Part 10

“How did they get away to get to the supper? Oh, they just struck. ‘Where are you fellers goin’ to?’ said the boss that night, when the last of the gang was walkin’ off the dock to go home an’ dress. ‘We are goin’ to get drunk,’ spoke up old Cap. Bartin, who isn’t so old, but is as sassy as they make ’em. ‘Get drunk?’ said the boss, in amazement; ‘well, you’ve got your nerve with you.’ ‘You bet,’ replied the Captin; ‘if I didn’t have considerable nerve I wouldn’t have been able to keep up an’ work all of this overtime. Me an’ the boys,’ said he, ‘need to wet our whistles this blessed Sunday night, after workin’ from twelve to eighteen hours a day for the past week.’ ‘You can’t get off now,’ said the boss, ‘because there’s that derelict out there that’s got to be attended to.’ ‘I ain’t responsible for the derelict,’ retorted the Captain; ‘why don’t you get your launch an’ go out an’ hang a dinner bell on it, or else get a couple of niggers to rig up a jury mast for it? The boys an’ me have an important engagement,’ an’ he winked at his friends in a foxy way. ‘I’m through with the briny deep until Monday mornin’.’ ‘You’ll lose your job for this,’ said the boss, tryin’ to keep a straight face. ‘Hurrah!’ said Captin Bartin, ‘back to the Bowery for mine. There’s a few boats sailin’ in and out around old Liberty. Do you know where Liberty is? We have almost forgot, we get so little of it in this outfit.’ After dancin’ a few steps of the ‘Sailors’ Hornpipe’ he marches off the dock, followed by the fellows, all of them singin’, ‘We Won’t Go Home Till Mornin’.’

“Just after the boys had gone, a time inspector hove into sight an’ the boss said to him, in that dry way of his, ‘There ain’t nothin’ for you to do to-night. The bunch has quit, an’ I don’t blame ’em. They’re havin’ a banquet.’ ‘You don’t say,’ said the inspector. ‘Sure,’ said the boss, ‘an’ ’tis kind of tough on me. I’ve got to go out to that derelict an’ hang a scarecrow on it to keep the mosquitoes from breedin’ in it. I’m blamed if I know what else to do with the darned thing.’ ‘Nor I,’ says the time inspector. ‘I been on a farm in Connecticut all my life, an’ it makes me sicker’n a dog to go out in that launch to take the men’s time. This ain’t no job for me, nohow. I’ guess I’ll write to Ma an’ tell her to see our Congressman, an’ tell him to have me transferred to some inland place out of sight an’ smell of this blamed old ocean.’ ‘Yes,’ said the boss, dryly, ‘you’re too good a farmer to be fussin’ about this dock. Suppose,’ he went on, ‘we go over to Buildin’ Number One an’ watch the boys gittin’ drunk.’ ‘I’m on,’ said the inspector, without hesitancy. ‘You may,’ said he, ‘meet one of ’em that’s half soused an’ good-natured, that ’ud go out in the launch with you an’ show you what to do with that machine you have jest been talkin’ about.’ ‘Well, say, you are a farmer from Jones’s woods,’ replied the boss, laughin’, an’ walkin’ off the dock.

“Well, sir, I walked off that dock and follered ’em, for I had been there takin’ it all in. When we got to that hall, say! of all the fun and good fellowship! There was Captin Bartin dancin’ the Highlan’ Fling to the tune of ‘Lass of Killiecrankie.’ Every one was feelin’ good, an’ I was welcomed as heartily as the boss an’ the inspector, though they didn’t know any of us from Adam, they were so drunk. But, anyhow, I soon felt at home, an’ it seemed as if I had known the bunch all my life. The place was decorated with palms an’ plants an’ flags, an’ the supper tables showed up fine, with cut glass an’ silver from Major Falstaff’s own house an’ the houses of the married members, for the committee said they wouldn’t stand for three-pronged forks an’ black-handled knives from the I. C. C. mess hall (they call it an hotel over there), not at that spread.

“Well, I met an old friend, an’ he pointed out the different ones that were the leaders. A merry-lookin’ little devil got up to make a speech, an’, say! he sure could talk. Bryan, as an orator, couldn’t hold a candle to him. ‘Who’s the orator?’ I asked. ‘He’s one of the fleet,’ said my friend. ‘He’s German, but an American citizen.’ ‘He’s away up on English,’ said I. ‘Yes,’ said he. ‘Shorty is a bright fellow, a graduate of Heidelberg, an’ his brother is a professor there right now.’ ‘Why,’ I spoke up, ‘this is not only a dredgin’ outfit you have here, but ’tis a floatin’ university as well.’ He was tickled to death at this, an’ said, ‘We fellows ain’t nobody’s fools over here. Do you see that good-lookin’, inoffensive-appearin’ chap over there?’ he asked, pointin’ toward a youngster that sure did look inoffensive. ‘Yes,’ I says, ‘who is he?’ ‘He’s the real thing in the manly art of boxin’,’ was the reply. ‘He could lick any man in this hall to-night. The boys call him the Prince.’ ‘He looks like a kid,’ I says. ‘We call him that, too,’ said he. ‘The feller he’s talkin’ to is a Danish nobleman, with an Eyetalian name; he was once an officer in the Danish Navy.’ ‘By gum!’ said I, ‘we guys at Balboa never’ll get in on this association. We ain’t grand enough.’

“At this point the voice of the orator rang out loud and clear. ‘You men of the floatin’ equipment are just as important to the great work of buildin’ this Canal as those whose professions are of a higher order an’ whose education is of the higher criticism. English, German, Danish and Scotch by descent, your veins reek with the wholesome blood of the Viking.’ Then Captin Barton yelled, ‘Come along, all ye Irish that ain’t in on that Viking blood, an’ we’ll hit up the whiskey.’ Then there were cheers, an’ maybe we didn’t! Well, we ate an’ we drank, an’ told stories; some of ’em was true an’ some of ’em darned lies, but we all felt good an’ noble an’ brave, an’ along toward mornin’ an Eyetalian Prince came in to take the photograph of the bunch. I was in it, though I hadn’t ought to be, seein’ I belong in Balboa, where we ain’t got more gumption than a lot of dog-robbers, because we’re afraid of Tam O’Shanter, as canny a Scot as ever sailed out of Glasgow.

“I been told since that when the gang showed up on the dock Monday mornin’ to go to work the boss was fit to be tied. ‘Why didn’t you fellers show up yesterday?’ said he. There was no response, but all grinned kind of sheepish. ‘And you,’ he said to Captin Bartin, ‘you didn’t show up yesterday. Were you sick?’ The Captin took three steps to the right an’ three steps to the left, an’ broke down two or three steps of the ‘Sailors’ Hornpipe.’ Then he said in the boss’ ear, ‘I was drunk.’ ‘Drunk?’ said the boss, in amazement. ‘Well, say! you’ve an awful nerve. Give me your doctor’s certificate,’ he added, with a sigh. ‘Shure, you wouldn’t have me compound a felony like that, would you?’ said the Captin. Then the boss coughed kind of funny and said, ‘Get aboard an’ stop chewin’ the rag.’

“An’ me. I got back to Balboa half an hour too late to get on the job, and, thinks I, there’s other jobs in the universe, so I’m goin’ to take a day off an’ get some rest. An’ maybe I got the rest. Not on your life, for old Tam O’Shanter was on the job lookin’ me up. He gumshoed up to my room, an’ hearin’ me snorin’, yelled out, ‘Hoot, mon, get ye up and pit on yer cloes an’ come down on the job the noo.’ I was savage. ‘To h--l with the job,’ I says, ‘I’m sick.’ ‘Dinna ye fash wid yer clatter, or I’ll pit me fist in yer eye,’ says he. Well, I got up an’ dressed an’ went on the dredge, an’ I’m on it yet. Tam O’Shanter likes me about as well as the devil likes holy water, but I don’t care a rap for that old kilt, for he’s one Scot with a yellow streak runnin’ right through him from the top of his head to the top of his toes. He says there ain’t talent enough in the U. S. A. to hold down his job, an’ that’s why he got it. It must be so; he ain’t got no citizenship papers; if he has, they ain’t bona fidy. See! Well, I’ll have to be gittin back to the dock, or he’ll be around peepin’ an’ reportin’ that I have an affinity. So long, lady; I’m glad to have met you. The boys here in Balboa are all right, only they’re a little short on gumption, that’s all.”

THE DISTRICT QUARTERMASTERS.

Of the vast number of men employed on the Isthmus in an official way, no men have quite as much to endure as the District Quartermasters. They are the men who keep their hands on the pulse of things. They know what’s what and who’s who, regardless of the fact that the grandson of a Chief Justice of the United States takes second place in precedence to some horny-handed immigrant who, a few years ago, landed at Ellis Island. If you want to see human nature in its most primitive and unadorned vulgarity, just take a look in at the District Quartermaster’s office any morning, or take a back seat and look on. Mrs. Jones has three children and she would like to move away from House 642 into the house across the way, because Mrs. Rickey has an affinity and she doesn’t want that example for her children.

“The house across from you is assigned,” says the Quartermaster.

“But what difference is that? The people that you gave it to can get assigned to ours,” Mrs. Jones answers.

“We can’t do that now,” says the Q. M. “The people wouldn’t like it.”

“All right. I’ll see the Colonel.”

So Mrs. Jones goes out, and in comes Mr. Smith. You can tell that he is important, for his trappings are the most up-to-date mode, a la Canal Zone. He wants to move into class quarters. His salary is two dollars and eighty cents more than Higam’s, and Mrs. Higam laughed at Mrs. Smith this morning and said, as she rolled her eyes, “You’re not moving, I see.”

“That woman ain’t goin’ to lord it over my wife, let me tell you. I’m sick to death of this business of favoritism, an’ my wife’ll have it fixed up this afternoon,” says Smith. After which speech he goes out, caressing that mounted shark’s tooth.

The Quartermaster sighs and looks resigned.

Now comes in a sunbeam of radiance, dressed in coolie lace and all the other coolie adornment. The Quartermaster looks attentive.

“Prout,” she begins, exactly in a Mrs. Princely Belmont tone, “I want my kitchen painted. To-morrow morning they will start working at it.”

“It was painted last winter,” says the Quartermaster, getting red in the face, and you see that he is stung by the impudent tone of the woman’s voice.

“Well, I want it done again, an’ I don’t want to have to come here another time to talk about it. I’m not used to dirt.”

“You can be as clean as you like, but you can’t get that done again this year.”

“Then I want a married dresser. The one I have is a bachelor one.”

“How is that?” gasps the Quartermaster. “Haven’t you been here two years? Why haven’t you told us before? Melbourne,” he calls, and a shiny black gentleman appears promptly. “Why hasn’t this lady been given a married dresser, when single ones are so scarce? She says she has only a single one. Didn’t I tell you last week to round up all the single dressers and give the married folks married ones?”

“She didn’t have room for the married one, so she said, sir,” said Melbourne. “She’s got three that she brought from the States with her, an’ she said she is tryin’ to sell ’em.”

“Take a married dresser to that lady’s house to-morrow morning at 8 o’clock. Good morning, madam.”

“I want a new garbage can, a larger ice chest and two old rockers taken away and new ones put in their place.”

“It will be impossible to make all those changes, madam. You will have to keep the rockers until later. We are short on rockers.”

“Short on rockers?” echoes the coolie-clad lady, “and you gave that thing next door two rockers, but I’m of better family than she is, and I have to go without rockers.”

“Her rockers were broken,” says the Q. M.

“You’re a liar,” says the coolie-clad lady.

At this the Quartermaster makes a hasty retreat and the coolie-clad lady leaves to take the next train to Culebra.

Next comes a quiet little lady with a soft voice and engaging manners, who says that she would like to move into the pretty cottage across the street from her house. The Quartermaster has vanished with a hurt heart, and his assistant has taken his place, with a keen edge on for business for crisp females. “What’s the trouble?” he asks, with a terrifying squint in his eye.

“Oh, my gracious! It will be impossible for me to live in the house with my neighbors.”

“Why, what’s the matter with ’em?”

“They are simply impossible. I cannot endure them. The woman hangs her clothes on the front porch to dry, and I feel horribly ashamed whenever my friends come; and it is extremely disagreeable to walk in and out under them.”

“Well,” says the assistant, “the lady must hang her clothes where they’ll dry. Is that all?”

“The woman is horribly insulting, and refers to me as Mrs. Penpusher. I shall have to move into the little cottage, I fear.”

“That’s a good, cool house that you’re in, and them people are first class.”

“Oh, you are mistaken; they are Swedish peasants. It is a mistake that we were ever put into the house with such people. My husband’s father is a Supreme Court Judge.”

“That don’t cut no ice down here; if he was the son of the Colonel himself he couldn’t get them quarters with his salary. Why, them is $225 quarters, and your husband is only a penpusher, like myself, an’ only gettin’ $100 per, with a small ice chest an’ wooden-seated chairs in the dinin’ room. The quarters you’re after is class quarters.”

“What class, for pity sake?” asks the lady.

“Class of Canal Zone, of course,” grinned the assistant, “an’ that’s sayin’ something. Ferinstance, the people you’re tryin’ to get away from are class, with a big C. He gits $250 per, an’ he ought to have that house to himself, anyway.”

The little woman, struggling to keep back her tears, left the place, after having bowed gracefully to the assistant.

“There,” said that gentleman, “that’s what I call the cream de la cream of gentility, an’ she’s stuck in a house with a bunch of rough devils that ain’t got no use for her. Say, ain’t this class quarter business the limit, though? That lady is a graduate of Vasser College, an’ the one she’s in with is a squarehead. She used to be a porteress in a Kansas City hotel. She has a voice on her like the sound of the drunk special, and when she wants anything she cusses us out for fair. I have her measured to an inch, and I sure feel sorry for that little lady that just went out. But what can we do?”

Now, there enters class, if there ever was class in this world. A woman clad in old rose satin, over which is draped black Spanish lace. Her hat and accessories are perfect. She is the wife of a carpenter and is about fifty years old. She tells in a calm, even voice that she wishes to move into class quarters, and that a woman whom she knows and likes wants the same house. They have decided to see the Quartermaster, and, as one is as much entitled to the house as the other, they’ll leave it to the Quartermaster to decide.

“He ain’t goin’ to decide any more things to-day; he’s fed up on quarters. I guess you folks had better go to Culebra. Where’s the other one?”

“She’s coming now,” said the woman, whereupon there burst upon our vision the most Juno-like woman that we had ever seen. Tall and stately was she, with a figure that ’ud put Lillian Russell in the shade, with a pair of eyes that were not made for the good of the souls of Quartermasters’ assistants, either.

“I mean to get that house,” said she, smiling, and showing a set of beautiful white teeth. “My husband was on the Isthmus seven days before hers,” said the Juno.

“He was not!” said the lace and roses.

“I know better!” said Juno, hotly. “There’s only two of you, and a Type 14 house is good enough for you; but we have got to have a larger one, because our family is larger.”

“Well, there, don’t fight about it,” said the Quartermaster’s assistant. “Go to Culebra, and it’ll be settled all right by the Colonel.”

“That’s what I’m going to do,” said Juno. “This ain’t no place to get justice.”

“Well, you will have to hurry,” said the assistant, looking at his watch. “Better run now; the train is coming.”

Both women ran, and snarled at each other as they reached the street.

“The tall one’ll get the house, if I know human nature,” said the assistant. “And, say! ain’t she the grandest thing that ever came down the pike!”

The Quartermaster came in, flustered, and said, as he dropped into his chair, “Those damned class quarters will be the death of us all. Branigan, you’ll have to stay here to-morrow and face the bunch. I’m all in.”

* * * * *

Q. M. Branigan was luxuriously smoking what, from its aroma, might be called a good cigar; his office chair was tilted backward and his neat white canvas shoes were resting on the orderly desk. He wore a flaring red necktie, and that was the only note not in harmony with the peace prevailing in that calm, cool emporium. A look over his shoulder revealed the fact that he was reading “Barrack Room Ballads.” It was twenty minutes before the time for opening. But a timid knock on the door, which was repeated many times, caused Mr. Branigan to frown and call out in a rather gruff tone, “What do you want?”

“To come in, of course,” said a sweet voice through the keyhole. At this, Q. M. B. dropped the book and sprang to his feet, saying as he did so, with the sweetest smile imaginable, “Say, ’tis her, all right, and this is where I get it put all over me for fair.” He smoothed his hair, pulled down his cuffs and, straightening his necktie, he hastily brushed the wrinkles out of his trousers. Then, and not until then, did he open the door. The audience felt a bit flustered, too, for who could enter that office but the Juno?

“Good morning,” said she, with a merry flash of her fine eyes and a brilliant smile.

“Good morning,” said Q. M. B. with a short cough.

“Did they telephone from Culebra that I was to be moved to-day?”

“Yes, indeed,” said Q. M. B. “They telephoned that I was to put you into the most comfortable quarters in town.”

“Class quarters, I suppose?”

“Well, no; ’er not now, but later you’ll get ’em all right, if I’m on the job.”

“But at Culebra they said I was to get them,” stormed the Juno, getting very red in the face.

“Well, there, don’t go to gettin’ fussy about it. You ain’t the only one that’s got to put up with a house that ain’t good enough; but, I’ll tell you what: you won’t have to go without it long, for I’ll see to that.”

“Oh, shucks!” said the Juno disgustedly, “you’re a big bluff, that’s what you are.”

“My Gawd! I’m a bluff, am I?” exclaimed Q. M. Branigan, getting red in the face. “Well, say, the way I’ve worked for you about that class house is a caution.”

“You can’t bluff me; I’m on to you,” answered the Juno, drawing on her gloves.

OLD PANAMA’S RENAISSANCE.

Old Panama is again becoming a scene of romance. Nothing can be more delightful than an automobile trip by moonlight to the scene of Morgan’s piratical invasion. When your machine rounds the corner on the road to the ocean a warm wave is wafted to you on the breezes from the seawall. You take your fan and you fan and you fan yourself vigorously, but, as you draw nearer, the air becomes still warmer. The ruins stare you in the face, and your mind wanders back to the days when black-eyed senoritas strolled upon the bridge and through the lanes and byways, now overgrown with jungle weeds. You think to yourself, as the machine speeds on, how deserted the lovely spot is in the weird moonlight. You are nearing the beach, and, oh! the warmth, the delightful breeze, the moonlight, the odor of tropical lilies, and then your eyes behold a scene that makes you feel young again. Hand in hand, strolling in pairs, you behold lovers in the ecstacy of abandonment on the white sands. Lovers are kissing each other, right under your middle-aged eyes. Lovers are sitting on the sands holding hands, cheek to cheek, without any apparent fear of criticism.

“There’s an automobile full of old folks,” says a masculine voice, “so I guess I’d better let go of your hand.”

“Who cares?” says the sweet voice of a girl. “We’re not in Panama now. Let the old frumps stare.”

There is a merry hum of voices, and a clinking of glasses under the rustic shed. Two men are busy making sandwiches, two others are busy serving cool drinks, the young people, and some that are not so awfully young, wander to and fro, arms entwined, or else they sit in the shadow of a rock and spoon. Dapper couples, black, white and brown, meander around in that warm, affectionate atmosphere without getting in the way of one another, because each couple is so absorbed in itself that it has no eyes for its neighbor. You look on approvingly, even though you are old, almost grey, and unloved. You forget your neighbors, who are like yourself, up in years and alone.

There are men swearing under their breath and mending tires that have been punctured on the rocky, unfinished roads of the Zone. There are voices singing “Casey Jones.” There are voices singing “I Love You, I Love You, I Love You.” There are voices singing “In the gloaming, oh, my darling, when the lights are dim and low,” and this song of songs takes you back to a sea beach that is far away, to where “rosy dreams were dreamed when everything was what it seemed and every dream came true.”

You hate to tear yourself away, but it is almost midnight and the machine is hired by the hour. So you step in and are whirled back to Panama, where the atmosphere is cooler, the scenes far less romantic, and where you are rudely awakened from your balmy dream in a sudden realization of fast-fleeting time by the price the garage empresario says you must pay. But, after all, the dream was worth the time, and money is of secondary consideration in a trip by moonlight to Old Panama.

ABE LINCOLN’S FOUNDLING.

Some months ago some American prospectors, while traveling in the interior of Panama, found, at some distance from human habitation, a pretty Indian boy. He appeared to be about three and a half years of age. The gentlemen asked him questions, but it appeared that he was unable to speak. Upon arriving in Panama they bought a goodly supply of clothing for the little lad, and before taking their departure for some other part of the interior they found a home for him with a native woman in the Chiriqui district, to whom they gave enough money to provide for the child until they should return, at which time it was thought that some one of the men would return to the States with the child and would put him in a school for mutes in New York. Physicians who were consulted agreed that the child was deaf and dumb, and plans were formulated to have him instructed in the language of the deaf and dumb by a competent teacher right away.

He was named Abe Lincoln, on account of a certain brightness of expression about his eyes, which reminded his benefactors of the great martyr. They had become very fond of the child, and had taught him many little tricks, which he would display for their amusement.

One of the gentlemen persisted in saying that the boy was not a mute, but that he had been twisted up in the English and Spanish languages; that he had been accustomed to some unknown patois, etc. The persons laughed at this who had declared the boy was unmistakably a deaf mute, and a teacher worked diligently, and with good results. The boy, being imitative, soon knew the motions of the mute alphabet, and his foster mother was so delighted that she went about telling every one of the neighbors.

The child is a general favorite, and has been playing with American children as much as with the Spanish boys of the neighborhood. Yesterday afternoon Abe was sitting on the door-step, whittling a stick, and, being bothered by a fly which hummed about his head, he said, with calmness, “Darn that fly!”