"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.

On the second day I pushed past Cucaracha, scene of the greatest
"slide" in the history of the canal when forty-seven acres went
into the "cut," burying under untold tons of earth and rock steam-
shovels and railroads, "Star" and "trypod" drills, and all else in
sight--except the "rough-necks," who are far too fast on their
feet to be buried against their will. One by one I dragged shovel
gangs away to a distance where my shouting could be heard, one by
one I commanded drillmen to shut off their deafening machines, all
day I dodged switching, snorting trains, clambered by steep rocky
paths, or ladders from one level to another, howling above the
roar of the "cut" the time-worn questions, straining my ear to
catch the answer. Many a negro did not know the meaning of the
word "census," and must have it explained to him in words of one
syllable. Many a time I climbed to some lofty rock ledge lined
with drills and, gesticulating like a semaphore in signal
practice, caught at last the wandering attention of a negro, to
shout sore-throated above the incessant pounding of machines and
the roaring of the Atlantic breeze:

"Hello, boy! Census taken yet?"

A long vacant stare, then at last, perhaps, the answer:

"Oh, yes sah, boss."