PLAN


On the following morning Kirk despatched a long letter to his father,
explaining, as well as he could, how he came to be in Panama, and
giving a detailed account of the events that had befallen him since his
arrival. He would have preferred to cable this message collect, but
Mrs. Cortlandt convinced him that he owed a fuller explanation than
could well be sent over the wires. Although he took this means of
relieving his father's anxiety, he was far from resigning himself to a
further delay of his return. On the contrary, he at once began an
inquiry as to sailing dates, discovering, to his intense disgust, that
no ship was scheduled to leave for New York within several days. He
planned to borrow the passage money from his friends, when the time
came, and accompany his letter northward. Meanwhile he devoted his time
to sight-seeing with his hostess.

The city was old, there were many places of historic interest, and,
although Kirk cared little for such things, he found it easy to assume
the virtue he did not possess. Moreover, there was something contagious
in his companion's enthusiasm. Almost against his will he felt his
appreciation growing, as he listened to her casual comments on the
scenes they visited. Her husband, who seemed busily engaged in work
that barely allowed him time for his meals, seldom accompanied them on
their excursions, and the two were thrown much into each other's
society.

Edith Cortlandt was a woman very sure of herself in most things. A
situation that might have proved embarrassing to one less tactful she
accepted quite as a matter of course, rather enjoying the exercise of
her influence, and never doubting her power to keep the friendship on
any footing she chose. Kirk's frank, boyish gratitude for the favors he
had received made it easy for her to encourage the growth of an
intimacy that she acknowledged charming, while she sincerely believed
that he would be helped by it. Finding him responsive, she deliberately
set herself to please him. She studied him covertly and set her moods
to match his--not a difficult task, since he was merely a normal,
healthy young man. Always faultless in her attire, she took even more
than ordinary pains with her appearance, and it was not long before
Kirk was naively surprised to find that she no longer seemed older than
he--that she was, in fact, an exceedingly handsome woman. This gradual
metamorphosis depended more than anything else, perhaps, upon the
girlish humor that now possessed her. She was no longer brilliant and
chilly, but gay, smiling, and unaffected.

Daytimes, they rambled about the crooked streets, bargain-hunting in
the Chinese shops, or drove beneath the stately royal palms of Ancon;
evenings, they loitered about the cool verandas of the Tivoli or
strolled down into the town to watch the crowds in the plazas. Once in
a while Cortlandt went with them, but he was usually uncommunicative,
and they scarcely felt his presence. On the few occasions when he gave
himself rein, Kirk was compelled to feel for him a surprised and
half-grudging respect. Unlike most silent men, when he did talk he
talked easily and well.

Several days passed thus, during which Anthony fully recovered from his
experience at Colon. Then a ship arrived from New York, but before he
had summoned courage to ask his friends for

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