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.”