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 shipped. 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.