Only when the inspection, passing
the gradations of broad or narrow, thick or thin, bony or rounded,
rested finally on the eyes, would the observer have caught again the
caste-mark which stamped these men as belonging to a distinct order,
and separated them essentially from other men in other occupations.
Blue and brown and black and gray these eyes were, but all steady
and clear with the steadiness and clarity that comes to those whose
daily work compels them under penalty to pay close and undeviating
attention to their surroundings. This is true of sailors, hunters,
plainsmen, cowboys, and tugboat captains. It was especially true of
the old-fashioned river-driver, for a misstep, a miscalculation, a
moment's forgetfulness of the sullen forces shifting and changing
about him could mean for him maiming or destruction. So, finally,
to one of an imaginative bent, these eyes, like the "cork boots,"
grew to seem part of the uniform, one of the marks of their caste,
the outward symbol of their calling.
"Blow, you son of a gun!" cried disgustedly one young fellow with a
red bandana, apostrophising the wind. "I wonder if there's ANY side
of this fire that ain't smoky!"
"Keep your hair on, bub," advised a calm and grizzled old-timer.
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