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.”