Repugnant, ugly, the main shops of the D. & R. system sprawl in a mass
of soot-coated buildings, steel rails, gaunt traveling cranes, belching
smokestacks and great piles of metal parts, some red-leaded against the
elements, some crimsoned by the bite of rust. Over all lies dirt and
grease and noise. Huge locomotives lumber about, vomiting clouds of
black smoke and adding the discordance of their whistles and bells to
the din of bellowing blowers, the rumble of cranes and the growl and
mutter of many machines.
On the fringe of the plant is the ash pit. Beneath great slatwork
sections of covering, deep, still waters, capped with restless tongues
of vapor, brood. There was a time when the pit lay uncovered, but at
night men blundered out of the darkness and vanished, to be hauled forth
days later by Juan Mendoza and his great clamshell bucket. So the pit
was covered and the bucket lifts the sections as Juan desires.
Tracks run beside the pit and concrete slides catch the smoking contents
of the locomotive ash cans and guide them, hissing and plopping, down
into the deadening waters.
High in the air over the pit Juan Mendoza sits in a little traveling
cage and, from midnight until eight in the morning, guides the great
clamshell bucket as it scoops the ashes from the bottom and deposits
them in the waiting cars. A short, slight young fellow, Juan,
mild-mannered, quiet and shy; his features the olive tint of the Latin;
his English softly slurred at times. Friendly is Juan, too, and kind.
It was that strain in him which made him stop one night when he fancied
that he heard a sound of distress. The hour was near midnight, and he
was on his way to work, walking between dark, brooding lines of freight
cars in the upper yard. The sound he heard was faint, made even more so
by the crunch of his feet on the cinders and the distant noise of a yard
engine shifting some cars. But there was a quality about it that touched
him, and he stopped and listened intently.
In a moment the sound came again, a plaintive whimper, muffled, elusive
as to its whereabouts.
Juan stood irresolute. He had no time to spare, and excuses counted for
little after the midnight whistle blew. While he hesitated the whimper
came again. It was too much for the gentle soul of Juan. He
investigated.
The sound seemed to come from the next line of cars over. He gripped his
bag of lunch between his teeth and clambered over the couplings between
two cars; and by dint of listening and searching he came to its source.
It was the door of an empty freight car, jarred open an inch or so.
When his crunching steps halted before the door there was a moment’s
silence. Then, through the crack came a faint, hesitating whimper,
pleading yet doubtful. Juan set himself and pushed the door back with a
shriek of rusty hinges. He carried a small pocket flashlight and he
pressed the button and threw the beam into the dark, cavernous interior
of the car.
The light picked out the author of the sounds, a puppy, all feet and
legs and head. But it was not fat and sleek and healthy, as puppies
should be. Its bones stood out starkly, and its gaunt, starved body
spoke of days spent without food and water. A puppy from some far city,
without doubt; an unwanted puppy who had been shut in the car by a
heartless owner and sent away into the unknown.
Juan looked at the starved outcast cowering back in the beam of light,
and clucked in pity. And then he spoke gently. A moment the puppy
listened and then its tail stirred, its body trembled and finally it
crawled toward the glaring eye of light and the friendly voice that came
from behind. When it came within reach, Juan set his bag of lunch on the
car floor and gathered the small bundle of skin and bones to him.
The puppy whimpered with content; the last of its fear fled and it
lifted its head and licked him on the cheek.
Because he was late, Juan did not tarry on the spot. He placed the puppy
in the crook of his left arm and picked up his bag of lunch with his
right hand. As he hastened on toward the shops he made shift to open the
bag of lunch and break off bits of sandwiches and give them to the
starved one.
By the time Juan had gotten his time card and made his way through the
shops to the ash pit, his heart was lost to the snuggling bundle which
nestled in the crook of his arm. And the puppy pushed its nose deep
between his arm and side and breathed slowly with pure contentment.
* * * * *
So they came out of the night, into the smoky area of the ash pit
lights, and then into the brighter glare of the small building which
stood beside the pit. This held the lockers of the pit crews and served
as their general headquarters. Inside the door Juan halted and blinked
for a moment. The puppy took its head from beneath his arm and looked
about with interest.
The members of the twelve-to-eight trick were gathered inside, donning
their work clothes and talking. At the sight of the puppy they stopped
speaking and gave it their undivided attention. One, Thompson by name,
asked—
“Where’d you get him?”
“I found heem,” Juan answered.
“Where?”
“In a freight car.”
“Sort of a hobo dog, eh?”
And the men laughed. Juan set the pup down on the floor and then
straightened up and shook his head.
“No, a poor puppee who had a cruel master,” he said, and then added
comfortably, “But that is past. He is feexed for all right now.”
“Goin’ to keep him?”
Juan nodded.
“What’s his name?”
Juan hesitated, and then a smile came over his face.
“Sammee,” he said. “From thees time on he will be Sammee.”
Sammee looked up at the men with a friendly air. And the men responded
and called to him and whistled and snapped their fingers. One, however
did not. He was Smith, a man who had but lately come to the pit. A
rather short man was Smith, but not slight. His frame was broad and
heavyset and he leaned slightly forward as he walked, suggesting a great
ape. One eye had been gouged out in some brawl, and it gave to his
countenance a malignant cast.
Smith looked at Sammee scornfully with his one eye, blinked the lid
several times over the bloodshot ball and asked:
“Why didn’t you knock him in the head? He’s half dead anyway.”
Juan shrugged and flashed his teeth in a smile.
“He will live,” he said. “And I like heem. He is nice.”
“How nice?” demanded Smith with a sneer. “He’s just a mongrel pooch, not
worth shooting.”
Juan turned his head and looked Sammee over carefully before he
answered—
“Well—I don’ know how nice—just nice.”