however little one may agree with its philosophy and methods.

Then it was due to the law of contrasts, I suppose, that the
thought of "Tom," my room-mate, suddenly flashed upon me; and I
discovered myself chuckling at the picture, "Tom, the Rough-neck,"
to whom all such as Federico Malero with his pick and shovel were
mere "silver men," on whom "Tom" looked down from his high perch
on his steam-shovel as far less worthy of notice than the rock he
was clawing out of the hillside. How many a silent chuckle and how
many a covert sneer must the Maleros on the Zone indulge in at the
pompous airs of some American ostensibly far above them.





CHAPTER III


Meanwhile my fellow enumerators were reporting troubles "in the
bush." I heard particularly those of two of the Marines, "Mac" and
Renson, merry, good-natured, earnest-by-spurts, even modest
fellows quite different from what I had hitherto pictured as an
enlisted man.

"Mac" was a half and half of Scotch and Italian. Naturally he was
constantly effervescing, both verbally and temperamentally, his
snapping black eyes were never still, life played across his
excitable, sunny boyish face like cloud shadows on a mountain
landscape, whoever would speak to him at any length must catch him