“Colonel,” the boys heard Mr. Mainwaring say, after a few minutes’ grave conversation, “I wish to introduce to you my son Fred and his three chums,—all, as you see, Boy Scouts.”
Tubby hastened to chuck his empty cocoanut shell off the top of the dam as he saw that a social ceremony was going forward. The shell lit on a negro’s skull far below and bounded off with a loud crack.
“Mah goodness, dem musquitoes is wusser dan ebber to-day,” the negro remarked to the man shoveling at his side, which would have made Tubby laugh if he had heard it.
After a few kind words to the chums, the military-looking man passed on, stopping every now and then to examine the work with every appearance of minutest care.
“Wonder what kind of a boss he is?” remarked Tubby nonchalantly after he had passed on. “Steam shovel boss, concrete boss, dynamite boss, engineering boss or surveying boss,—there are other kinds but I forget ’em.”
“Why, you chump,” roared Fred, “don’t you know who that was?”
“I didn’t catch his name,” rejoined Tubby.
“Well, that wasn’t anybody more important than Lieut.-Col. George W. Goethals, chairman of the Isthmian Canal Commission, and known as the ‘man who dug the ditch.’”
“Oh-h-h-h-h-h!” mumbled Tubby, a great light breaking upon him, “I guess I’ll take another cocoanut on that.”
And the fat boy selected a fine specimen from the several that adorned his belt like scalps hanging round an Indian warrior.