IT is proverbial that the Irish and Scotch will quarrel whenever they happen to cross the path of each other, just as they quarreled at the battle of the Boyne. There is less bloodshed, of course, but a fierce fire of antagonism burns in the breast of each, and words are exchanged that mean nothing beyond the out-pouring of that temperamental lava for which both races are justly renowned. There has been friction many times between the Irish and Scotch on the Isthmus, especially at Balboa, where, according to rumor, two men, bold, brave and strong, are ever “at it.”

In this particular case the Scotchman is forever crossing the border into the territory over which the Irishman holds sway, and vice-versa. The men on the job have no little amusement listening to the faction fight. “Bad luck to him; he’s been dumpin’ his truck right here in me way agin. Go over an’ tell him to have that road cleared or I’ll be after callin’ up Culebra, so I will,” says the Irishman.

“Go back and tell him that I’ll have it cleared the noo if he’ll keep his muts from sassin’ me when I’m talkie’ to ’em for their own good when they put them piles right where I have to go down to the boat,” answers the Scotchman.

It is needless to say that these messages lose nothing while being carried back and forth. Sometimes verbal messages, when repeated, sound something like this:

“Go over an’ tell that fellow not to fash me wi’ his clather, that I’m takin’ no back talk, the noo from the Irish. May the duvvil take ’em!”

The message heatedly flashed back reads this way: “Ah tell him that ’tis only a man of Irish discint that he’s tryin’ to bully, a man that was born under the Stars and Stripes an’ knows no other flag; a man that fought for the government that he’s now workin’ under.”

And the Scotchman wittily replies: “He’d melt like a snowball in heaven if he was fightin’ under some flags.”

“Say! when is it ever goin’ to stop?” ask their respective clans. “You’d ought to see that Irishman’s eyes rollin’ when he was spittin’ fire this morning. And the Scotchman’s hair was standin’ on end an’ he talked some lingo that no one could understand.”

“That was broad Scotch, sir,” puts in an English subject who knows something of the British Isles.

Sometimes they meet face to face, and the scrap is heated and amusing. With their factions ranged behind them trying to suppress their mirth at so much free fun, they jaw each other to their heart’s content.

“What are all them niggers running for?” asked a man a few days ago. “Are they blasting up there?”

“No, there ain’t no blastin up there. The niggers like to take a run down to the dock to hear the jaw, and, say, they’re eatin’ each other up to-day.”

“Say, boss, the Colonel’s car is comin’,” says a trusted African to his Scottish chief.

“Wull, let it come, an’ dinna ye bother me.”

But an observing person can see that the lava ceases to flow as the noise of the wheels reach the ears of the warring ones.

“Get busy, there, ye fellows, an’ move them piles. Don’t ye see that the Colonel’ll be along here in a minute? There he is now.”