The Story of Leather Part 3

As he thus philosophized he was following his guide, who now turned down a flight of steep steps into a yard slippery with black mud and deeply rutted by the wheels of heavy wagons. A double track with a row of freight cars flanked the building opposite, and from these cars a group of men were unloading bundles of skins and tossing them on the platform.

The men were dressed in faded jumpers and overalls and some of them wore rubber ap.r.o.ns.

They glanced up an instant as Peter drew near.

"Carmachel," called the man who was showing the way, "this young fellow is to help at unloading and later, the boss says, he is to watch you fellows sort skins. He is a green lad and," added the messenger with a grin of enjoyment at some joke that Peter did not at all comprehend, "his name is Strong."

Carmachel, a grizzled Irishman, looked up--a twinkle in his eye.

"It's Strong he'll have to be if he is to work here," he answered with a chuckle in which the others joined. "I say, young one," he continued kindly, "you're not figuring on unloading skins in those clothes, are you?"

"I was," replied Peter, nodding.

"Well, before you begin, you better have another think. It will be the end of your glad rags. It's truth I'm tellin' you. Step inside the doorway and wriggle yourself into those brown jeans you'll see hangin'

there."

Peter went in.

He took down the jeans from a peg behind the door. The clothes were dirty, sticky with salt, and in them lingered a loathsome aroma of wet hides. Instinctively he shrank from touching them. Then, gritting his teeth, he put them on. This he did more out of appreciation for the rough kindliness of the old Irishman than because he feared to injure his clothes; his father would give him plenty more suits if that one was spoiled.

When he went out on the platform Carmachel eyed him.

"That's more like it," he said. "Now get busy. We want to pull these cars out of the yard by noon. Step lively."

Peter crossed the wet, slippery platform to the car where the other men were working. The skins were folded neatly and tied with stout cord. He lifted the bundle nearest at hand, then dropped it. It was solid, sticky, and damp.

"They're wet!" he exclaimed.

"For certain they're wet!" roared the Irishman with a noisy guffaw.

"You're as green as the skins themselves--greener, for you are not even salted."

The gang on the platform shouted at the joke.

Peter's anger rose, but he struggled to take their chaffing in good part.

"You see, I don't know a thing about all this business," confessed he, frankly. "You fellows who do will have to tell me."

The answer struck the right note with the men.

"How could you be expected to know, sonny?" called a red-faced Swede kindly. "Every boy who comes into the tannery has to learn."

"Pitch a few skins out of the car, lad, while I tell you some things,"

broke in Carmachel. "You are unloading calfskins; that's the only kind we tan at Factory 1. Over at Factory 2 they tan sheepskins, and at Factory 3 cowhides. In each of these factories the skins are treated and prepared for the trade quite differently, as you will learn by and by if you have the chance to go through the other buildings. These calfskins that we are unloading came from the Chicago slaughter-houses, where as soon as they were taken off the animals they were salted; folded with the head, tail, and small parts inside; tied in bales such as you see; and s.h.i.+pped. They are what we call green-salted. We also get green-salted skins from the abattoirs of the city of Paris, and from lots of other places, too. Sometimes, though, skins are salted green and are then dried like those you saw piled up in the shed; those we call dry-salted. They came from Norway, Sweden, and South America. Then we have dry hides which are dried without being salted at all. Remember now--green-salted, dry-salted, and dry."

Peter repeated the terms.

At the same time he did his share in tossing the heavy bales of moist skins to the platform. It was strenuous work. Before an hour was up his back and arms ached with the unaccustomed exercise. Tennis and football were as nothing to this! Still he went on uncomplainingly. His unflagging energy appealed to the men.

"Knock off, lad, and rest a bit," called Carmachel at last. "You're not toughened to this job as we are. It's a precious lame back you'll have to-morrow if you keep at it like this the first time."

Gratefully Peter straightened up and took a long breath. Then he glanced at his hands.

"You'll be losing your gentlemanly white hands, if that's what's worrying you," grinned Carmachel, reading his thoughts with disconcerting keenness.

"Oh, I'm not afraid of my hands," replied Peter, mortified at being detected in such a foolish reflection. "I was just thinking that they are beginning to look the part."

"If you are aiming to work up through the tannery they'll likely look the part more by the time you've got a few coats of lime and blacking on them," was Carmachel's dry response. "Now we'll let the others finish this work. You come inside and you shall have a new job. You've done enough unloading for your first day."

Obediently Peter followed into the shed, where other men were busy cutting the cords from round the skins, looking them over, and tossing some into one pile and some into another.

"These fellows that you see are sorting the calfskins according to their weight," explained Carmachel. "We get them flat--by that I mean that when the bales are made up all sizes and qualities of skins are tied in together. These men put the fine, heavy ones in one pile, the medium weight in another, the light weight in another, the imperfect ones in another, and so on."

"I do not see how they can tell so quickly," said Peter.

"They couldn't if they hadn't done it a good many times before. They are skilled men. Watch them. It does not take them many minutes to determine the value of a skin."

"And what are those other men doing?" Peter questioned, pointing to a group of workmen who were engaged in swiftly cutting off parts of the skins with long knives.

"Oh, they are taking off the heads and other good-for-nothing parts which are sold for glue stock. Nothing is wasted in a tannery, let me tell you! After the skins leave this room they will be sent to the beamhouse, where they will be soaked in water until all the dirt and salt is out of them. Usually this takes from twenty-four to forty-eight hours."

"What's the beamhouse?" was Peter's query.

"The beamhouse? I'll not be telling you. 'Twould be a sin to spoil your first sight of it." Carmachel shook his head. "No, young one, I'll tell you nothing of the beamhouse. You'll find out in time. There's many a pleasant spot awaiting you in this tannery."

A general snicker went around.

Again Peter did not understand.

"Now," declared Carmachel briskly, "you have idled long enough. Take that knife and go to cutting the twine from those bales of skins."

At this task the boy worked faithfully until the noon whistle blew. At its first blast all the men dropped what they were doing and Peter, who did the same, followed them into a washroom, where he scoured his hands with sand soap. Somehow he did not feel as scornful toward his box of lunch as he had when he had tucked it under his arm in the early morning. Instead he made his way out into the vacant field opposite where he saw the men congregating, and sitting down in the shade of one of the factories, lifted the tin cover with keenest antic.i.p.ation. How good it seemed to rest, and how faint he was! He devoured the food hurriedly with the quick greed of hunger. He then glanced about him.

Some boys and men were sauntering with bat and ball out into the open field. Apparently a noontide game was a part of the daily program, for two nines were quickly organized and a match was under way in the twinkling of an eye. The other workmen drew near to watch the play and so did Peter. He wondered how any one could summon energy enough to toss a ball. They couldn't be as tired as he was! The game began. Before it had proceeded beyond the first inning it was obvious that the teams were unevenly matched.

[Ill.u.s.tration: A MATCH WAS UNDER WAY]

"It's the sheepskins against the calfskins--Factory 1 against Factory 2," explained a man at his elbow. "Factory 1 could do 'em if we had a decent pitcher. O'Brien, who is pitching, isn't much even when he's in the best of trim; to-day he happens to have a sprained finger, so he's worse than usual."

Instantly Peter was alert. Wasn't he Factory 1? He forgot his fatigue--forgot everything except how it felt to pitch when one had a sprained finger.

"I can pitch a ball," he ventured modestly.

"Can you then? O'Brien!" bawled the man. "Here's a lad who says he can pitch. Give him a try, won't you?"

Despite aching muscles and tired back Peter suddenly found himself on the diamond with the ball in his hands. It was the first familiar experience that had come to him that day. His blood warmed. He sent a twirler over the plate and was greeted by a roar from the Factory 1 men.

The ball dropped with a smack into the hands of the catcher.

Peter tried another.

He pitched a third.