Beyond the bridge are the Stonepastures, and beyond these the ore bed, the smelting place, and the nutt and bolt factory. The bridge straddles the tracks so that the highroad may traverse the town, and the narrow gauge runs from the gate of Bentley’s Place to the ore bed under the bridge and over the Stonepastures. The tracks are only four miles long, joining the main line at the furnaces.
No townsman ever looked at the sunset, because it went down on the Stonepastures. Every one’s sunset was “over there”; and in the mean hovels that stood out sharply to the town gaze in an evening’s afterglow dwelt men who had the white-lead poison in their hands, or who had been scorched in a blast, or who, trying to preserve themselves in alcohol, had failed.
The men were hungry and chafed, wrenching themselves from sleep of a morning to a dull day, three parts thirst to one of hunger. The children went to school and learned to know their parents’ mistakes, bringing home bitterness instead of bread. The mothers washed rags in rusty water, prayed and played with the children, or picked up scrap-iron for the men to sell.
Accident and sudden death were about as frequent as night and day. A squeeze between two ore cars, or a tendency to slumber on the tracks after a “cosey of arrack” at Grigg’s drinkshop, meant black on some one’s door-handle. But the “blast” was the horror that made the women kiss their men with the fervour of the last parting when they went off to work at the ore bed. The blast was not famous for respect of persons. It rarely killed, but its victims were rarely cured. There was a rocky stretch by the ore bed which young Bentley was having blown out for the town reservoir, and the new iron vein backed against it. Scarcely a blast had been managed without some one being thrown to the earth, mangled with jagged stones—“the throw” the men called them. It might be that some one would fall with the shock and find himself thereafter deaf to everything but the “dumb roaring,” and such a one would die of what the unlettered Methodist preacher said was “eternal injuries.” The very children feared the blast.
There were, however, three things that Soot City loved: Pay-day, Jarlsen, and the cinder flare. At night they would pause in their homeward way from drinkshop or chapel or Jarlsen’s neat sitting room, and look toward the smelting furnace. And as the blaze jumped into the yawning sky they would bless its fierceness, and look at the houses and tracks standing out clearly, saying along with their good-nights and good-byes, “God’s lookin’ at cher, Bill!”
For they named the light from the dumped cinder “The eye of God.”
II.
WEDDING GLOOM.
“Death doesn’t wait for a man to have his laugh out.”—Salt-miners saying.
It is hard for people who have never seen places like Soot City to believe in natures like Emma Butte’s and August Jarlsen’s. In river cities the labouring population may be augmented daily with a load of tramps and paupers who can travel on the river about as cheaply as their own feet can take them. No travel is as cheap as river boating. River fares cost much less than shoes, and no other cities have the shifting masses that the river cities get.
This is not the nature of an inland town whose mine or iron vein is booming. No one leaves it. What is usual with one man may become the common talk of his district, if he be an influence in it. The vice of a member of the town corporation is the sorrow of the county. The men have gained their livelihood at the hands of the town; they nurse their birthplace when its resource is threatened; they work for it. Even as they live by it they die for it.