The black cab with the gold-lettered doors wound its way through the gloomy streets to the gates of the Chicago River Fuel and Dray. The black, steel gates were wide open as horse-drawn wagons of coal left while empty wagons returned. The horses’ hooves splashed black, muddy water from large puddles in the enclosed yard.
Seeing their employer and his passenger, the teamsters pulled back on their reins and stopped, allowing the DeWilde cab to enter the coal yard.
“Here we are, Tor,” said DeWilde. “This, my boy, is your new home. Right up there are the offices,” he said, pointing to the second floor windows of the huge, brick building. “That is where you will bunk. You and Big Jake Riggens, our security guard, are the only two who have quarters in the plant. Mrs. Ostralder, my office lady, will bring you a dinner each day. There is a canteen one block down the street if you want breakfast, but that is up to you.”
Tor Loken, orphan, and Ignatius DeWilde, coal yard owner, continued into the huge complex.
“Over there is where the coal is unloaded from the railroad cars.” DeWilde pointed again. “Men work all day and all night moving the coal into those tall silos. When one of our wagons pulls up alongside a silo, another worker, the wagon loader, opens the chute and fills the wagon.
“That’s where you come in, Tor. You have two jobs here at Chicago Fuel and Dray. One job is to sweep out the offices, clean the stairs, and such, make the place shine. The other job is to help the wagon loader if his chute gets jammed. You see, Tor, the chutes have to be very narrow in order to control the flow of the coal. Sometimes the coal gets jammed up and the only way to get them working again is to climb inside the chute and jar the jam loose. It should be an easy chore for a strong, smart, wiry boy like you. It is an important task. I know I can count on you to do a good job of it.”
The coach pulled into the carriage house. Sounds of coal dropping into wagons, steel-clad hooves striking wet brick streets, and distant rumblings of neighboring factories could be heard over their footsteps as they climbed the staircase to the second floor office. When they reached the office door, DeWilde stopped and turned, pointing across the coal yard toward dozens of tall, blackened, brick smokestacks in the distance. Some were barely visible through the heavy mix of fog, rain, and smoke. Each chimney spewed a thick column of black smoke that stood out against the steel gray sky.