The
history of Panama is strewn with "dynamite stories." Even the
French had theirs in their sixteen per cent, of the excavation of
Culebra; in American annals there is one for every week. Three
days before, one of my Empire friends set off one afternoon for a
stroll through the "cut" he had not seen for a year. In a retired
spot he came upon two negroes pounding an irregular bundle. "What
you doing, boys?" he inquired with idle curiosity. "Jes' a
brealdn' up dis yere dynamite, boss," languidly answered one of
the blacks. My friend was one of those apprehensive, over-cautious
fellows so rare on the Zone. Without so much as taking his leave
he set off at a run. Some two car-lengths beyond an explosion
pitched him forward and all but lifted him off his feet. When he
looked back the negroes had left. Indeed neither of them has
reported for work since.
Then there was "Mac's" case. In his ambition for census efficiency
"Mac" was in the habit of stopping workmen wherever he met them.
One day he encountered a Jamaican carrying a box of dynamite on
his head and, according to his custom, shouted:
"Hey, boy! Had your census taken yet?"
"What dat, boss?" cried the Jamaican with wide-open eyes, as he
threw the box at "Mac's" feet and stood at respectful attention.
Somehow "Mac" lacked a bit of his old zealousness thereafter.
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