Except for the chaos of nationalities and types on the Zone, enumerating would have become more than monotonous.  But the enumerated took care to break the monotony.  There was the wealth of nomenclature for instance.  What more striking than a shining-black waiter strutting proudly about under the name of Levi McCarthy?  There was no necessity of asking Beresford Plantaganet if he were a British subject.  Naturally the mother of Hazarmaneth Cumberbath Smith, baptized that very week, had to claw out the family Bible from among the bed-clothes and look up the name on the fly-leaf.

To the enumerator, who must set down concise and exact answers to each of his questions, fifty or sixty daily scenes and replies something like these were delightful;

Enumerator (sitting down on the edge of a barrel):  “How many living in this room?”

Explosive laughter from the buxom, jet-black woman addressed.

Enumerator (on a venture):  “What’s the man’s name?”

“He name ’Rasmus Iggleston.”

“What’s his metal-check number?”

“Lard, mahster, ah don’ know he check number.”

“Haven’t you a commissary-book with it in?”

“Lard no, mah love, commissary-book him feeneesh already befo’ las’ week.”

“Is he a Jamaican?”

“No, him a Mont-rat, mahster.” (Monsterratian.)

“What color is he?”

“Te!  He!  Wha’ fo’ yo as’ all dem questions, mahster?”

“For instance.”

“Oh, him jes’ a pitch darker’n me.”

“How old is he?”

(Loud laughter) “Law’, ah don’ know how ol’ him are!”

“Well, about how old?”

“Oh, him a ripe man, mah love, him a prime man.”

“Is he older than you?”

“Oh, yes, him older ’n me.”

“And how old are you?”

“Te!  He!  ‘Deed ah don’ know how ol’ ah is; ah gone los’ mah age paper.”

“Is he married?”

(Quickly and with very grave face) “Oh, yes indeed, mahster, Ah his sure ’nough wife.”

“Can he read?”

(Hesitatingly) “Er—­a leetle, sir, not too much, sir.” (Which generally means he can spell out a few words of one syllable and make some sort of mark representing his name.)

“What kind of work does he do?”

(Haughtily) “Him employed by de I. C. C.”

“Yes, naturally.  But what kind of work does he do.  Is he a laborer?”

(Quickly and very impressively) “Laborer!  Oh, no, mah sweet mahster, he jes’ shovel away de dirt befo’ de steam shovel.”

“All right.  That ’ll do for ’Rasmus.  Now your name?”

“Mah name Mistress Jane Iggleston.”

“How long have you lived on the Canal Zone?”

“Oh, not too long, mah love.”

“Since when have you lived in this house?”

“Oh, we don’ come to dis house too long, sah.”

“Can you read and write?”

“No, ah don’ stay in Jamaica.  Ah come to Panama when ah small.”