Allan was waiting at a safe distance from the municipal building, and on seeing his late companion at large he broke into the wildest rejoicing.  He conjured a flow of tears, he fondled Kirk’s hand in his own, he laughed, he sobbed, he sang.

“Praise be to God!” he cried, loudly.  “Free mon you, Master h’Auntony.  Glory, glory!  My soul was in ’ell, sar.  On my knees I h’implored that fa-ast wretch to release you.”

His emotion appeared so genuine, his service had been so great, that the object of his adoration felt himself choke up.  Of all the people Kirk had met since leaving home, this one had most occasion to blame him; yet the boy was in perfect transports of delight at his delivery.

“Don’t carry on so,” Kirk laughed, awkwardly.

“Oh, boss, I feared they would h’assassinate you again.”

Anthony nodded grimly.  “They did.”

“Oh, oh!” Allan gave himself over to a shrill frenzy and shook his clenched fists at the jail in a splendidly tragic attitude.  “Wretches!  Murderers!  ’Ell-ca-ats!”

“Sh-h!  Don’t make a scene on the street,” Mrs. Cortlandt cautioned.  But the Jamaican would not allow the fine effect of his rage to be lost.  He clashed his white teeth, he rolled his eyes fearfully, and twisted his black features into the wildest expressions of ferocity, crying: 

“H’Allan will best them for that!  Let ’im tear h’out their ’earts by his fingers.  So!” He made an eloquent gesture.  “Blood!  Blood!”

“Not so loud.  A little pianissimo on the blood,” smiled Kirk.

“H’Allan would die and kill himself for you,” the excited negro ran on in an excess of loyalty.  “Master h’Auntony fought those wretches for I; I shall fight them for he.”

When he had finally been prevailed upon to exchange his martial threats for a fresh paean of rejoicing, he fell in behind, declaring firmly that he intended to follow his new-found hero wherever he might go, though the course laid were straight for those infernal regions that played so large a part in his fancy.

In the midst of Kirk’s expressions of gratitude for the timely intercession of Cortlandt and his wife, the former surprised him by saying, in a genuinely hearty tone: 

“My wife has told me all about you, Anthony, and I want you to come over to Panama as my guest until you hear from your father.”

When Kirk informed him of the cablegram that had cast him adrift in Panama, leading indirectly to his entanglement with the dignity of Ramon Alfarez and the Spanish law, Cortlandt replied, reassuringly: 

“Oh, well, your father doesn’t understand the facts in the case, that’s all.  You sit down like a sensible person and write him fully.  It will be a great pleasure for us to have you at the Tivoli in the mean time.”

Seeing a warm second to this invitation in Mrs. Cortlandt’s eyes, Kirk accepted gracefully, explaining:  “You know this is the first time I was ever up against hard luck, and I don’t know just how to act.”