F the vast number of men employed on the Isthmus in an official way, no men have quite as much to endure as the District Quartermasters. They are the men who keep their hands on the pulse of things. They know what’s what and who’s who, regardless of the fact that the grandson of a Chief Justice of the United States takes second place in precedence to some horny-handed immigrant who, a few years ago, landed at Ellis Island. If you want to see human nature in its most primitive and unadorned vulgarity, just take a look in at the District Quartermaster’s office any morning, or take a back seat and look on. Mrs. Jones has three children and she would like to move away from House 642 into the house across the way, because Mrs. Rickey has an affinity and she doesn’t want that example for her children.
“The house across from you is assigned,” says the Quartermaster.
“But what difference is that? The people that you gave it to can get assigned to ours,” Mrs. Jones answers.
“We can’t do that now,” says the Q. M. “The people wouldn’t like it.”
“All right. I’ll see the Colonel.”
So Mrs. Jones goes out, and in comes Mr. Smith. You can tell that he is important, for his trappings are the most up-to-date mode, a la Canal Zone. He wants to move into class quarters. His salary is two dollars and eighty cents more than Higam’s, and Mrs. Higam laughed at Mrs. Smith this morning and said, as she rolled her eyes, “You’re not moving, I see.”
“That woman ain’t goin’ to lord it over my wife, let me tell you. I’m sick to death of this business of favoritism, an’ my wife’ll have it fixed up this afternoon,” says Smith. After which speech he goes out, caressing that mounted shark’s tooth.
The Quartermaster sighs and looks resigned.
Now comes in a sunbeam of radiance, dressed in coolie lace and all the other coolie adornment. The Quartermaster looks attentive.
“Prout,” she begins, exactly in a Mrs. Princely Belmont tone, “I want my kitchen painted. To-morrow morning they will start working at it.”