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.”