“WANTED—A lady violinist and seven other lady musicians to make up a lady orchestra for a first-class hotel in Panama.”
“WANTED—A lady violinist and seven other lady musicians to make up a lady orchestra for a first-class hotel in Panama.”
Her heart leaped for joy. “This is my chance. I shall go to Panama. It is far away, and no one will recognize me there,” said the poor girl as she hastened to answer the advertisement.
At noon on the following day she was standing on the ship’s deck on her way to Colon, and as New Orleans receded from view her lips moved in prayer; she was asking God to give her strength to lead a better life.
The man who had engaged her had complimented her upon her skill at playing. “You may not like Panama,” said he, “for the life down there is rough, and I see you are a lady.”
In a few days she was walking the streets of Colon in glorious freedom. Men eyed her furtively from some safe retreat, but no one ventured to accost her. There was no one to lift an eyebrow or to give a scornful glance. “Safe, thank God!” she said. “I shall not be the victim of that curse.” She was thinking of what she should wear that night. Asimple white muslin dress; a white rose in her hair. No paint, no jewelry, no more bright colors. “I shall save my money and buy a little home,” she thought.
“It is time to dress,” said one of her girl friends, breaking in upon her reverie. “We are to go to the hotel at seven.” But it was not an hotel—it was a barroom where employes of the Canal Commission and the riff-raff of God’s great universe assembled nightly to drink to excess and discuss the slanderous gossip of the Isthmus.
When Vere de Vere arrived at the entrance she faltered and refused to go in. “It is a low barroom,” said she to her companions, “and there are drunkards inside who will say vile things to us.”
“But we must play there, or else we won’t be able to live,” said one of the girls.
So they walked in, single file, through the rows of leering men, leaving the frightened girl on the sidewalk.
“Aw, come on in, kid,” said the manager, whose name was “Blinkey.” “This is an all-right place; the best in town. There ain’t no first-class hotels in this God-forsaken place. What ’ud support ’em? Not the I. C. C. roughnecks an’ P. R. R. pen-pushers. Not on your life, kid. Why did I say that the place was a first-class hotel? Because I’m a liar, of course. Come on in.”
“I want to live a good life,” replied the girl, with the calmness of despair in her voice.
“Well, that’s up to you, my girl. I ain’t askin’ you not to lead a good life. You can be as good as Saint Cecelia an’ play here every night. The better you are, the greater attraction you’ll be for this joint, for good ladies are doggoned scarce on the Isthmus. I’ll tell the boys all about you, an’ when I get through I bet you they’ll respect you. You must play that ‘Good Night’ solo when you see that they’re about half-shot. Come on in; I’ll lead you. My! you are shiverin’ an’ your hand is as cold as ice. You bet the boys’ll know when they see a real lady. You look like a little girl in that simple white dress.”
So she allowed “Blinkey” to lead her by the hand into the reeking barroom, and onto the balcony, where her girl companions awaited her. Then the manager announced, in the unmistakable voice of the professional barker: “Gen-tle-men: I wish to introduce to your favorable notice Miss Merriam Leigh, the famous violinist. She has medals which were presented to her by the Emperors of Germany, Austria and Japan; medals that are worth a fortune, and the little lady is too modest to wear ’em. This is the lady who entranced with her violin solos the late King Edward the Seventh, and made him exclaim,a few moments before he died, ‘To endow with such genius a poor human being, there must be a God!’ I presume you have all read of the rope of pearls that he gave to this little lady before he died; an account of ’em was in all the papers. I presume you all read about when Queen Alexandra wanted to keep her in her household to play for her in her widowhood. This is the modest little lady who comes here to-night to let the P. R. R.’s and the I. C. C.’s hear her play. You can see that she’s a lady. Treat her as such.”
“Come forward, now,” said “Blinkey,” in an aside that only the girl could hear, “and bow to the blokes while there’s a sentimental fit on ’em, an’ you’ll be a darned sight safer here than you’d have been in old King Eddie’s quarters.”
The harangue was news to the poor girl, and the humor of it made her smile as she stepped forward to bow to the waiting throng. Each man raised his glass to toast the celebrity, when a harsh voice somewhere among the drinkers said: “Well, I’ll be gorldurned if it ain’t Vere de Vere, from Mixed Ale Lizzie’s place in N’Yawlins.”
Vere de Vere heard the ominous words, and felt a faintness overpower her, but, with that spirit for which men had admired, she seized her violin and played, while her cheeks flamed and her eyessparkled, “Lead, Kindly Light, Lead Thou Me On.”
“She’s mad, all right,” said a maudlin voice in the crowd.
“That makes a feller think of things that Gawd has to do with,” spoke up another.
A hush fell upon the assembly, and the black waiters stood still and bowed their heads. The bartender, an old tropical tramp, used his towel to wipe his teardrops from the marble. The last time he had heard that hymn it was being sung at the funeral of his wife away back on the farm in Missouri. There were many wet eyes as the girl frantically played to the finish. Then, with one wild bound, she rushed through the reeking saloon, out into the street to a nearby park, where she sat down and cried it out.
No one spoke after she had left the barroom, but one by one the men tiptoed out, leaving unfinished glasses on the tables behind them. At nine o’clock the place was deserted and the doors were closed. Habitues, who came too late, said to one another, “I wonder what’s the matter with ‘Blinkey’s’ place. He advertised a lady orchestra and a big night to-night.”
“Say, ain’t he the liar, though?”
“Well, he ain’t doin’ business, that’s a cinch. Wonder what’s up.”
One man remained in “Blinkey’s” place; it was the informer. He told the manager all he knew of the violinist; it was, that he had seen her in a disreputable house in New Orleans.
“You’re a pretty rotten specimen of manhood to go giving her away like that,” said “Blinkey.” “If you had any sense you might have known that she was trying to do right, the poor little devil. ’Twas a rotten deal to hand out to me; spoiled a good night’s business, an’ made a liar of me.”
“But half of ’em didn’t hear what I said,” protested the offender.
“No,” said “Blinkey,” “they didn’t hear you, but she did, an’ she played that to get ’em to thinkin’ of their pasts as she was made to remember hers. I bet every man of ’em left off livin’ right soon after the last time they heard that played; I know I did. ’Twas when poor Maggie died, Gawd rest her soul! There’s ginger in that girl; there’s soul an’ feelin’ in her, an’ pride. I had to coax her to come in, an’ she said somethin’ about wantin’ to lead a good life.”
“That’s the way in this darned old world,” put in the bartender. “Step a little bit askew, an’ down you go; but, when you try to buck up, some gink comes along that hain’t got sense enough to get in when it rains, an’ he blows on you an’ every one’llbelieve him, an’ you either get in jail or into a crooked poker game. I know; I been there. That girl’ll either commit suicide or go back to the life that she’s been tryin’ to git away from now.”
“Yes,” said “Blinkey,” shaking his head. “An’ I’ll have it all on my soul, and Gawd knows I have enough to answer for now. I’ll get out of this business, by heck; I will.”
“Well, I guess I’ll be goin’,” said the informer. “I’m fed up on moralizin’. I’m sorry I squealed on the merry widow. Good-night, boys. I guess you’re troublin’ more about it than she is.”
“Say! you didn’t tell any of ’em on the q. t., did you?” asked “Blinkey,” anxiously.
“A couple of ’em, but they were too darned drunk to remember,” the informer replied.
“Well, say! you’d better tell them fellers to-morrow night that you made a mistake; that she ain’t the one you thought she was,” said “Blinkey,” in a persuasive tone.
“If I think of it,” said the informer, as he walked leisurely through the doorway with the air and manner of one with nothing to regret.
“All the fire in purgatory wouldn’t clean up that feller’s soul,” said the bartender, as the door closed behind the man.
“That mut ain’t got no soul. ‘Lead, Kindly Light,’ wasn’t wrote for such spawn as him. I guess I’ll take a ride out into the savannahs to get a breath of Gawd’s pure air, for, I’ll tell you what, the stink of this booze joint is gittin’ on my nerves,” said “Blinkey,” in disgust.
On the following day Vere de Vere looked for work, but failed to find it, and at night she went back to the barroom and played, without looking at the drinkers. When her violin solo was finished she sought a remote corner of the balcony and hid herself behind the other players.
“That girl is afraid of us fellers,” said a man, laughing.
“It takes some nerve for a young lady like her to play in a place like this for a bunch of roughnecks like us,” said another man, in a kindly tone.
“Better lookout, girl, you’ll lose your virtue here among us fellers,” said the informer of the night before, in a high-pitched voice. This coarse jest was greeted with roars of laughter.
“Put that mut out!” shouted “Blinkey” to the negro attendants, “an’ if he puts up a kick, call in the ‘spiggotty’ police and tell ’em that he’s a crook, and let ’em put the guy in jail.”
The informer was led to the street, but it was too late. The habitues of “Blinkey’s” place knew that the pretty violinist had led a disreputable life in alow resort in New Orleans. Several of the less hardened didn’t believe the story, and one young business man of Colon was very much in love with her and said that he would marry her; so now it was rumored that there was going to be a wedding, and that free drinks were to be served gratis on that night at “Blinkey’s” place.
The story of Vere de Vere became generally known and was freely discussed, even in that quarter of the city known as “the district.” The rumor reached the ears of a woman of ill-repute who had designs upon Vere de Vere’s lover. Jealousy is a destructive element, when it takes root, in the most respectable bosom, and surely, when in force in the disordered mind of an outcast woman, it must be doubly dangerous. This one, it seems, had known Vere de Vere in New Orleans, and there was an old score that she was anxious to settle, so she circulated a horrible story of the girl’s past, which not only shocked Vere de Vere’s lover, but the hardest characters at “Blinkey’s” place.
All this greatly distressed poor Vere de Vere, for it seems there are depths of degradation to which some women of the underworld refuse to sink, and there are crimes so abhorrent as to shock even their paralyzed sense of morality.
“I shall see that girl,” said poor Vere de Vere.“I used to know her, and she was not a bad-hearted person.” So, while her companions went to “Blinkey’s” place as usual, she made her way to the house of her slanderer. When she entered, the wretched woman came toward her, staggering and hiccoughing; she was followed by a negro porter.
“Beat her up,” she shouted, “she’s trying to take my man from me.”
The negro advanced threateningly, and the defenceless girl, seeing a be-ribboned dagger hanging on the wall above her head, seized it. The negro, in a sudden frenzy, threw the drunken woman upon the weapon, and in a moment she fell to the floor fatally injured.
“It is the curse,” said Vere de Vere, as she rushed from the house. Her white dress was spattered with blood, and, unconsciously, she held the dagger clutched tightly in one hand while she ran through the streets of Colon to “Blinkey’s” place.
“What in the name of God have you been doin’, kid?” asked “Blinkey,” as he took the blood-stained dagger from her hand.
“It is the curse,” she moaned; and “Blinkey” afterward said that the hurt look in the girl’s eyes made him feel ill. To the bewilderment of the awe-struck drinkers, Vere de Vere took her violin in her blood-stained hands and played “Dixie.” Amid atumult of applause the police came in and tore her from her violin.
“And the sins of the parents shall be visited upon the children,” said the girl, as she was led to the street, where a hooting mob stood ready to offer her indignities.
So the last descendant of a great cavalier leads the life of a malefactor among negroes in the penitentiary at Panama, and the curse written in the life-blood of the poor gypsy boy has had its fulfillment.
THE Fairfaxes were married at Trinity Church, Boston, and the Bishop of Boston performed the ceremony. The Governor of Massachusetts gave the bride away, and there was no one present at the affair but Mayflower descendants and a few noblemen from Europe, who came by way of Washington to grace the affair.
The Boston newspapers were filled to overflowing with accounts of the wedding, a description of the presents and the life history of the contracting parties. They told in detail the genealogy of both the bride and groom.
The bride was an heiress in a moderate way, but the groom, who was an F. F. V., was poor, so that he positively refused to have his wife touch a penny of the money she inherited. “I am going to work,” said he to the relatives and friends of the bride. “I have secured a position as a clerk on the Panama Canal, and we shall sail to-morrow.”
“Bravo!” said every one.
Mrs. Fairfax packed her costly wedding presentsaway and stored them among other family treasures in the attic of her great-aunt in Cambridge, and with only about twelve trunks of dainty clothing and household things she departed with her wedded love.
She was a graduate of Wellesley College, and she had, in addition, studied domestic economy, so she gave out for publication that she intended doing her own housework on the Canal Zone.
“A sensible and model woman,” said the newspapers. Mothers talked about the model Mrs. Fairfax to their daughters, in the hope that it would influence their own futures; so, you see, gentle reader, what a heroine Mrs. Fairfax was in her native city.
Among Mrs. Fairfax’s wedding presents was one of such a kind as to preclude all possibility of its being left at home in the attic on Brattle street, so a ticket was purchased for it and, attached to a silver chain, this present was led by Mrs. Fairfax to the Pullman palace car which was to convey the newlyweds to New York, from which they embarked for Colon. “Ferdinand De Lesseps” was the name of the present. It was the finest of bull terriers, and Mrs. Fairfax was almost as proud of it as she was of her new husband.
On the ship there were, from the Fairfax point of view, a strange assortment of persons who didnot speak the English language as it was spoken in the world to which the pair belonged, but who, strange to say, considered themselves as good, if not better, than the young couple.
It is needless to say that both had led a most sheltered life, and their knowledge of common people was limited to persons of the domestic servant class and railroad porters. Being just out of college, they, of course, knew it all, and did not see that a wider experience was being thrust upon them. They were very exclusive, and before the ship arrived at port they had shown such antipathy for their fellow-passengers that they were anything but popular.
When the ship docked there was no one to meet them, although Mr. Fairfax had sent a wireless message to the man who was to give him information regarding his new position in some office or other on the Zone.
They were, therefore, obliged to find a room for themselves on a dingy street in Panama, and in a house where many negroes lived. No one appeared to know that the blooded ones had arrived.
After many weeks of disgusting hardships, through the influence of Mr. Fairfax’s boss, a vulgar, unlettered man who had been a simple carpenter in Boston, the young couple were assigned to two non-housekeepingrooms in one corner of a big house occupied by a Swedish family named Svenska, and, although Mr. Svenska had only been in the United States long enough to acquire a knowledge of railroading and citizenship papers, his privileges and wages far exceeded those of Mr. Fairfax, who was a descendant of a cavalier who had signed the Declaration of Independence.
It was the proud boast of the Swedish lady that she had landed at Ellis Island in her bare feet five years before, and when Mrs. Fairfax was a sweet undergraduate, shining as a drawing-room butterfly, Mrs. Svenska was dusting drawing-rooms.
Now, she kept a hired girl, and had A No. 1 furniture, while Mrs. Fairfax had the sort that was specially brought to the Isthmus for clerks who received only $100 a month.
The Svenska wash was always hanging on the front porch, and the mangy cur dog of the Svenskas was ever seeking social intercourse with the blooded terrier of the Fairfaxes.
Mr. and Mrs. Svenska always addressed Mrs. Fairfax as Mrs. Penpusher—a term which Mrs. F. could not understand.
Being a newcomer and unsophisticated, Mrs. Fairfax decided to move into the pretty cottage across the way, which had been vacant since her arrival.Accordingly, one day she started for the Quartermaster’s office to arrange for a transfer. The Quartermaster, however, saw her coming, and very prudently withdrew, leaving his assistant to deal with her. This gentleman, after hearing Mrs. Fairfax’s complaints and request for new quarters, indignantly replied: “You ain’t got no kick coming. Why, them quarters you want belong to two-hundred-and-fifty-dollar men. They ain’t for no one-hundred-dollar people.”
“Why, what do you mean?” said poor Mrs. Fairfax, aghast. “I shall see that you are reported for your insolence. My husband’s grandfather was a Chief Justice of the Supreme Court.”
“That don’t cut no ice down here,” was the reply. “If he was the son of the Colonel himself, he wouldn’t get them quarters with his salary. You’re in the same house now with a high-priced man, so I don’t see what yer kickin’ about.”
“It is evident you don’t know what you’re talking about,” said Mrs. Fairfax in bewilderment. “Why, the people who occupy the other part of the house are common—positively vulgar. I must get another house; I cannot live there. I shall come again when the Quartermaster is in.”
So, without even a good-afternoon, she hurried home to find that “Prosit,” Svenska’s dog, hadpicked a quarrel with “Ferdinand De Lesseps,” the Boston terrier. In the combat the plebian “Prosit,” having no fine sense of honor nor any regard for the rules of war, had treacherously nipped off “Ferdinand’s” tail. “Ferdinand,” though a courageous beast, could not bear this indignity, so had left the field in possession of his vulgar antagonist. Then, too, Mrs. Svenska’s much-patched clothing was hanging, as usual, on the porch. There was an array of socks of huge dimensions, hickory shirts and piebald khaki trousers, all of which greatly offended the aesthetic taste of the dainty Mrs. Fairfax. So she sought Mrs. Svenska, and requested that lady to take her clothing from the line and to chain up that brute “Prosit.” “I beg pardon,” began Mrs. Fairfax, when her neighbor appeared at the door, “that dog of yours has bitten off my dog Ferdinand’s’ tail.”
“Veil,” answered Mrs. Svenska, “dat bane a gude yob. My Oscar, he bane pay two dollar gold to a faller in Sout’ Brooklyn fer trimmin’ up our own bulldog’s tail. Such dogs ain’t in style mid tails. Anyhow, vy you not stay home an’ mind yer dog? You ain’t got no bizness in dese quarters—your man is nuttin’ but a penpusher mit a hundred dollars, and my Oscar, he make two hundred, an’ you tink you are better as we are.”
As Mrs. Svenska finished speaking she shook her fist in Mrs. Fairfax’s face, which belligerent gesture so frightened the latter that she rushed from the door and fell on her own doorstep in a dead faint. This, of course, attracted the attention of a passer-by, and soon a curious crowd assembled. In the crowd there chanced to be one of that slick class of individuals known as “gumshoe” men. He stood and looked on and said nothing, but what he thought would fill a big book. Mrs. Svenska did not appear to make an explanation, and no one in the crowd made a move to help the unfortunate woman. The “gumshoe” man pulled a little notebook from his inside pocket and jotted down the following: “Woman found on doorstep of House No. —— in stupefied condition * * *.”
Now, the district physician put in an appearance, and in a few minutes Mrs. Fairfax had revived sufficiently to sit up and take notice. Her first thought was of her poor maimed dog, and she said, with what voice she could muster: “Oh, where did he go?”
“Who?” said the “gumshoe” man, stepping forward eagerly.
“ ‘Ferdinand,’ ” weakly replied the poor woman, sinking down upon the step and bursting into sobs.
The physician, with a sad expression on his face,ordered an officer to escort Mrs. Fairfax to her rooms, and the “gumshoe” man wrote: “Drugged by some one named ‘Ferdinand’—a lover, probably—drinking together. Husband, clerk—decent fellow. Mystery here—woman needs watching—got no friends among the women—keeps to herself.”
Carefully tucking his little book in the inside pocket, near his heart (for there is nothing dearer to these gentry than to get “something on” a married woman), he joined the policeman as the latter came from the house, shaking his head mysteriously.
All this had its due effect on the bystanders, and each one went on his or her way with an idea that Mrs. Fairfax had some awful secret. Each man cautioned his wife to have nothing to do with her, because she had a sweetheart unknown to her husband—a guy named “Ferdinand,” an Eyetalian or a dago of some kind. So, as a matter of course, the village people went out of their way and took special pains not only to shun Mrs. Fairfax, but to let her see that she was being shunned. The “gumshoe” man’s notes were now being put into circulation through the medium of one of his confidants, a notorious male gossip whose calling took him almost daily to every village on the line. This modeof disseminating slander is equalled, perhaps, only by the New York yellow journals.
Meantime Mr. and Mrs. Fairfax took their evening walks together, happily unconscious of the awful slander that threatened to engulf them. Mrs. Svenska kept “Prosit” chained up, so that he could not play with the Fairfax dog, fearing that people would think that she was friendly with Mrs. Fairfax. The Quartermaster’s assistant held his head high, in a way which plainly said, “Nothin’ doin’,” when the lady went to the office for anything. Even the dusky commissary attendants tossed their woolly heads when she gave them an order. Then a rumor was started that Mr. Fairfax was not married to Mrs. Fairfax. This story gained in popularity from day to day, and at last assumed such truthful proportions that an agent was sent out to investigate the matter. This gentleman’s name was Gilhooly, a descendant, so ’tis said, of one of the royal lines of Erin. He was a native of Boston.
He started his investigation with the knowledge that he was to hunt down a cultivated woman. After a couple of weeks Gilhooly sent his notebook to the great tribunal of justice. Were you so fortunate as to get a glimpse of this little book the following might attract your eye:
“Mr. and Mrs. Fairfax are married, all right, tho’ you’d never think it from the loving way they live. When Mr. and Mrs. Fairfax are at home they hold hands and they read Shakespeare and Thomas a Kempis. When Mr. Fairfax ain’t at home Mrs. Fairfax does her housework, except the washin’ and scrubbin’, which ain’t in her line. When she ain’t doin’ her housework she’s paintin’ pictures and writin’ for college papers. The lad ‘Ferdinand’ is not a dago, at all, but an ugly brute of a Boston bull terrier with a pedigree. He loves his mistress, and it was on account of Svenska’s ‘mutt’ havin’ chewed off his tail that the ruction started. Let them that are without fault throw the first stone. So, I guess it is up to the Colonel himself to set matters right.”
ISEE by the papers that the government of the ‘Land of the free and home of the brave’ has made another law. It is that no contract be given for government work to any firm that compels its employes to work more than eight hours a day, an’ the government has turned down a shipbuildin’ firm’s bid on the two new battleships because the firm didn’t have the eight-hour law in force in its shipyard. Now, wouldn’t that jar you, when right here on this government job there’s five hundred men that work from twelve to sixteen hours a day an’ never get a cent of overtime pay, not even a ‘thank you’?
“Who are the twelve-and sixteen-hour men? We are. I’m one of ’em. Am I a steam-shovel man? No; not on your life. If I was I’d be curlin’ my mustache an’ polishin’ my finger-nails right now. But, instead of that, I’m hustlin’ into the mess hall to swallow a bite of cold grub before they shut the doors for the night. It’s now three hours after knockin’-off time. I’m a marine engineer, an’ I’veseen as much of this terrestrial globe as any man of my age on this job, an’ I can say with conviction that this is the blamedest job for workin’ overtime that I ever struck, or ever expect to strike.
“You say that you thought we all worked eight hours down here. Not the floating equipment, no, m’am; but, say! a more intelligent or finer bunch of fellows never struck the Isthmus than they are. Why, some of ’em are veterans of the Spanish-American War. They done the work that got the glory for Dewey an’ that beauty Hobson, when the petted darlin’s of the Commission—the steam-shovel men, the shop guys and the like—were milkin’ cows an’ feedin’ hens down on the farm. But, wait, we’ll come in handy again some day, maybe right here, where we’re sweatin’ away from four to six hours a day for nothin’. Here in Balboa we ain’t got no more gumption than a bunch of dog-robbers. Why, in Cristobal, they have formed an association to fight for back pay for overtime since the Canal started, an’ for an eight-hour day.
“A committee of ten of ‘the boys’ waited upon a bunch of hayseeds that were down here lookin’ around an’ botherin’ the Colonel. ’Twas last fall an’ they stopped at the Tivoli. The Colonel attended the meetin’ himself, an’ showed the fellers that he was with them for a square deal. He’s always on deckwhen there’s need of justice, the Colonel is. Well, anyhow, old Uncle Joe was in the gang from the U. S. A., smilin’ from ear to ear an’ smokin’ a big cigar that made him look top heavy. He told ‘the boys’ that he was feelin’ fine; that he was gittin’ to be a bit overfed, an’ that he was just pinin’ to do something for the floating equipment of the Canal Commission; but when a couple of ‘the boys’ told him that they had nearly $9,000 for back pay comin’ to ’em his face froze, the cigar fell from his lips an’ he looked as if he was goin’ to drop dead. I was there lookin’ on an’ takin’ it all in.
“I attended the association supper at Cristobal after that, an’, say! it was some feast. It looked more like a meetin’ of the floating equipment of the New York Yacht Club than it did of the overworked and underpaid live ones of the Isthmian Canal Commission. Every man was dressed to kill in correct evening togs except me, but, of course, I didn’t count, bein’ from Balboa, an’ not bein’ a member, nohow. Anyway, I enjoyed myself an’ drunk it all in. Did I get drunk? Yes, I think I did get drunk. A saint would have got drunk there. The first sight that met the eye on entering the hall was—what do you think? Twelve barrels of beer all packed in ice an’ ready to quench thirst. There was all kinds of whiskies and wines, and even champagne.
“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 Libertyis? 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 oneof ’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’vean 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.”
IF 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 thatyou 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 heis 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 whenevermy 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 hertears, 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 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 yourmiddle-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.
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, whichreminded 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!”
His adopted mother ran and called the other inmates of the house to hear Abe talk, and with delight a boy who spoke English said that he was talking Gringo, all right. On being asked if he wasspeaking English, he said, in clear accents, “I guess so. Sure!”
To-day scores of people are going back and forth to see the wonder. The physicians who pronounced the boy a mute appear to look upon him as a phenomenon, and one of the men, who rather likes the little chap, said to him, “Who taught you to speak?” The boy answered, “Americans. Sure!”
Hurrah! Much excitement prevails in the neighborhood, and Abe Lincoln is the hero of the hour.
THIRTY-five years ago a whaling ship dropped anchor in the Bay of Panama and the captain and crew came ashore to see the sights. The mate of the ship, one Cyrus Pratt, a native of New Bedford, Mass., fell in love with a beautiful senorita named Marie Bennares. They were married, and soon after this Cyrus was obliged to sail away. With many tears and much love, the couple parted, with vows to become reunited in the near future. Cyrus intended to leave the ship at San Francisco and come back in haste to his darling Marie. But circumstances played strange freaks with the pair. In less than a year Cyrus returned, with a light of expectation in his eyes and love of a burning sort in his heart.
Marie had gone to live with relatives in Bogota. He set out for that distant city, but fell ill with fever and spent many months among Indians, who were kind to him and nursed him through the period of weakness incidental to such an illness. When he reached Bogota it was to find that Marie had gone to Jamaica. He followed, to find that she had returnedto Panama. Then he followed her to Panama, to find that his sweet Marie had gone to Darien to live with an aunt. By about this time he was “broke,” so he shipped on a barque that was bound for San Francisco. On arriving in that city he was obliged to take a ship bound for China, where he fell in with Chinese pirates. In one way and another he was tossed about the world, but by no possible chance did he get anywhere near Panama until a few weeks ago, when a ship on which he had taken passage from Rio de Janeiro cast anchor in the harbor of Colon. He crossed the Isthmus on the wings of love, to again pursue the bride of his youth. She had taken so strong a hold upon his imagination that he still pictured her as the winsome girl whom he married thirty-five years ago.
On arriving at Panama he wended his way to the old dwelling in the Chiriqui district, where the lovely Marie used to live. He found the house exactly as it looked in the old days. A large, good-natured, smiling, unkempt matron lounged in the doorway. She was surrounded by many children who played about her knees, and upon whom she smiled indulgently. Cyrus Pratt looked at the house from a safe retreat, in the hope of seeing his beautiful Marie emerge, at some time or other, when he expected to clasp her to his bosom, etc. He was sure that thestout woman in the doorway was Marie’s aunt, who had grown larger and fatter in the days that had gone. Day after day he paced at a distance from the dwelling and anxiously watched for his old-time love. Toward evening he observed that a rather dark-skinned man would take a seat near the stout woman, who sat eternally in that doorway. The man would smoke and smoke in silence. At last Cyrus decided to address the smoker and make inquiries about his Marie. He was greeted coolly by the smoker, and on throwing out some hints he discovered that his Marie and the ample unkempt female who sat with folded arms amid the ninas were one and the same.
“Everything happens for the best,” said Cyrus, as he hastened away from the spot. “Who would ever think that my beautiful Marie would look like that at fifty years? How in thunder will she look at sixty?”
“She thinks I died,” said Cyrus to a friend; “or did she think at all?”
“I guess she didn’t think much about you,” consoled his confidante.
Cyrus, unlike Enoch Arden, is having a good time in Panama, and is happily forgetful of that awful tragedy that would have engulfed most men. Marie believes that the husband of her girlhood is dead,and she is happy in the thought that she has another man, that she is the mother of five children and the grandmother of ten. So, after all, every one is in the right. Cyrus at fifty-seven years is apparently in the prime of life; he has $10,000 in his pocket or near at hand, and he is seeing the sights, and incidentally inspecting the balconies, in the hope of seeing another senorita who resembles the lost love of his youth. He says he will take another venture, and his friends are anxiously watching for the event, for Cyrus says that in all his rambles about the world he has never seen any girls as beautiful as the senoritas of Panama.
IT is proverbial that the Irish and Scotch will quarrel whenever they happen to cross the path of each other, just as they quarreled at the battle of the Boyne. There is less bloodshed, of course, but a fierce fire of antagonism burns in the breast of each, and words are exchanged that mean nothing beyond the out-pouring of that temperamental lava for which both races are justly renowned. There has been friction many times between the Irish and Scotch on the Isthmus, especially at Balboa, where, according to rumor, two men, bold, brave and strong, are ever “at it.”
In this particular case the Scotchman is forever crossing the border into the territory over which the Irishman holds sway, and vice-versa. The men on the job have no little amusement listening to the faction fight. “Bad luck to him; he’s been dumpin’ his truck right here in me way agin. Go over an’ tell him to have that road cleared or I’ll be after callin’ up Culebra, so I will,” says the Irishman.
“Go back and tell him that I’ll have it cleared thenoo if he’ll keep his muts from sassin’ me when I’m talkie’ to ’em for their own good when they put them piles right where I have to go down to the boat,” answers the Scotchman.
It is needless to say that these messages lose nothing while being carried back and forth. Sometimes verbal messages, when repeated, sound something like this:
“Go over an’ tell that fellow not to fash me wi’ his clather, that I’m takin’ no back talk, the noo from the Irish. May the duvvil take ’em!”
The message heatedly flashed back reads this way: “Ah tell him that ’tis only a man of Irish discint that he’s tryin’ to bully, a man that was born under the Stars and Stripes an’ knows no other flag; a man that fought for the government that he’s now workin’ under.”
And the Scotchman wittily replies: “He’d melt like a snowball in heaven if he was fightin’ under some flags.”
“Say! when is it ever goin’ to stop?” ask their respective clans. “You’d ought to see that Irishman’s eyes rollin’ when he was spittin’ fire this morning. And the Scotchman’s hair was standin’ on end an’ he talked some lingo that no one could understand.”
“That was broad Scotch, sir,” puts in an English subject who knows something of the British Isles.
Sometimes they meet face to face, and the scrap is heated and amusing. With their factions ranged behind them trying to suppress their mirth at so much free fun, they jaw each other to their heart’s content.
“What are all them niggers running for?” asked a man a few days ago. “Are they blasting up there?”
“No, there ain’t no blastin up there. The niggers like to take a run down to the dock to hear the jaw, and, say, they’re eatin’ each other up to-day.”
“Say, boss, the Colonel’s car is comin’,” says a trusted African to his Scottish chief.
“Wull, let it come, an’ dinna ye bother me.”
But an observing person can see that the lava ceases to flow as the noise of the wheels reach the ears of the warring ones.
“Get busy, there, ye fellows, an’ move them piles. Don’t ye see that the Colonel’ll be along here in a minute? There he is now.”