"The Rowdy," as if to make
the campaign as real as possible, led us racing down into the
black abyss, whence we charged up the further slope and came
sweating and breathless into the rampant rough and tumble of pay-
day night in New Gatun, the time and place that is the vortex of
trouble on the Isthmus. Merely a short street of one of the half-
dozen Zone towns in which liquor licenses are granted, lined with
a few saloons and pool-rooms; but such a singing, howling,
swarming multitude as is rivaled almost nowhere else, except it be
on Broadway at the passing of the old year. But this mob,
moreover, was fully seventy percent black, and rather largely
French--and when black and French and strong drink mix, trouble
sprouts like jungle seeds. Now and then Policeman G----drifted by
through the uproar, holding his "sap" loosely as for ready use and
often half consciously hitching the heavy No. 38 "Colt" under his
khaki jacket a bit nearer the grasp of his right hand. I little
knew how familiar every corner of this scene would one day be to
me.
A Chinese grocer sold us bread and cheese. Down on the further
corner of the hubbub we entered a Spanish saloon and spread
ourselves over the "white" bar, adding beer to our humble
collation. Beyond the lattice-work that is the "color line" in
Zone dispensaries, West Indians were dancing wild, crowded "hoe-
downs" and "shuffles" amid much howling and more liquidation; on
our side a few Spanish laborers quietly sipped their liquor.
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