Each was run by two
white Americans, or at least what would prove such when they
reached the shower-bath in their quarters--the craneman far out on
the shovel arm, the engineer within the machine itself with a
labyrinth of levers demanding his unbroken attention. Then there
was of course a gang of negroes, firemen and the like, attached to
each shovel.
All the day through I climbed and scrambled back and forth between
the different levels, dodging from one track to another and along
the rocky floor of the canal, needing eyes and ears both in front
and behind, not merely for trains but for a hundred hidden and
unknown dangers to keep the nerves taut. Now and then a palatial
motorcar, like some rail-road breed of taxi, sped by with its
musical insistent jingling bells, usually with one of the
countless parties of government guests or tourists in spotless
white which the dry season brings. Dirt-trains kept the right of
way, however, for the Work always comes first at Panama. Or it
might be the famous "yellow car" itself with members of the
Commission. Once it came all but empty and there dropped off
inconspicuously a man in baggy duck trousers, a black alpaca coat
of many wrinkles; and an unassuming straw hat, a white-haired man
with blue--almost babyish blue-eyes, a cigarette dangling from his
lips as he strolled about with restless yet quiet energy.
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