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."