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 in my work, forgot the hour until it was
suddenly recalled by the insistent, strident tooting of whistles
that forewarns the setting-off of the dynamite charges from the
little red electric boxes along the edge of the "cut." I turned
back toward Paraiso and, all but stumbling over little red-wound
wires everywhere on the ground, dodging in and out, running
forward, halting or suddenly retreating, I worked my way gradually
forward, while all the world about me was upheaving and spouting
and belching forth to the heavens, as if I had been caught in the
crater of a volcano as it suddenly erupted without warning.
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