“The way the brick loaders do,” I explained, “is to pass them from hand to hand four or five bricks at a time—just like passing ball, you know!”
“Um, um!” nodded Brock. “But what about the sharp ends of the bricks? They cut gashes in soft hands, of course.”
“Oh, we’ll wear thick gloves,” I explained, “something to protect the hands.”
“We should have to wear gloves under any circumstances,” said Brock, “the weather we’re getting is very far from a summer day!”
“Oh, we’ll manage all right,” I affirmed, for the mere thought of a possible dollar and a half in cash set my brain in a whirl of incaution and illogical optimism. In that mood, if the President had offered me his place for a week—for a cash wage—it is doubtful if I should have refused him.
By half-past seven the following Saturday morning, Brock and I, bundled in the oldest garments we had been able to borrow or beg, with quadruple thicknesses of old socks covering our hands, for mittens, and with lunches put up in pasteboard boxes, left the village center, walked down a frozen turnpike, until we came to the lonesome, neglected brickyard with its Egyptian tombs of piled brick, yet unsold. A covered freight car had been left on the rusty siding; the car stood off from the nearest brick-pile separated by a gap of two yards. It was a dreary and very cold prospect, for the north wind surged down over the frozen pastures, and hummed and wailed through the black latticework of an abandoned oil-well on the opposite side of the track.
“Your face is blue to begin with,” mumbled my companion from behind the folds of his cap.
“And your nose would make an excellent danger signal on the rear end of a train,” I retorted. “When my hands get cold, which they are rapidly doing, I’ll warm them over your nose!”
“Better get to work,” suggested Brock, “before we freeze to death in this miserable place. Worth twenty cents an hour for this work, eh?”
“Worth a dollar an hour, I think,” I replied.