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Show 22 Clyde gently set the peaked cap on Jame's chest. "And here's the two dinner pails. You can hang them over the cart handles." "I'll say a Hail Mary that you make it home," Big John called back as he hurried into the mill. "We'll need more than a Hail Mary," Karl muttered. He took the handles of the hand cart and began to pull it, walking backward across the mill yard, straining under the burden of Jame's weight. Jame's head was at the top of the cart, nearest the handles; his back lay flat against the bed of the cart; his legs dangled over the edge. The heels of Jame's work shoes scraped wavy furrows that crisscrossed the wheel tracks in the grit of the mill yard. The macadamed yard was level; when they came to the end of it, Karl tried to figure how he could ever pull all that weight up the unpaved incline to the bridge. He noticed four little black boys, the oldest about twelve, picking up bits of coal that had dropped along the railroad tracks. All of them were thin and barefoot, but they were the only persons in sight, and Karl needed help. "Hey, you guys, come give me a hand, will you?" he called. The boys straightened, spreading hands above their eyes to see better in the bright sunlight. They dropped their burlap sack beside the track and moved toward Karl, giggling at the sight of Jame. "You fellows push the bottom of the cart there, and I'll pull," Karl told them. "I've got to get up to the bridge." The four boys pushed against the cart, laughing as though it was the funniest job they'd ever been asked to do. "How much you gonna pay us, boss?" the oldest wanted to know. |
