Which is why I was shocked next morning by the disrespectful
report of Renson that "my friend the boss had tied a can to the
Spig's tail," and our dainty and lamented comrade went back to the
more fitting blue-blood occupation of swinging a cane in the
lobbies of Panama's famous hostelries.
But what mattered such small losses? Had not "Scotty" been engaged
to fill the breach--or all of them, one or two breaches more or
less made small difference to "Scotty." He was a cozy little
barrel of a man, born in "Doombahrton," and for some years past
had been dispensing good old Dumbarton English in Panama's
proudest educational institution. But Panama's school vacation is
during her "summer," her dry season from February to April. What
more natural then than that "Scotty" should have concluded to pass
his vacation taking census, for obviously--"a mon must pick up a
wee bit o' change wherever he can."
I seemed to have been appointed to a purely sight-seeing job. One
February noon I reported at the office to find that passes to
Gatun had been issued to five of us, "Scotty," "Mac," Renson, and
Barter among the number. The task in the "town by the dam site" it
seemed, was proving too heavy for the regular enumerators of that
district.
We left by the 2:10 train. Cascadas and Bas Obispo rolled away
behind us, across the canal I caught a glimpse of the wilderness
surrounding the abode of "Old Fritz," then we entered a to me
unknown land.
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