Gold and Silver Fillings.
Extractions wholly without Pain.
There was deep disappointment in face and voice as she sat down
with a flounce of her starched and snow-white skirt, gasping:
"Oh, Doctah, does I HAVE to have silver fillings?"
My room-mates, "Mitch" and "Tom," sat respectively at the throttle
of a locomotive that jerked dirt-trains out of the "cut" and
straddled a steam-shovel that ate its way into Culebra range.
Whence, of course, they were covered with the grease and grime
incident to those occupations. Which did not make them any the
less companionable--though it did promise a distinct increase in
my laundry bill. When they had descended again to the labor-train
and been snatched away to their appointed tasks, I sat a short
hour in one of the black "Mission" rocking-chairs on the screened
veranda puzzling over a serious problem. The quarters of the
"gold" employee is as completely furnished as any reasonable man
could demand, his iron cot with springs and mattress
unimpeachable--but just there the maternal generosity of the
government ceases. He must furnish his own sheets and pillow--MUST
because placards on the wall sternly warn him not to sleep on the
bare mattress; and the New York Sunday edition that had served me
thus far I had carelessly left behind at Corozal police station.
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