“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?”