morning and all but assaulted the gateman, who refused to let him pass
without a ticket. It took the entire station force to prevent him from
starting for Colon as Kirk's guest. He considered it a matter of course
that his friend should offer him the courtesies of the road, and he
went away at last, wofully disappointed but not discouraged.
On the evening of that eventful day, instead of returning to his new
quarters, Kirk proceeded to walk the streets in search of a certain
face. He strolled through the plazas; he idled in front of the most
pretentious residences; he tramped wearily back and forth through
dim-lit, narrow streets, gazing up at windows and balconies, harkening
for the tone of a voice or the sound of a girl's laughter. But he was
without the slightest success, and it was very late when he finally
retired, to dream, as usual, of Chiquita.
Several days passed, and he began to feel a little dull. He was making
no progress in his quest, and he did feel the lack of congenial
society. Then one evening there came a note from Edith Cortlandt
briefly requesting him to come and see her.
He was a little surprised, yet he was conscious of a certain relief. He
had not felt like intruding upon her with further explanations and
apologies; but since she wished him to come--perhaps they could meet,
after all, in a natural way. He wanted to get rid of the wretched
misunderstanding that lay between them. If he were to leave the country
that night never to return, he would want to feel that he had parted on
good terms with the woman who had befriended him.
Promptly at eight o'clock he presented himself.
"I'm a laboring man now," he said, as he stood before her, "and I
usually hold my cap in my hand and shuffle my feet when talking to
ladies. Pray excuse my embarrassment."
She did not respond to the lightness of his tone. Her glance seemed
intended to warn him that she meant to be serious.
"I suppose you are wondering why I sent for you," she remarked, after a
perceptible interval, and Kirk felt instantly that their old relations
could not at once be resumed. "I have discovered something very
important, and I felt that you ought to know."
"Thank you," said Kirk, humbly. "It was very kind."
"You see," she went on, with a certain hesitancy, "you confided your
story to me so frankly I felt under a certain obligation." She made a
little dramatic pause. "I've discovered who Jefferson Locke is!"
"No! Who is he?" Kirk was instantly all attention, for the announcement
came as something of a shock. He had almost forgotten Locke.
"His real name is Frank Wellar, and he is an absconder. He was a
broker's clerk in St. Louis, and he made off with something like eighty
thousand dollars in cash."
"Good heavens!" said Anthony. "How did you find out?"
"A bundle of New York papers--they came to-day."
"Where did they catch him?"
"They haven't caught him. He has disappeared completely--that's the
strangest part of it. Your detective didn't die, after all."
"He recovered, did he? I'm mighty glad of that."
"Yes, but you aren't out of the woods yet. I can't understand why the
police haven't discovered your whereabouts. You left New York openly
under the name of Locke--"
"Perhaps it was so easy they overlooked it." He smiled ruefully. "I'd
hate to be arrested just now when I'm getting to be such a good
conductor."
"Don't worry about that until the time comes. I'll get you the papers
later." She showed no immediate intention of rising, however, but sat
regarding her visitor with slightly heightened color. He began to feel
embarrassed. It seemed to be his fate to receive benefits at this
woman's hand, whether he willed it or not.
He got to his feet with an effort, and said, looking down upon her:
"I must go now; but first I want to make you feel how grateful I am for
your kindness and for your continued trust in me. I haven't deserved
it, I know, but--" He turned as if to leave, but faced her again as he
heard her pronounce his name. He was surprised to see that there were
tears in her eyes.
"Kirk," she said, "you're an awfully good sort, and I can't stay angry
with you. Do you know you've made it rather hard for me staying away
all this time?"
"I thought you never wanted to see me again."
"You shouldn't take so seriously what a woman says under such
circumstances. It's embarrassing. It makes things seem worse than they
are." She hesitated, as if to emphasize the difficulty of such candor.
Kirk said, gently:
"Does that mean that we can forget all about it and be good friends
again? Does it mean that you'll forgive me?"
"I can't quite promise that," she answered. "But there is no need of
your avoiding me; and it's absurd for you to feel as you do, that you
can't accept any little services from me that might help you in your
work. I'm still interested in your success."
"You're tremendously good," he answered, really touched. "I can't say
anything, except that I'll try to be worthy of your kindness."
She gave him a half-distressed look, then smiled brightly.
"We won't talk of it any more," she said--"ever. Now do sit down and
tell me what you have been doing all this time. How have you been
getting along with your work?"
"All right, except one morning when I overslept."
"Overslept? Oh, Kirk!" she said, reproachfully.
"You see, I never got up so early before, except to go duck-hunting,
and this is different. Did you ever try rising at five-thirty--in the
morning, I mean? You've no idea how it feels. Why, it's hardly light!
You can't see to brush your teeth! I suggested to Runnels that we send
No. 2 out at eight-thirty instead of six-thirty--that's early enough
for anybody--but he didn't seem to take kindly to the thought."
"What did he say when you reported?"
"I didn't consider it proper to listen to all he said, so I retired
gracefully. From what I did hear, however, I gathered that he was
vaguely offended at something. I tried to explain that I had been out
late, but it didn't go."
Edith laughed. "Perhaps I'd better telephone him."
"Oh no, you needn't do that."
"But surely you were called in time?"
"Please don't. That's the first thing Runnels yodelled at me when I
showed up. He's a nice fellow, but he's too serious; he lets little
things bother him. He'll cool off eventually."
Time passed quickly in such an interchange of pleasant trivialities,
and, although Kirk felt that he was making an unconscionably long call,
he could not well leave while his hostess seemed bent on detaining him.
It was late when he said good-night, and, after returning to his
quarters, with characteristic perversity he proceeded to sit up,
smoking cigarette after cigarette, while he tried to set his thoughts
in order. He was grateful to Mrs. Cortlandt, and immensely pleased to
learn that the man injured in the affair in New York had not died. But
something must be done about Chiquita. That was the important thing
now. He wrestled with the problem for a long time in vain. He was
afraid to go to bed for fear of oversleeping again, and decided to stay
up until train-time. But at length drowsiness overcame him, and for the
few remaining hours he dreamed lonesomely of an oval face and big,
black, velvet eyes.
He did not really miss his rest until the next afternoon, when the heat
and the monotonous rumble of the train, together with its restful
swaying, sent him off into a delicious doze, from which he was awakened
by a brakeman barely in time to escape discovery. Thereafter he
maintained more regular habits, and while no one but the luxury-loving
youth himself knew what effort it required to cut short his slumbers in
their sweetest part, he never missed his train, and in time the early
hours ceased to be a hardship.
In the days that followed he tried his very best to make good. Every
evening he had to himself he spent in search of the Spanish girl. Aside
from his inability to find her, and an occasional moment of misgiving
at the thought of Frank Wellar, alias Jefferson Locke, Kirk had but one
worry, and that was caused by Allan. Never a day passed that the
worshipful black boy did not fairly hound him with his attentions;
never a nightly journey down into the city that Allan did not either
accompany him or, failing permission to do so, follow him at a safe
distance. For a time Anthony rebelled at this espionage, but the
constant effort of refusal grew tiresome after a while, especially as
the Jamaican did just as he pleased anyhow, and Kirk ended by letting
him have his way. But this was not all. Allan insisted upon
accompanying his friend upon his daily runs back and forth across the
Isthmus. At first he succeeded in slipping past the gateman in some
miraculous manner, and, once aboard the train, behaved as if free from
all further responsibility. He made it plain, in fact, that he was
Anthony's guest and boon companion, and considered the exchange of
money quite unnecessary, if not even insulting. Day after day Kirk
argued with him, even threatening to throw him off; but Allan ignored
the arguments with bland good-nature and looked upon the threats as the
display of an excruciating sense of humor. He continued to visit and to
gossip on terms of the closest intimacy, and began, moreover, to
exercise a certain proprietary right over Kirk, following him through
the train to see that no harm befell him, and seizing the slightest
opportunity to engage him in conversation.
Anthony explained time after time that there were probably spotters on
the run, and that this conduct was sure, sooner or later, to get them
both into trouble. To all of which Allan listened attentively and
agreed with all earnestness. But the next morning invariably found him
back again with some excuse.
"I can't h'explain it, chief," he acknowledged, on one occasion. "Every
day swear I to cease, but it is of no h'avail. Ever you been in love
with a female, sar?"
"What has that to do with it?"
"It is much the same. I can't h'allow you to leave me. I would die and
kill myself, but--"
"Rats!"
"Yes, sar. It is very h'annoying, is it not?"
"Do you want me to lose my job?"
"Oh, MON!"
"I'm going to speak to the boss, if you don't let up. I don't want to
get fired."
"Never mind you, for these h'engagements. I will work for you."
Becoming really concerned lest he should be accused of withholding
fares, Kirk did speak to Runnels, explaining fully, whereupon a watch
was set, with the result that on the very next morning Allan was chased
out of the railroad yards by an unfeeling man with a club. Failing for
a second time to evade the watchful eyes of the gateman, he ranged back
and forth beyond the iron fence like a captive animal, raising his
voice to heaven in weird complaint. He was waiting when the train
pulled in that evening, glued to the iron bars, his eyes showing as
white in the gloom as his expansive grin of welcome.
For several days this procedure was repeated with variations, until the
dreadful threat of arrest put an end to it. Allan had conceived a
wholesome respect for Spiggoty police, and for a few days thereafter
Kirk was rid of him. Then one morning he reappeared as usual in one of
the forward coaches.
"How the deuce did you make it?" asked Anthony.
Allan proudly, triumphantly, displayed a ticket, exclaiming:
"It is of no h'avail to prevent me, boss!"
"That ticket is good only to Corozal, the first station. You'll have to
get off there." But when Corozal had been passed he found Allan still
comfortably ensconced in his seat.
"Now, boss, we shall have fine visits to-day," the negro predicted,
warmly, and Kirk did not have the heart to eject him.
At the other end of the line Allan repeated the process, and thereafter
worked diligently to amass sufficient money to buy tickets from Panama
to Corozal and from Colon to Mt. Hope, relying with splendid faith upon
his friend to protect him once he penetrated past the lynx-eyed gateman.
Runnels accepted Kirk's explanation, and so far exceeded his authority
as to make no objection. Allan, therefore, managed to spend about half
his time in company with the object of his adoration.
Although the Master of Transportation never referred to his
conversation with Kirk on the occasion of their trip through Culebra
Cut, he watched his new subordinate carefully and he felt his
instinctive liking for him increase. The young fellow was in earnest,
he decided, in his effort to succeed on his own merits, and had not
been posing when he offered to start at the bottom. It gave Runnels
pleasure to see how he attended to his work, once he had settled down
to it.
Accordingly, it afforded him an unpleasant surprise when he received a
printed letter from a St. Louis detective agency relative to one Frank
Wellar, alias Jefferson Locke (last seen in New York City November
25th), and offering a substantial reward for information leading to his
arrest. The communication reached Runnels through the usual channel,
copies having been distributed to the heads of various departments. It
was the description that caught his attention:
"White; age, twenty-eight years; occupation, clerk; eyes, bluish gray;
hair, light, shading upon yellow; complexion, fair; height, six feet;
weight, one hundred ninety pounds. No prominent scars or marks, so far
as known, but very particular as to personal appearance, and considered
a good athlete, having been captain of U. of K. football team."
There was but one man in Runnels' department whose appearance tallied
with all this, and it gave the Master of Transportation a start to note
how very complete was the identification. Nevertheless, he held the
letter on his desk, and did nothing for a time except to question his
new collector upon the first occasion. The result was not at all
reassuring. A few days later, chancing to encounter John Weeks, on his
way across the Isthmus, he recalled Kirk's mention of his first
experience at Colon. By way of an experiment he led on the consul to
speak of his former guest.
"Anthony? Oh yes," wheezed the fat man. "I see you've got him at work."
"You and he are friends, I believe. I thought you'd be interested to
know he's getting on well. In fact, he's the best collector I have."
"We're hardly friends," said the consul, cautiously. "I suppose he's
all right--must be or Cortlandt wouldn't have taken him up; but there's
something about him I don't understand. Either he's on the level, or
he's got the nerve of a burglar."
"How so?"
"Well, I know he isn't what he claims to be--I have proof. He's no more
Darwin K. Anthony's son than--"
"Darwin K. Anthony!" exclaimed the railroad man, in amazement. "Did he
claim that?"
"He did, and he--" The speaker checked himself with admirable
diplomatic caution. "Say, he's taught me one thing, and that is that it
doesn't pay to butt into other people's business. I played him to lose,
and he won; and I got into a fine mess over it." Weeks wrinkled his
face into a ludicrous expression of mournful disgust. "I couldn't pick
a winner if there were two horses in the race and one of them had a
broken leg. Whether his name is Anthony or Locke makes no difference to
me. I got in 'Dutch' for meddling, and Alfarez lost his job for
arresting him. It's only a damn fool who gets stung twice in the same
spot. I'm through."
"You'll get your money. Anthony told me he'd square up on pay-day."
Weeks snorted at this. "Why, I've got it already. I've been paid. Mrs.
Cortlandt sent me her check." He stared at his companion curiously.
"Funny, isn't it, how I got called down and Ramen Alfarez got fired on
his account? What does it mean?" He winked one red eye in a manner that
set Runnels to thinking deeply.
XVI
"8838"
For a few days after this conversation the Master of Transportation was
in doubt as to what course he should pursue. In the end he did nothing,
and the letter from St. Louis was permanently filed away. There were
several reasons for this action. For one thing, he was a salaried man,
and could not afford to lose his job. What influenced him most,
however, was his genuine liking for Anthony. He could not bring himself
to attach much weight to the suspicious circumstances connected with
him. Being a man of sufficient courage to back his own judgment, he
decided that no matter what might have been the past of Frank Wellar,
alias Jefferson Locke, Kirk Anthony was entitled to another chance.
The first thing Kirk did when pay-day came was to enclose the greater
part of his salary in an envelope and send it to John Weeks, with a
note explaining that he had withheld only enough for his own actual
needs, and promising to continue reducing his indebtedness by a like
amount monthly. He was surprised beyond measure to have the remittance
promptly returned. The brief letter that accompanied it brought him a
flush of discomfort. What the deuce had made Mrs. Cortlandt do that?
For a time he was undecided whether to be offended at her conduct or
gratified, and he had not settled the matter to his satisfaction when
he called upon her that evening.
"Weeks wrote me you had squared my account with him," he said,
awkwardly. "I'm tremendously obliged, of course, and--I'll give this to
you instead of him." He offered her the envelope with his pay enclosed.
"Don't be silly, Kirk," she said, in a matter-of-fact tone. "I didn't
wish Weeks to have any opportunity to talk. You need this money and I
don't."
"Perhaps I should have offered it to Mr. Cortlandt."
"Stephen knows nothing about the Weeks affair. If you choose to regard
my little favor as a debt, however, please let it run on until you are
better able to pay."
But Anthony remained inflexible, and at last she accepted his proffer
with some impatience.
"You are the most foolish person I ever knew," she remarked. "Can't you
understand that such obligations don't exist between friends? A few
dollars mean nothing."
"A few dollars mean a good deal to me just now."
"You have the most disappointing way of receiving favors. I had a
decent position for you, but you would go to collecting fares. I hope
you have had enough of it by now, and are ready to take something worth
while."
"Not until it comes naturally. No hop-skip-and-jump for mine."
Edith sighed. "It is terribly dull for me here at present," she said.
"Mr. Cortlandt is very busy; I have no one to talk to; no one to amuse
me. Why, I've scarcely seen you since you went to work."
"It is flattering to be missed."
"Will you come to the dance to-morrow night?"
He shook his head.
"The music is good; you will meet some nice people. If you remember,
one of your qualifications for a position was that you are a good
waltzer."
"I can't mingle with the 'quality.'"
"Be sensible. This is an invitation."
"I am getting sensible fast. I've learned something about Canal
conditions. What would people say if Mrs. Stephen Cortlandt were seen
dancing with the new collector of No. 2?"
"My dear boy, do you suppose Mrs. Stephen Cortlandt cares what these
people say?"
"Mr. Stephen Cortlandt might."
"Mr. Stephen Cortlandt isn't snobbish, either."
"One has to be on the Canal Zone. Besides, to tell the sordid truth, I
haven't any clothes."
Edith silently extended the envelope in her hand; but he laughed.
"Perhaps I'll come to the next dance. I'll be rich then. See!" He
showed her a long slip of paper consisting of five coupons, each
numbered "8838."
"Lottery tickets!"
He nodded. "Allan had a very particular dream about the number eight,
so I invested five dollars 'silver' on his hunch. You know he has the
most wonderful dreams. There was one about a whale--it was appallingly
vivid."
"But you don't bet on all these miraculous whales and things?"
"Oh no. The whale was a little too much for me. But I thought I'd take
a chance on the number eight, it didn't seem quite so apocryphal."
"But why did you select such a ridiculous combination? It isn't likely
that the eight will come out three times in four."
"It's the number of my automobile license." Kirk sighed at the memory
of his new French car. "You don't object to such gambling?"
"Hardly," laughed Edith, "when I have a ticket for the same drawing.
Every one does it, you know."
"If I win the capital prize I'll come to the next party and claim all
the dances you will allow me."
"Not much encouragement in that for a lonely lady."
"Oh, I'm the luckiest chap in the world. The drawing comes off next
Sunday, and it happens that I've been shifted to No. 6 for a few trips,
so I'll have a chance to see the fun."
"If you were a little less quixotic and weren't so remarkably afraid of
getting more than your deserts, you could come to all these dances."
"I'm sorry," he acknowledged, "but I have to do things in my own way."
It was a welcome change for him to sleep as late as he wished on Sunday
morning, and he enjoyed the privilege to the full. Inasmuch as No. 6
did not leave until one o'clock, he had ample time in which to witness
the lottery drawing, a thing he had been curious to see since he had
first heard of it. This form of gambling was well recognized, it
seemed; not only the natives, but all classes of Canal Zone workers,
engaged in it freely. On every street corner women sold tickets day
after day, and, as the drawings were conducted under rigid government
supervision, the lottery had come to be regarded as a sort of public
institution, quite as reputable as an ordinary church raffle.
Allan, vastly excited, was of course waiting to accompany him, and,
when Kirk had finished a leisurely breakfast, the two strolled idly
down into the city.
"Oh, boss," exclaimed the negro, "I feel that we shall h'experience
good-fartune to-day."
"Did you buy a ticket?"
"No, sar, I reinvested all my monies travelling on those railroad
trains."
"Now see how foolish you are. If you'd stayed at home you might have
bought the winning number to-day."
"I prefer to h'accompany you. But--I have been thinking to make you a
proposition of partnership. Master h'Auntony. I will stay home and
dream numbers which you can purchase with your salary. In that manner
we shall certainly burst this lottery."
"Oh, I see! You'll sleep while I rustle the coin to play. What's your
idea of a fair division of the profits?"
"It is sometimes exceedingly fatiguing to dream," said Allan,
defensively. "Sometimes one wastes an entire day and has no success."
"That's merely a question of diet. I could make you dream your head
off."
"But I do not desire the profits, however, for being partners with you.
I would like you to have plenty of monies, that is all. I love you,
sar."
"Don't! You embarrass me."
"It is true, chief, I would die and--"
"Yes, yes, kill yourself."
"I pray to God h'every day that some bad man will h'assault you in
order that I may die for you." The Jamaican was growing excited, as
usual when he dwelt upon this subject. "I would h'enjoy to shed my
blood for you, sar. I would like to see it running--running--running--"
He waved his arms wildly.
"Don't bleed to death."
"I wish to suffer and scream and groan, so that you will be knowing--"
"Never mind. I think I get the idea. But I'm not going to allow it, and
I'm not going to allow you to dream--you sleep too much as it is.
Besides, your dreams are no good. Look at that whale dream of yours,
for instance."
"Oh, sar, the 'fish' number did not win, to be sure, but 'water' did."
"But you didn't dream about water, it was about fish, 'vivid' fish."
"I did not chance to think of the water," acknowledged Allan, "but
there was the whale lying upon the h'edge of the h'ocean, h'all the
time."
The drawing, which was for a capital prize of fifteen thousand dollars
"silver," had drawn a larger crowd than usual, and when the two reached
Cathedral Square they found the lottery building thronged to
overflowing with the usual polyglot elements that make up these
Latin-American gatherings--negroes, Indians, Panamanians, Spaniards,
Americans--while in the Plaza itself other groups were waiting to hear
the report.