The Ne'er-Do-Well. Rex Beach
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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."
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