the long hot tropic day was drawing to its close. the shadows were gradually rising and filling the narrow street, and every now and then from the side of the open drain which ran through the middle of the street a large black carrion bird flew up. there was no sidewalk, the cobblestones running right up to the low white house walls. the windows which opened on the street were for the most part few in number, small and heavily barred. it was not by any means the best quarter in colon. one building, more pretentious than the rest, was distinguished from its neighbors by large french windows, also protected by the iron screen or reja.
it was impossible to tell the nationality of the one man lounging along the street. he seemed profoundly buried in his own thoughts. dark as his skin was, and black as was his beard, there was something about him which negatived the idea that he was a spaniard. his rolling walk suggested the sailor’s life.
as he passed the building with the long french windows, the tinkle of a guitar roused his attention, and he stepped inside the front door and glanced furtively at the few men who lounged about the tables which dotted the long room. passing by several empty tables and chairs, the stranger seated himself in the corner of the room on the side further from the street, near a window which opened on a neglected garden. a tropical vine thrust its branches against what had once been a wood and glass partition which formed the end of the room, the branches and leaves twining in and out among the broken panes of the window.
some of the occupants of the room had glanced indifferently at the stranger on his entrance, but his haggard, unshaven face and worn clothing did not arouse their curiosity, and they again turned their attention to their wine.
the stranger, after contemplating the view from the window for some moments, leaned back in his chair, thrust his hands in his pockets, and stretched his long legs under the table; then indolently studied his surroundings. the room reeked with tobacco smoke and the odor of spirits. the scene reminded him of port said. not quite as many nationalities were represented in colon as haunt the entrance to the suez canal, but the low chatter of tongues which greeted his ears was polyglot. the men in the room were types of the born ne’er-do-well. lazy, shiftless, they had drifted to colon, thinking to pick up whatever spoils came their way during the construction of the panama canal. drinking and gambling, gambling and drinking—the sum total of their lives. the stranger’s lips curved in a sardonic smile, and he crooned softly:
ship me somewheres east of suez, where the best is like
the worst,
where there aren’t no ten commandments an’ a man can
raise a thirst.
his smile deepened as he caught the scowl of a spaniard sitting near him. his glance traveled on, and, as he studied the flushed, sodden faces, a sudden horror of himself and his surroundings shook him. he passed a nervous hand over his damp forehead. why had his memory played him so scurvy a trick? the past few years were not pleasant to contemplate, and the future even less so. he half started from his chair, then sank back and summoned the mozo. quickly he gave his order in fluent spanish, and waited impatiently for the man’s return. he had been fortunate at the gaming table the night before, and could purchase a moment’s respite from the torments of an elusive memory. memory, in whose wondrous train follow the joys of childhood, parents and home! the stranger’s strong hand trembled as he stroked his beard. why was he an outcast? for him alone there were no childhood and no home; his thinking life began as a full-grown man. was there to be no awakening?
in a few moments the mozo returned, and placed a glass and bottle of liquor before him. the stranger hastily filled and drank. as the stimulant crept through his veins, a feeling of physical contentment replaced all other sensations, and, lighting a cigar, he was slowly sinking once more into reverie when from behind the partition he heard a voice:
“no names, please.”
the words, spoken clearly in english, startled him from his abstraction, and he glanced through the vine and, himself unseen, saw two men sitting at a table. they had apparently entered the patio from another part of the house.
“quite right, i approve your caution.” the words were also in english, but with a strong foreign accent, and the speaker, a man of middle age and fine physique, laid some papers on the table before them. “where is the senator this evening?”
“he accompanied several members of the congressional party to inspect the plant of the quartermaster and subsistence departments, and on his return will dine with major reynolds and several other officers at the hotel.”
“i see.” the foreigner drummed impatiently on the table. “you were late in keeping your appointment.”
“i had the devil’s own time in finding this dive,” returned the younger man, and, as he moved his chair half around, the inquisitive stranger, peeping through the leaves of the vine, obtained a view of the speaker’s boyish face. the weak mouth was partly hidden by a short black mustache; the features were well cut, and by some would have been called handsome.
the older man gave vent to a half-smothered chuckle. “goethals and gorgas have reformed the canal zone, and the local government is trying to do the same with panama, but, por dios, drinking and gambling continue unnoticed in colon,” he said, dryly. “i find a room in this house most convenient during my short visits here. no ‘gringo’,” he sneered, “dare show his face in this room.”
the stranger settled down in his chair, which was wedged into the corner formed by the wall of the room and the wood and glass partition, until his head was screened from the two speakers by the thick foliage of the vine. the spaniard and the jamaican, who had occupied the table nearest him, had gone, and the few men who still lingered over their wine at the farther end of the room paid no attention to him. he could listen without being observed.
“so you believe the people of panama are already dissatisfied with their president?” inquired the younger man, whom the listener judged to be an american.
“i do,” came the firm reply. “and but for the presence of los tiranos del norte here there would have been already a pronunciamiento.”
“then you think the time is ripe for carrying out your scheme?”
his companion nodded without speaking, and tugged at his gray imperial. “if it is done at all it must be soon,” he said, finally. “american rule is not too popular here, and now is the time to act. and i pray god i shall be spared to see the fruits of the labor de los cochinos sucios reaped by another nation,” he spoke with intense bitterness.
“and that nation?” questioned the other.
“is better left unmentioned.”
“you do not love my countrymen,” exclaimed the american, as he drew out his cigarette case and passed it to his companion, who waved it away impatiently.
“say rather—hate,” was the terse reply. “but i do not look on you as one of that nationality. your mother was my dearly loved cousin, and colombia boasts no prouder name than the one she bore before she married your father. by the love you bear her memory i entreat you to assist me in this undertaking.”
“i have promised,” said the american gruffly. “i hear that colombia intends accepting the ten million dollars offered by the united states for certain islands near panama.”
“never!” the colombian spoke with emphasis. “our hatred lies too deep for that; it cannot be placated by an offer of ‘conscience money,’ no matter how great the sum.”
“the more fools you,” muttered the american, sotto voce.
“the revolt of panama was followed by an insurrection in colombia,” continued the other, “and the government was overthrown. the american newspapers gave us a few paragraphs at the time—they did not mention that nearly one hundred thousand people were killed; that the horrors of civil war were augmented by pillage and murder. i was at the front with the troops, and, in my absence from home, my wife and child were murdered by some insurrectos. i tell you,” he struck the table a resounding blow with his clenched fist, “there is no colombian living who would not gladly see the united states humiliated.”
“it is easy to see that the people in panama are jealous of the success of the americans,” commented the young man.
“naturally; the united states has always advanced at the price of latin-america.”
“how so?”
“study your history. when the thirteen original states branched out, first came the ‘louisiana purchase,’ land originally settled by the french; then florida, first settled by the spanish, was bought by the united states. later still, texas seceded from mexico, settled also by the spanish; then came the mexican war, and latin-america lost the territory now known as new mexico, arizona, and california.”
“seems to me it would have been better if colombia had accepted the original offer of the united states for the panama canal zone.”
“why so? the united states only offered a beggarly ten million. by waiting a year the french concession would have expired, and the colombian government would have received the sixty million which the united states eventually paid the french company.”
“instead of which you got nothing,” remarked the american dryly, “and lost panama into the bargain.”
“through underhand methods,” began the other hotly, then checked himself. “enough of the past. have you a message for me?”
for reply the young man drew out an envelope from an inside pocket and handed it to his companion, who opened it and read the communication in silence.
“good,” he said finally, tearing the note into infinitesimal pieces and carefully putting them in his leather wallet, from which he first took several letters. “give this to the ambassador immediately on your return, and this—” he hesitated for a second—“give at once to our mutual friend.”
the american took the papers and placed them securely in an inside pocket. “is that all?” he inquired.
“no.” the colombian drew out a small chamois bag whose contents emitted a slight jingling noise as he handed it to his companion. “you may find this useful. no thanks are necessary, dear boy,” laying his hand on the american’s shoulder as the latter commenced speaking. “the death of my wife and child has deprived me of near relatives except you, and i propose to make you my heir.” then, to change the subject, he added quickly, “is there no way to induce the senator to use his influence with congress and the administration for disarmament, and the curtailing of building more battleships?”
the american laughed disagreeably. “i think it may be done—in time.”
the colombian’s face brightened. “splendid! if we can stop his fervid speeches in behalf of a larger standing army and navy, we will have accomplished much. but how do you expect to alter his attitude?”
“through a woman,” the american’s lips parted in an amused smile. “there’s no fool like an old fool, and the senator is no exception to the rule.”
“indeed?” the colombian raised his eyebrows. “and what has the woman to say in the matter?”
“nothing. she emulates a clam.”
the eavesdropper on the other side of the partition, who had caught most of the conversation, moved ever so slightly to stretch his cramped limbs, and then pulled out his handkerchief and mopped his heated face. as he did so a small slip of paper dropped, unseen by him, from his pocket to the floor. a large black cat came softly over to him and he lifted the animal up and placed her on the table before him. he stroked the purring feline and listened intently to catch the conversation which drifted to him through the vine-covered broken window panes. apparently the two men were preparing to leave.
“does the senator really think to marry?” asked the colombian, as he picked up his hat.
“i judge so. he is obviously very much infatuated with the girl’s unusual type of beauty. and, believe me, she thoroughly understands the art of managing men.”
“indeed? who is the girl?”
“the young daughter of the famous irish actress, nora fitzgerald. senator carew....”
crash—the bottle and glass smashed in pieces. the eavesdropper never stopped to see the damage he had done, but with incredible swiftness and stealth was out of the room and down the street before the irate proprietor had reached the deserted table.
“que hay?” inquired the colombian of the proprietor. he and the american had rushed into the room and over to the window by which the eavesdropper had been sitting.
“a drunken spaniard knocked the bottle and glass from the table, and cleared out without paying the damage,” explained the proprietor in spanish, as he signed to the mozo to sweep up the mess.
“what’s that in your hand?”
“a card, señor, which i have just picked up from the floor.”
“let me have it.”
“si, señor, con mucho gusto.” he quickly handed the paper to the colombian.
the american looked over his companion’s shoulder as the latter adjusted his eyeglasses and held up the visiting card so that both could see its contents. with staring eyes and faces gone white they read the engraved inscription:
mr. james carew
maryland.
