"Here they are." Anthony picked one up from the floor.
"It's that damn wind again. I can't keep anything in place unless I sit on it. That's the trouble with this country—there's always a breeze blowing. Thanks! I'm getting a trifle heavy to stoop—makes me dizzy."
In a moment he read what he had written:
DARWIN K. ANTHONY, Albany, New York.
Your son well and safe. Here as my guest. Asks you cable him money for return. WEEKS, American Consul.
"That tells the story. It'll please him to know I'm looking after you, my boy."
"You are very kind."
"Don't speak of it. I'm glad to get in touch with your father. We need capital in this country."
"He's a hard man in money matters," said Darwin K. Anthony's son. "I believe I enjoy the distinction of being the only person who ever made him loosen."
"All successful men are cautious," Weeks declared. "But if he knew the wonderful opportunities this country presents—" The speaker leaned forward, while his chair creaked dangerously, and said, with impressiveness, "My dear sir, do you realize that a cocoa palm after it is seven years old drops a nut worth five cents every day in the year and requires no care whatever except to gather the fruit?"