"They ought to have as foreman one of those husky, bull-necked fellows I've seen in some of the section gangs laying out a railroad in the Northwest," went on Bert. "Those fellows are 'steam engines in breeches.' There isn't much loafing or lying down on the job when they're around. When they speak, the men jump as though they were shot."
"Yes," answered Tom, "or perhaps a mate on a Mississippi steamboat would fill the bill. Those colored roustabouts certainly get a move on when they feel his gimlet eye boring through them."
"After all, I suppose the climate is a good deal to blame," mused Bert. "It's hard to show much ginger when you feel as though you were working in a Turkish bath."
"Right you are," responded Tom. "We fellows born and bred in a cold climate don't realize how lucky we are. It's the fight with old mother nature that brings out all that's strong and tough in a man. I guess if the old Pilgrim Fathers had landed at Vera Cruz instead of on the 'stern and rock-bound coast' of New England they'd have become lotus eaters too."
"Well, that's what we're getting to be already," said Bert with a yawn, "and if I lie here much longer I'll strike my roots into the bank."
"Sure enough," assented Tom, "here we are talking about the laziness of these fellows, but I don't see that we're wearing any medals for energy."
"Energy," drawled Bert. "Where have I heard that word before. It sounds familiar, but I wouldn't recognize it if I saw it. I don't believe there is any such thing south of the Rio Grande."
"Come, wake up," retorted Tom. "Get out of your trance. I'll tell you what I'll do. Do you see that tree up there? I'll race you to it. That is, if you give me a handicap."
"Done," said Bert, who could never resist a challenge. "How much do you want?"
"How about a hundred feet? That oughtn't to be too much for a Marathon winner to give a dub like me."