standing watch at the gate.
Peter stepped up and cleared his throat. The foreman’s amber eyes fixed on him and narrowed, but he didn’t order him out. “What do you want?”
Peter swallowed hard. “Excuse me, sir, but would you have any jobs available?”
“What makes you think we would?” said the foreman. “Have we signs asking for hired hands? Did you see us asking for workers from the street gangs?”
Peter suspected that the answer was “no.” “I could be useful,” he ploughed on. “I can keep your books. I know my way around an office. I can read blueprints!” That was a lie, but he figured he could learn quickly.
The foreman turned away. “I’m sure you have plenty to offer, but so do dozens of people not employed here. Look elsewhere.”
“But —”
“I’m sorry, son.” The foreman didn’t meet his eyes. “These are hard times, but there’s nothing I can do.”
He was about to say something more, when two things happened. A horse-drawn cart laden with timbers drew up to the gate, and the old man caught sight of two slouching boys trying to sneak past. He collared them. “You’re late!”
“There was an accident getting here,” said one.
“My pa needed me at home,” said the other. “He’s sick. Very sick.”
“My ma’s sick, too,” the first boy cut in. “On her deathbed, she is!”
“Don’t try that on me,” the foreman growled. “I’ve seen how you work. You’re never around when there are bricks to be unloaded and your shovels prop up yourchins. You were late three times last week!”
Peter looked from this argument to the cart of timbers. He lined up behind the workers grabbing beams and hauled a heavy piece of wood over his shoulder. Turning carefully, he walked past the foreman without staggering.
“Excuse me,” he said as he passed.
“Sorry,” the foreman began, then stopped short. He stared as Peter shouldered the beam to the growing pile of timbers inside the construction site, dropped his load into place, and helped the worker behind him to unload his beam as well.
“You see that?” The foreman turned on the two sullen boys. “That’s the sort of work we like to see here, not your lallygagging! He’s worth what the pair of you cost. He works here now. You don’t!”
“You can’t fire us!” the first boy shouted.
“Yeah! My ma’s at death’s door!” the second added, before catching himself. “I mean, my pa —”
“Enough!” the foreman yelled. “Go away and do whatever it is you do, except don’t expect to be paid for it!”
The two boys started to protest, but thought better of it. Shooting evil glances at Peter, they stomped away.
Peter unloaded his second timber and went back to the foreman. “Thanks. What else do you need?”
The foreman smiled at him. “Can you lay bricks?”
“I can learn.”
“Good! My name’s Tom Proctor. I’ll pair you up with Smith. Mr. ...”
“McAllister,” said Peter after a moment’s hesitation. “Peter McAllister.”
“Well then, Peter McAllister, let’s get your name on our rolls and see what else you can do.”
He stepped back into the construction site. Peter turned to follow, but stopped when he saw the two boys in the distance. They were talking to a third, taller, sneering boy, his nose in a bandage. Peter recognized him: Rob Cameron.
Peter ducked inside before Rob looked up.
Rosemary added water to the stew and chopped in a peeled carrot. With a sigh, she’d settled into stirring when the back door banged open. Faith entered, hauling Peter over the threshold. The young man grimaced in pain.
“Peter!” She rushed over and helped Faith lower him into a chair.
“I found him staggering home,” said Faith, flexing his arm and peering at his red and raw knuckles. “I think he has strained himself.”
“I told you you’d hurt yourself!” Rosemary slapped Peter across the back of the head.
“Ow!” He glared at her. “I’m all right. It wasn’t so bad.
Peter stepped up and cleared his throat. The foreman’s amber eyes fixed on him and narrowed, but he didn’t order him out. “What do you want?”
Peter swallowed hard. “Excuse me, sir, but would you have any jobs available?”
“What makes you think we would?” said the foreman. “Have we signs asking for hired hands? Did you see us asking for workers from the street gangs?”
Peter suspected that the answer was “no.” “I could be useful,” he ploughed on. “I can keep your books. I know my way around an office. I can read blueprints!” That was a lie, but he figured he could learn quickly.
The foreman turned away. “I’m sure you have plenty to offer, but so do dozens of people not employed here. Look elsewhere.”
“But —”
“I’m sorry, son.” The foreman didn’t meet his eyes. “These are hard times, but there’s nothing I can do.”
He was about to say something more, when two things happened. A horse-drawn cart laden with timbers drew up to the gate, and the old man caught sight of two slouching boys trying to sneak past. He collared them. “You’re late!”
“There was an accident getting here,” said one.
“My pa needed me at home,” said the other. “He’s sick. Very sick.”
“My ma’s sick, too,” the first boy cut in. “On her deathbed, she is!”
“Don’t try that on me,” the foreman growled. “I’ve seen how you work. You’re never around when there are bricks to be unloaded and your shovels prop up yourchins. You were late three times last week!”
Peter looked from this argument to the cart of timbers. He lined up behind the workers grabbing beams and hauled a heavy piece of wood over his shoulder. Turning carefully, he walked past the foreman without staggering.
“Excuse me,” he said as he passed.
“Sorry,” the foreman began, then stopped short. He stared as Peter shouldered the beam to the growing pile of timbers inside the construction site, dropped his load into place, and helped the worker behind him to unload his beam as well.
“You see that?” The foreman turned on the two sullen boys. “That’s the sort of work we like to see here, not your lallygagging! He’s worth what the pair of you cost. He works here now. You don’t!”
“You can’t fire us!” the first boy shouted.
“Yeah! My ma’s at death’s door!” the second added, before catching himself. “I mean, my pa —”
“Enough!” the foreman yelled. “Go away and do whatever it is you do, except don’t expect to be paid for it!”
The two boys started to protest, but thought better of it. Shooting evil glances at Peter, they stomped away.
Peter unloaded his second timber and went back to the foreman. “Thanks. What else do you need?”
The foreman smiled at him. “Can you lay bricks?”
“I can learn.”
“Good! My name’s Tom Proctor. I’ll pair you up with Smith. Mr. ...”
“McAllister,” said Peter after a moment’s hesitation. “Peter McAllister.”
“Well then, Peter McAllister, let’s get your name on our rolls and see what else you can do.”
He stepped back into the construction site. Peter turned to follow, but stopped when he saw the two boys in the distance. They were talking to a third, taller, sneering boy, his nose in a bandage. Peter recognized him: Rob Cameron.
Peter ducked inside before Rob looked up.
Rosemary added water to the stew and chopped in a peeled carrot. With a sigh, she’d settled into stirring when the back door banged open. Faith entered, hauling Peter over the threshold. The young man grimaced in pain.
“Peter!” She rushed over and helped Faith lower him into a chair.
“I found him staggering home,” said Faith, flexing his arm and peering at his red and raw knuckles. “I think he has strained himself.”
“I told you you’d hurt yourself!” Rosemary slapped Peter across the back of the head.
“Ow!” He glared at her. “I’m all right. It wasn’t so bad.
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