prescribed place, and put them down again. He didn’t know what was in the boxes, and he didn’t care. For a while, after the dinner hour, they unloaded a railroad boxcar on a siding next to the loading platforms. For that operation, a thing like a conveyor belt was brought out. It consisted of lengths shaped like ladders, but with very many rungs all close together, and with freely-spinning white metal wheels on all the rungs. Six-foot lengths of these were attached together, on legs, with one end in the boxcar and the other end across the loading platform and inside the building itself. The end in the boxcar was slightly higher, so there was an incline. Cole and three others worked in the boxcar, which was full of cardboard cartons about the size of a beer case. Lift a carton, carry it over to the conveyor, set it down, and give it a shove. With the first shove, and the incline, the carton would roll across the open space between boxcar and building, through the wide doorway, and inside, where someone would take it off and put it on the new stack that was abuilding. Cole worked in the boxcar for nearly three hours, and he liked that part best. He enjoyed pushing the cartons along on their journey into the building.
He hadn’t forgotten to come to work, though the idea of it had frightened him. Between the time he’d left the hotel and the time he reported to work, he stayed close to the tannery. After spending a quarter to check his luggage in the bus depot, he strolled down to the bridge, and leaned on the brick railing there, looking down at the black water for quite a while. Then he walked all around the tannery buildings, trying to get familiar with the surroundings. He wanted to impress the tannery on his memory, and particularly the building where he was supposed to work.
When his watch told him it was five minutes to four, he went into Building 3 and looked at the cards stacked under the time clock. There was one there with his name on it, and he took it out and stood looking at it, musing. There was no one else around the time clock and when he looked up at it he saw why. It was five minutes slow, and said ten minutes to four. It didn’t matter; he struck the card into the slot anyway. The card was punched with the time, and the clock rang a bell. He put the card back where he’d found it, and went over to the cubicle where he’d talked to the fat man, whose name he couldn’t now remember. There was only one name he could remember from all the names he’d come across today, and that was Warren H. McEvoy. He remembered that name, but he couldn’t remember who it was. The Union Steward, or the man in the Finance Office, or somebody else.
The fat man greeted him warmly, and a few minutes later introduced him to Black Jack Flynn. “Cause there’s two Jack Flynns here,” he said. “Black Jack and Little Jack.”
“No relation,” said Black Jack Flynn. He was a huge, muscular man with a smiling face, the kind of man who would drink a lot of beer and shoot darts very well. He was Section Supervisor on the four-to-midnight shift.
Then the work started, and it was hard and pleasurable. Pleasurable both because it forced him to use his body, and because it made no demands on his mind. At seven-thirty, his supper hour came, and while the others opened paper bags or lunch buckets Cole went downtown and had a hamburger and a cup of coffee. That was all he intended to have, but the work had given him an appetite, so he had a piece of apple pie, too. The bill came to sixty-five cents, and he left no tip. On the way back to work he counted his remaining money, and he had three dollars and forty-seven cents.
In a lull after the boxcar had been unloaded, he went to Black Jack Flynn and said, “They tell me I won’t get any money till next Friday.”
“That’s right.”
“I don’t have any money at all. Three dollars, that’s all. How can I get some money, for food and a room?”
“Jesus, buddy, I
He hadn’t forgotten to come to work, though the idea of it had frightened him. Between the time he’d left the hotel and the time he reported to work, he stayed close to the tannery. After spending a quarter to check his luggage in the bus depot, he strolled down to the bridge, and leaned on the brick railing there, looking down at the black water for quite a while. Then he walked all around the tannery buildings, trying to get familiar with the surroundings. He wanted to impress the tannery on his memory, and particularly the building where he was supposed to work.
When his watch told him it was five minutes to four, he went into Building 3 and looked at the cards stacked under the time clock. There was one there with his name on it, and he took it out and stood looking at it, musing. There was no one else around the time clock and when he looked up at it he saw why. It was five minutes slow, and said ten minutes to four. It didn’t matter; he struck the card into the slot anyway. The card was punched with the time, and the clock rang a bell. He put the card back where he’d found it, and went over to the cubicle where he’d talked to the fat man, whose name he couldn’t now remember. There was only one name he could remember from all the names he’d come across today, and that was Warren H. McEvoy. He remembered that name, but he couldn’t remember who it was. The Union Steward, or the man in the Finance Office, or somebody else.
The fat man greeted him warmly, and a few minutes later introduced him to Black Jack Flynn. “Cause there’s two Jack Flynns here,” he said. “Black Jack and Little Jack.”
“No relation,” said Black Jack Flynn. He was a huge, muscular man with a smiling face, the kind of man who would drink a lot of beer and shoot darts very well. He was Section Supervisor on the four-to-midnight shift.
Then the work started, and it was hard and pleasurable. Pleasurable both because it forced him to use his body, and because it made no demands on his mind. At seven-thirty, his supper hour came, and while the others opened paper bags or lunch buckets Cole went downtown and had a hamburger and a cup of coffee. That was all he intended to have, but the work had given him an appetite, so he had a piece of apple pie, too. The bill came to sixty-five cents, and he left no tip. On the way back to work he counted his remaining money, and he had three dollars and forty-seven cents.
In a lull after the boxcar had been unloaded, he went to Black Jack Flynn and said, “They tell me I won’t get any money till next Friday.”
“That’s right.”
“I don’t have any money at all. Three dollars, that’s all. How can I get some money, for food and a room?”
“Jesus, buddy, I
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