Thropper was eager to take a day off from the glass factory and so was able to take my place at the tables. I had a conference with Brock, relative to the proposed loading of the car of bricks.
“Can you manage it?” he asked dubiously, scanning his eyes doubtfully over my frail physique.
I was in a desperate mood just then, and with an accent in my voice that scorned even the suggestion of any mental, physical, or moral incapacity, I declared,
“Can I?”
Then scanning Brock’s ungeared physique, I asked in turn,
“How about yourself? Seems to me you are a near rival to a centre-pole yourself, Brock!”
He grinned, guiltily.
“I used to exercise with dumb-bells—once upon a time. It is long since. I am afraid that the daily exercise of pressing the button of the call bell hasn’t done well by my muscles.”
“I’ve watched the Portuguese load schooners with bricks many a time,” I affirmed.
“Your experience might help—some,” he declared, “the man who engaged me told me how to place them in the car and all about the number of rows and the count. I’ll be able to manage that part of it. I hope that you and I, Priddy, will be able to succeed with the brick end of it.”