incessantly rumbled and screeched dirt-trains full or empty,
halting before the steam-shovels, that shivered and spouted thick
black smoke as they ate away the rocky hills and cast them in
great giant handsful on the train of one-sided flat-cars that
moved forward bit by bit at the flourish of the conductor's yellow
flag. Steam-shovels that seemed human in all except their mammoth
fearless strength tore up the solid rock with snorts of rage and
the panting of industry, now and then flinging some troublesome,
stubborn boulder angrily upon the cars. Yet they could be dainty
as human fingers too, could pick up a railroad spike or push a
rock gently an inch further across the car. 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