In answer to Mr. Weeks's shout a slatternly negress with dragging
skirts and overrun shoes entered, carrying a washbowl partly
filled with ice.

"Just get in, Mr. Anthony?"

"Yes, sir, on the Santa. Cruz."

"Fine ship." Mr. Weeks rose ponderously and wiped out a glass with
a bath towel, while Kirk noticed that two damp half-moons had come
through his stiffly starched linen trousers where his dripping
knees had pressed. He walked with a peculiar, springy roll, as if
pads of fat had grown between his joints, and, once an impulse had
been given his massive frame, it required time in which to become
effective. The sound of his breathing was plainly audible as he
prepared his guest's beverage.

"You'll like that," he predicted. "There's one good thing we get
in Colon, and that's whiskey." With a palsied hand he presented
the glass. His cuffs were limp and tight, his red wrists were
ringed like those of a baby. As he rolled back toward the Morris
chair, his stomach surged up and down as if about to break from
its moorings.

"I came in to ask a favor," Anthony announced, "I suppose every
tourist does the same."

"That's part of a consul's duty," Mr. Weeks panted, while his soft
cheeks swelled with every exhalation. "That's what I'm here for."