containing those gun for the
guard. You think all boxes is contain gun? No.

"'There is not war in Guatemala. But work? Yes. Good. T'irty dollar
in the month. You shall shoulder one pickaxe, senor, and dig for the
liberty and prosperity of Guatemala. Off to your work. The guard
waits for you.'

"'Little, fat, poodle dog of a brown man,' says I, quiet, but full of
indignations and discomforts, 'things shall happen to you. Maybe not
right away, but as soon as J. Clancy can formulate somethin' in the
way of repartee.'

"The boss of the gang orders us to work. I tramps off with the
Dagoes, and I hears the distinguished patriot and kidnapper laughin'
hearty as we go.

"'Tis a sorrowful fact, for eight weeks I built railroads for that
misbehavin' country. I filibustered twelve hours a day with a heavy
pick and a spade, choppin' away the luxurious landscape that grew
upon the right of way. We worked in swamps that smelled like there
was a leak in the gas mains, trampin' down a fine assortment of the
most expensive hothouse plants and vegetables. The scene was tropical
beyond the wildest imagination of the geography man. The trees was
all sky-scrapers; the underbrush was full of needles and pins;
there was monkeys jumpin' around and crocodiles and pink-tailed
mockin'-birds, and ye stood knee-deep in the rotten water and
grabbled roots for the liberation of Guatemala. Of nights we would
build smudges in camp to discourage the mosquitoes, and sit in the
smoke, with the guards pacin' all around us. There was two hundred
men workin' on the road--mostly Dagoes, nigger-men, Spanish-men and
Swedes. Three or four were Irish.

"One old man named Halloran--a man of Hibernian entitlements and
discretions, explained it to me. He had been workin' on the road a
year. Most of them died in less than six months. He was dried up to
gristle and bone, and shook with chills every third night.

"'When you first come,' says he, 'ye think ye'll leave right away.
But they hold out your first month's pay for your passage over, and
by that time the tropics has its grip on ye. Ye're surrounded by a
ragin' forest full of disreputable beasts--lions and baboons and
anacondas--waitin' to devour ye. The sun strikes ye hard, and melts
the marrow in your bones. Ye get similar to the lettuce-eaters the
poetry-book speaks about. Ye forget the elevated sintiments of life,
such as patriotism, revenge, disturbances of the peace and the dacint
love of a clan