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--"