The Leather Duke

Chapter Three

A hiss at Johnny’s left attracted his attention. He turned and saw a white-maned old man with a white walrus mustache glaring at him.

“How you like the yob?” the oldster whispered.

“Fine,” Johnny replied, “just fine.”

“Yah, I bet. No good, place like this, for young people...”

“Oh, I dunno,” Johnny said, easily. “Sounds like a steady job to me. Johnson’s been here thirty-nine years and Kessler says he came here before Johnson—”

“Yah, and you know how much money Johnson gets?”

“Five hundred a week, I guess.”

“He don’t get five hundred a month. Sixty dollars a week he gets and Karl — t’irty-nine years he works here and you know what he makes, now? Forty-four dollars!”

Johnny whistled. “You make it sound pretty bad.”

“No place for young man. Fella like you should start himself a business. That’s where the money is. Lookit the Dook—”

“The Dook?”

“Harry Towner, that’s what they call him, The Leather Dook...”

“Oh, Duke!”

“Sure, Dook. One of the richest men in Chicago. Owns this place, four-five tanneries, stock in six-seven shoe companies, couple office buildings. His father died rich and the Dook he double the money. Few years the young Dook get it all...”

“The lad sortin’ counters, down there?”

“Yah, young punk. Like have him on my ship for a voyage, I teach him few things. Don’t know I’m old sea captain, huh? Yah, sailor all my life, until eight years ago, when they take away my ticket; Now I work in leather factory. ’Nother year or two and they fire me. Maybe I go back to Copenhagen.”

Down the line, Sam Cragg had received his four or five minutes of instruction from Karl Kessler. The moment the assistant foreman left, Sam turned to Elliott Towner.

“What time do they bring the money around?” he demanded.

Elliott Towner looked at him pleasantly. “I don’t think they bring any money around.”

“The pay!”

“I’m sure, I don’t know.”

“You mean you’re not interested,” Sam snapped belligerently. “You’re the boss’s son, you don’t care about your pay. You get your spendin’ money whether you work or not.”

“Oh, I say,” protested young Towner. “That’s a little unfair, isn’t it?”

“Unfair, me eye! I get thirty-two bucks a week; how much do you get?”

“Twenty dollars.”

Sam blinked. “Huh? Who’re you tryin’ to kid?”

“That’s all they’re paying me. And that’s all I’ll get until I start out as a salesman. Then I get raised to thirty dollars a week. Plus a small commission.”

“Twenty bucks a week,” snorted Sam. “That wouldn’t pay for your lunches. You eat at your plushy club, don’t you?”

“Yes, I go down now and then. When I’m short of money. Of course I’m allowed to sign the tab at the club.”

“Oh, so it comes out. You don’t have to pay for your lunches. How about your duds? The old man pays your tailor, huh?”

“Naturally.”

“Natcherly!” jeered Sam. “And you claim you’re livin’ on twenty bucks a week.”

Young Towner’s face was pale. “Now, look here, I think I’ve had about enough of that...”

“Oh, you’re going to fire me, eh?”

“Of course not!” snapped Towner. “I can’t fire anybody. I’m not the foreman. I’m a workman here, just like you. Not that I’ve seen you do any work...”

“A stool pigeon, huh? Spyin’ on the workers. Snitch to the old man and get me fired. Beat down the poor workin’ man, keep him starved, then kick him out when he can’t work any more—”

“Is anybody making you work here?” flared Elliott Towner. “Did Johnson blackjack you on the street and make you take this job? You’re a free man. You can quit any time you like.”

Sam opened his mouth to blast Towner, but just then Johnson, the foreman, came into the aisle from between a couple of rows of stacked-up barrels.

“You, Cragg!” he snapped. “You’re a strong man; I’ve got a nice job for you, back here.”

Sam shot a quick glance up the row of benches, saw Johnny Fletcher glaring at him and meekly followed the foreman through the rows of barrels.

Johnson led him to where a big swarthy man was wrestling a packed barrel of counters onto the platform of a portable elevator. “Here, Joe,” he said to the swarthy man, “I’ve brought you a new helper. Let him do the cranking. That’ll keep him out of trouble.” He glowered at Sam and stalked off.

“Jeez,” exclaimed Sam, “what is this — one of those sweat shops you hear about?”

The swarthy man looked furtively about, saw that no one else was within earshot, then said: “Take your time, small pay, small work.” He picked up an iron crank. “Here, you crank her. But no hurry, lots of time.”

Sam, scowling, sized up the elevator. It consisted of a platform just large enough to hold a barrel and a steel frame, some eight feet tall. A steel cable wound up on a drum raised and lowered the platform, but for the raising it was necessary to insert the crank and turn it, until the desired height was reached.

Having set the barrel upon the platform, Joe stepped on himself. “All right,” he said, “turn her over.”

Sam inserted the crank in the proper place, began turning. It wasn’t very hard work — not for Sam Cragg. The barrel weighed only a couple of hundred pounds or so and Joe’s weight brought the total up to about four hundred pounds. Not too much, if you were as strong as Sam Cragg.

The elevator reached the height of three barrels. “Okay,” Joe called down, “put on the brake...”

“Yeah, sure,” said Sam and pulled out the crank.

Only a quick leap backward saved him from a crushed foot, for the moment he pulled out the crank, the elevator platform dropped with a crash. Joe, fortunately, grabbed for the top of the elevator platform and now hung there, groaning and calling upon his saints in Italian.

“Madre mio!” he moaned. “He pull out the crank before he put on the brake.” He let go of his grip and dropped to the floor of the elevator. Sam, seeing that the man was not hurt, stepped forward again.

“Why didn’t you say I had to put the brake on first?” he growled.

“Even a fool would know that,” snarled the Italian.

“Anybody who’s ever been around machinery knows what goes up, comes down, if you don’t use a brake.”

“I’ve never been around machinery,” snapped Sam. “And you ask me, I’d just as soon not be around any now.”

“Then why the hell don’t you quit?”

“My pal won’t let me. I didn’t want to take the job in the first place, but he made me.”

“There’re plenty other jobs these days.”

“I’d just as soon not work at all. I’ve never had to before, not since I was a kid.”

“You’re a rich man, huh?” sneered Joe.

“No,” said Sam, “I ain’t rich, but look...” He suddenly stooped, gripped the barrel that had crashed with the elevator, and hoisted it easily over his head. Stepping forward, he deposited it on top of a stack of three barrels.

“Gawd!” cried Joe. “That barrel weighs over two hundred pounds.”

“To me it ain’t no more’n a bag of peanuts,” boasted Sam. “I’m the strongest man in the world.”

“I wouldn’t be a bit surprised if you were,” conceded Joe in a tone of sudden respect.

“Let’s stop foolin’ around with this machine,” Sam declared. “Just show me where you want the barrels piled and I’ll pile ’em. I ain’t had a good workout in a long time and maybe liftin’ these barrels for an hour’ll do me some good.”

A half hour later, Johnson the foreman came to Johnny Fletcher as he was clumsily trying to put bunches of counters into a barrel.

“That friend of yours,” Johnson said grimly, “is he a circus strong man?”

“We did a few weeks in a circus once, yes, Why...?”

“He’s back there lifting barrels of counters five and six feet up in the air.”

“They only weigh a couple of hundred pounds, don t they?”

“Are you kidding?”

“No, Sam’s the strongest man in the world.”

“That’s what he told me a few minutes ago. But—”

He broke off, for a sudden scream of horror rose above the noise of the thumping and pounding machines. It came from the direction of the stacks of barrels, where Sam was working. Johnny dropped a bunch of counters and rushed for the aisle leading to the rear of the barrels.

He hurtled through, reached a darkened area beyond. “Sam!” he cried. “Sam are you all right?”

“Yeah, Johnny,” came Sam’s reply. “But come over here...”

Sam bounced out from behind a stack of barrels some twenty feet away. Johnny rushed to him and collided with a shaking, swarthy man, Joe, who was staggering out of the aisle.

“His... his throat’s cut,” babbled Joe.

Johnny shoved the man aside, stepped into the narrow aisle between two rows of barrels. Halfway down, a stack of barrels had been removed and there in the narrow space, slumped down in a sitting posture, was a dead man.