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Show of orders in the eight-inch mill, so that rotten foreman Baldy Weitz is making us work. I could have used a day off real bad." "I was supposed to go on a picnic today," Karl told him, "just me and Andy Stulak. We were going to take a lunch to Kennywood Park." "You hang around a lot with that Hunky, don't you?" Karl's step faltered out of rhythm. Andy hated to be called a Hunky. Every Pole, Lithuanian, Czech, Slovak and Hungarian in the Monongehela Valley hated the name, but every Irishman, Britisher, Scot and German called the Central European immigrants Hunkies. If anyone else had said it, Karl would have told him off, but he knew Jame hadn't used the word in malice. Jame was big, brash, and sometimes wild, but he was too sure of himself to need to demean anyone. The way Jame's big teeth gleamed from his bold grin, the way he wore his cap on the back of his head, tilted sideways, the way he rolled up his sleeves to show his muscular arms, all proved that Jame knew what a prime physical specimen he was. The Culleys, the Kerners, and the Stulaks lived side by side in houses fronting Chestnut Street, with Pine Alley at the back. Ever since Karl had been old enough to notice the people in the neighborhood, he'd admired Jame Culley as an ideal of manliness, even though Jame was only three years older than Karl. They'd reached Canaan Avenue, which paralleled the Canaan Works of the Carnegie Steel Company. Usually the mill screeched and roared as it gave birth to a million tons of steel a year. On an ordinary |