“That’s the place,” Stein replied, dryly.

“I’m not going to work.  I don’t work—­don’t know how.”

“I see.  Pleasure trip?”

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

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

“What’s the idea?  Why don’t they finish it up?”

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

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

“And really don’t you know anything about the Panama Canal?”

“Oh, I’ve heard it mentioned.”

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

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

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

“Sure!  One of them pitched for the Cubs.”

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

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

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

“Yes, indeed.  I’m for anything in the line of chance.”

“Very well.  I’ll see you in the smoking-room later.  It will cost you only five dollars.”

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

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