IF 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.”

“It was painted last winter,” says the Quartermaster, getting red in the face, and you see that he is stung by the impudent tone of the woman’s voice.

“Well, I want it done again, an’ I don’t want to have to come here another time to talk about it. I’m not used to dirt.”

“You can be as clean as you like, but you can’t get that done again this year.”

“Then I want a married dresser. The one I have is a bachelor one.”

“How is that?” gasps the Quartermaster. “Haven’t you been here two years? Why haven’t you told us before? Melbourne,” he calls, and a shiny black gentleman appears promptly. “Why hasn’t this lady been given a married dresser, when single ones are so scarce? She says she has only a single one. Didn’t I tell you last week to round up all the single dressers and give the married folks married ones?”

“She didn’t have room for the married one, so she said, sir,” said Melbourne. “She’s got three that she brought from the States with her, an’ she said she is tryin’ to sell ’em.”

“Take a married dresser to that lady’s house to-morrow morning at 8 o’clock. Good morning, madam.”

“I want a new garbage can, a larger ice chest and two old rockers taken away and new ones put in their place.”

“It will be impossible to make all those changes, madam. You will have to keep the rockers until later. We are short on rockers.”

“Short on rockers?” echoes the coolie-clad lady, “and you gave that thing next door two rockers, but I’m of better family than she is, and I have to go without rockers.”

“Her rockers were broken,” says the Q. M.

“You’re a liar,” says the coolie-clad lady.

At this the Quartermaster makes a hasty retreat and the coolie-clad lady leaves to take the next train to Culebra.

Next comes a quiet little lady with a soft voice and engaging manners, who says that she would like to move into the pretty cottage across the street from her house. The Quartermaster has vanished with a hurt heart, and his assistant has taken his place, with a keen edge on for business for crisp females. “What’s the trouble?” he asks, with a terrifying squint in his eye.

“Oh, my gracious! It will be impossible for me to live in the house with my neighbors.”

“Why, what’s the matter with ’em?”

“They are simply impossible. I cannot endure them. The woman hangs her clothes on the front porch to dry, and I feel horribly ashamed whenever my friends come; and it is extremely disagreeable to walk in and out under them.”

“Well,” says the assistant, “the lady must hang her clothes where they’ll dry. Is that all?”

“The woman is horribly insulting, and refers to me as Mrs. Penpusher. I shall have to move into the little cottage, I fear.”

“That’s a good, cool house that you’re in, and them people are first class.”

“Oh, you are mistaken; they are Swedish peasants. It is a mistake that we were ever put into the house with such people. My husband’s father is a Supreme Court Judge.”

“That don’t cut no ice down here; if he was the son of the Colonel himself he couldn’t get them quarters with his salary. Why, them is $225 quarters, and your husband is only a penpusher, like myself, an’ only gettin’ $100 per, with a small ice chest an’ wooden-seated chairs in the dinin’ room. The quarters you’re after is class quarters.”

“What class, for pity sake?” asks the lady.

“Class of Canal Zone, of course,” grinned the assistant, “an’ that’s sayin’ something. Ferinstance, the people you’re tryin’ to get away from are class, with a big C. He gits $250 per, an’ he ought to have that house to himself, anyway.”

The little woman, struggling to keep back her tears, left the place, after having bowed gracefully to the assistant.

“There,” said that gentleman, “that’s what I call the cream de la cream of gentility, an’ she’s stuck in a house with a bunch of rough devils that ain’t got no use for her. Say, ain’t this class quarter business the limit, though? That lady is a graduate of Vasser College, an’ the one she’s in with is a squarehead. She used to be a porteress in a Kansas City hotel. She has a voice on her like the sound of the drunk special, and when she wants anything she cusses us out for fair. I have her measured to an inch, and I sure feel sorry for that little lady that just went out. But what can we do?”

Now, there enters class, if there ever was class in this world. A woman clad in old rose satin, over which is draped black Spanish lace. Her hat and accessories are perfect. She is the wife of a carpenter and is about fifty years old. She tells in a calm, even voice that she wishes to move into class quarters, and that a woman whom she knows and likes wants the same house. They have decided to see the Quartermaster, and, as one is as much entitled to the house as the other, they’ll leave it to the Quartermaster to decide.

“He ain’t goin’ to decide any more things to-day; he’s fed up on quarters. I guess you folks had better go to Culebra. Where’s the other one?”

“She’s coming now,” said the woman, whereupon there burst upon our vision the most Juno-like woman that we had ever seen. Tall and stately was she, with a figure that ’ud put Lillian Russell in the shade, with a pair of eyes that were not made for the good of the souls of Quartermasters’ assistants, either.

“I mean to get that house,” said she, smiling, and showing a set of beautiful white teeth. “My husband was on the Isthmus seven days before hers,” said the Juno.

“He was not!” said the lace and roses.

“I know better!” said Juno, hotly. “There’s only two of you, and a Type 14 house is good enough for you; but we have got to have a larger one, because our family is larger.”

“Well, there, don’t fight about it,” said the Quartermaster’s assistant. “Go to Culebra, and it’ll be settled all right by the Colonel.”

“That’s what I’m going to do,” said Juno. “This ain’t no place to get justice.”

“Well, you will have to hurry,” said the assistant, looking at his watch. “Better run now; the train is coming.”

Both women ran, and snarled at each other as they reached the street.

“The tall one’ll get the house, if I know human nature,” said the assistant. “And, say! ain’t she the grandest thing that ever came down the pike!”

The Quartermaster came in, flustered, and said, as he dropped into his chair, “Those damned class quarters will be the death of us all. Branigan, you’ll have to stay here to-morrow and face the bunch. I’m all in.”

* * *

Q. M. Branigan was luxuriously smoking what, from its aroma, might be called a good cigar; his office chair was tilted backward and his neat white canvas shoes were resting on the orderly desk. He wore a flaring red necktie, and that was the only note not in harmony with the peace prevailing in that calm, cool emporium. A look over his shoulder revealed the fact that he was reading “Barrack Room Ballads.” It was twenty minutes before the time for opening. But a timid knock on the door, which was repeated many times, caused Mr. Branigan to frown and call out in a rather gruff tone, “What do you want?”

“To come in, of course,” said a sweet voice through the keyhole. At this, Q. M. B. dropped the book and sprang to his feet, saying as he did so, with the sweetest smile imaginable, “Say, ’tis her, all right, and this is where I get it put all over me for fair.” He smoothed his hair, pulled down his cuffs and, straightening his necktie, he hastily brushed the wrinkles out of his trousers. Then, and not until then, did he open the door. The audience felt a bit flustered, too, for who could enter that office but the Juno?

“Good morning,” said she, with a merry flash of her fine eyes and a brilliant smile.

“Good morning,” said Q. M. B. with a short cough.

“Did they telephone from Culebra that I was to be moved to-day?”

“Yes, indeed,” said Q. M. B. “They telephoned that I was to put you into the most comfortable quarters in town.”

“Class quarters, I suppose?”

“Well, no; ’er not now, but later you’ll get ’em all right, if I’m on the job.”

“But at Culebra they said I was to get them,” stormed the Juno, getting very red in the face.

“Well, there, don’t go to gettin’ fussy about it. You ain’t the only one that’s got to put up with a house that ain’t good enough; but, I’ll tell you what: you won’t have to go without it long, for I’ll see to that.”

“Oh, shucks!” said the Juno disgustedly, “you’re a big bluff, that’s what you are.”

“My Gawd! I’m a bluff, am I?” exclaimed Q. M. Branigan, getting red in the face. “Well, say, the way I’ve worked for you about that class house is a caution.”

“You can’t bluff me; I’m on to you,” answered the Juno, drawing on her gloves.