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Show although his shirt was so soaked with perspiration that not a dry inch showed. Jame smelled pretty ripe after all his exertion, but Karl realized that he didn't smell like any lily himself. "Watch Dutch Schwenk now," Jame whispered, "and see how fast he falls asleep. Give him two minutes; he'll be snoring like he's sawing logs." Jame reached under the bench for his dinner pail, lifted it up and set it beside him. He raised the lid, feeling inside to pull out the bottom compartment cover -- the enameled dinner pail had three tiers, the lowest one made to hold coffee. Jame's big fist came over the top of the pail holding a pair or scissors. Karl's eyes widened. "Jame, what are you up to?" "Is Dutch Schwenk asleep?" "Looks like it. He's snoring." Jame stood up and aimed a wink at the other men on the crew, who'd gathered in a tight knot, their faces nearly split with grins. Then Jame tiptoed, as much as a man his size could tiptoe, to the bench where Dutch Schwenk dozed. Holding the scissors as carefully as a surgeon, Jame leaned forward and snipped. One side of Schwenk's long mustache fell to the floor, looking like an amputated cat's tail. Karl's breath caught in his throat, blocking a giggle that wanted to escape. Big John Reilly and the three catchers got red in the face trying to keep from laughing out loud so they wouldn't alert Baldy Weitz, who was inspecting the last order of rods. The harder they tried to keep quiet, the more the men sputtered and snorted. Baldy Weitz's head shot up, but Jame had already gone back to the |