Now and then the boss is a stony-eyed American with a black cigar
clamped between his teeth. More often he is of the same nationality as
the workers, quite likely from the same town, who jabbers a little
imitation English. Which is one of the reasons why a force of "time
inspectors" is constantly dodging in and out over the job, time-book
and pencil in hand, lest some fellow-townsman of the boss be earning
his $1.50 a day under the shade of a tree back in the jungle. Here are
Basques in their boinas, preferring their native "Euscarra" to Spanish;
French "niggers" and English "niggers" whom it is to the interest of
peace and order to keep as far apart as possible; occasionally a few
sunburned blond men in a shovel gang, but they prove to be Teutons or
Scandinavians; laborers of every color and degree--except American
laborers, more than conspicuous by their absence. For the American
negro is an untractable creature in large numbers, and the caste system
that forbids white Americans from engaging in common labor side by side
with negroes is to be expected in an enterprise of which the leaders
are not only military men but largely southerners, however many may be
shivering in the streets of Chicago or roaming hungrily through the
byways of St. Louis. It is well so, perhaps. None of us who feels an
affection for the Zone would wish to see its atmosphere lowered from
what it is to the brutal depths of our railroad construction camps in
the States.

The attention of certain state legislatures might advantageously be
called to the Zone Spaniard's drinking-cup. It is really a tin can on
the end of a long stick, cover and all. The top is punched sieve-like
that the water may enter as it is dipped in the bucket with which the
water-boy strains along. In the bottom is a single small hole out of
which spurts into the drinker's mouth a little stream of water as he
holds it high above his head, as once he drank wine from his leather
bota in far-off Spain. Many a Spanish gang comes entirely from the same
town, notably Salamanca or Avila. I set them to staring and chattering
by some simple remark about their birthplace: "Fine view from the Paseo
del Rastro, eh?" "Does the puente romano still cross the river?" But I
had soon to cease such personalities, for picks and shovels lay idle as
long as I remained in sight and Uncle Sam was the loser.

So many were the gangs that I advanced barely a half-mile during this
first day and, lost