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.