Often a tumble-down hovel where three would seem a crowd yielded up more than a dozen inmates, many of whom, being at work, must be looked for later—­the “back-calls” that is the bete-noire of the census enumerator.  West Indians, however, are for the most part well acquainted with the affairs of friends and room-mates, and enrolment of the absent was often possible.  Occasionally I ran into a den of impertinence that must be frowned down, notably a notorious swarming tenement over a lumber-yard.  But on the whole the courtesy of British West Indians, even among themselves, was noteworthy.  Of the two great divisions among them, Barbadians seemed more well-mannered than Jamaicans—­or was it merely more subtle hypocrisy?  Among them all the most unspoiled children of nature appeared to be those from the little island of Nevis.

“You ain’t no American?”

“Yes, ah is.”

“Why, you de bery furst American ah eber see dat was perlite.”

Which spoke badly indeed for the others, that not being one of the virtues I strive particularly to cultivate.

But “perlite” or not, there can be no question of the astounding stupidity of the West Indian rank and file, a stupidity amusing if you are in an amusable mood, unendurable if you neglect to pack your patience among your bag of supplies in the morning.  Tropical patience, too, is at best a frail child.  The dry-season sun rarely even veiled his face, and there were those among the enumerators who complained of the taxing labor of all-day marching up and down streets and stairs and Zone hills beneath it; but to me, fresh from tramping over the mountains of Central America with twenty pounds on my shoulders, this was mere pastime.  Heat had no terrors for the enumerated, however.  Often in the hottest hour of the day I came upon negroes sleeping in tightly closed rooms, the sweat running off them in streams, yet apparently vastly enjoying the situation.

Sunday came and I chose to continue, though virtually all the Zone was on holiday and even “the boss,” after what I found later to be his invariable custom, had broken away from his card-littered dwelling-place on Saturday evening and hurried away to Panama, drawn thither and held till Monday morning—­by some irresistible attraction.  Sunday turns holiday completely on the Zone, even to hours of trains and hotels.  The frequent passengers were packed from southern white end to northern black end with all nations in gladsome garb, bound Panamaward to see the lottery drawing and buy a ticket for the following Sunday, across the Isthmus to breezy Colon, or to one of a hundred varying spots and pastimes.  Others in khaki breeches fresh from the government laundry in Cristobal and the ubiquitous leather leggings of the “Zoner” were off to ride out the day in the jungles; still others set resolutely forth afoot into tropical paths; a dozen or so, gleaned one by one from all the towns along the line were even on their way to church.  Yet with all this scattering there still remained a respectable percentage lounging on the screened verandas in pajamas and kimonas, “Old Timers” of four or five or even six years’ standing who were convinced they had seen and heard, and smelt and tasted all that the Zone or tropical lands have to offer.