Without another word or a glance
behind him, the Panamanian made off across the Plaza, barely in
time to, escape the crowd that surged around the two he had
quitted.
Bombarded by a fusillade of questions in a dozen tongues, jostled
by a clamoring, curious throng, the lucky owner of 8838 fought his
way back into the lottery building, and, as he went, the news
spread like flaming oil.
There it was, plainly displayed, "8838"! There could be no
possible mistake, and it meant fifteen thousand silver pesos, a
princely fortune indeed for the collector of No. 2.
Promptly at five minutes to one o'clock that afternoon, Allan
Allan, late of Jamaica, strode through the Panama railroad station
and flaunted a first-class, round-trip ticket to Colon before the
eyes of his enemy, the gateman. He was smoking a huge Jamaican
cigar, and his pockets bulged with others. When he came to board
the train, he called loudly for a porter to bring him the step
and, once inside, selected a shady seat with the languid air of a
bored globe-trotter. He patronized the "butcher" lavishly,
crushing handful after handful of lemon-drops noisily between his
teeth and strewing orange peel and cigar ashes on the floor with
the careless unconcern that accords with firmly established
financial eminence.
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