For a time it offended his fastidious taste to be forced to elbow his way through superheated coaches jammed with shrieking, cackling, incoherent negroes. They were all utterly hysterical, and apparently possessed but one stubborn idea--to refuse payments of fares. But in time he grew to enjoy even this. He was glad of his new-found independence, moreover, for, though it did not cancel his obligation to the Cortlandts, it made him feel it less keenly. As for his quarters, they were quite tolerable--about the same as he had had at boarding-school, he reflected, and the meals were better. They were not quite up to Sherry's or Martin's, it was true, but they cost only thirty cents, and that had advantages. Certainly he could not complain of a lack of incident in his new life. On his first trip to Colon and back he had nine disputes and two fights, and threw one man off--a record achievement, he was told, for a beginner. A further diversion was furnished by Allan, who appeared early in the morning and all but assaulted the gateman, who refused to let him pass without a ticket. It took the entire station force to prevent him from starting for Colon as Kirk's guest. He considered it a matter of course that his friend should offer him the courtesies of the road, and he went away at last, wofully disappointed but not discouraged. On the evening of that eventful day, instead of returning to his new quarters, Kirk proceeded to walk the streets in search of a certain face. He strolled through the plazas; he idled in front of the most pretentious residences; he tramped wearily back and forth through dim-lit, narrow streets, gazing up at windows and balconies, harkening for the tone of a voice or the sound of a girl's laughter. But he was without the slightest success, and it was very late when he finally retired, to dream, as usual, of Chiquita. Several days passed, and he began to feel a little dull. He was making no progress in his quest, and he did feel the lack of congenial society. Then one evening there came a note from Edith Cortlandt briefly requesting him to come and see her. He was a little surprised, yet he was conscious of a certain relief. He had not felt like intruding upon her with further explanations and apologies; but since she wished him to come--perhaps they could meet, after all, in a natural way. He wanted to get rid of the wretched misunderstanding that lay between them. If he were to leave the country that night never to return, he would want to feel that he had parted on good terms with the woman who had befriended him. Promptly at eight o'clock he presented himself. "I'm a laboring man now," he said, as he stood before her, "and I usually hold my cap in my hand and shuffle my feet when talking to ladies. Pray excuse my embarrassment." She did not respond to the lightness of his tone. Her glance seemed intended to warn him that she meant to be serious.