Chapter 5
The New Clean-out Boy
Emil Wadalski, yard foreman, placed a thumb and ring finger to his lips and gave out a piercing whistle. Every worker in the yard looked his way.
“Tor Loken!” he shouted. “C’mere! Make haste!”
“Yessir,” shouted Tor, running full speed to the foreman.
Wadalski leaned his shovel against the wall and waved off the coal chute tender who let go of the chains and stood by. The teamster held his wagon steady. Foreman Wadalski pulled on the short chain to position the chute, then gave a sharp tug on the long chain. As a half-ton of coal dropped into the wagon, black dust billowed up, filling the air. He then directed the chute toward the rear of the wagon and dropped another half-ton of coal. Tor pulled his shirt up over his mouth and nose.
“See dat, boy?” Wadalski said. “Dat’s how it should verk. And it does, mosta time. But, once in blue moon, da chute she jams up. Ven dat happens, only fix iss boy shinnyin’ up da chute and clearin’ da jam. Dat’s vy you iss here. Tink you can do dat, boy? Tink you can shinny up to da toppa dat chute?”
Tor looked up. Twenty feet from bottom to top and many tons of coal resting above, waiting to fall, able to crush anything in its way.
“I asked you question, boy! Can you climb up dere?”
“Yessir, I believe I can. But what if the chute opens?”
“You don’t need virry. Once you up dere, your job iss only to clear out coal stuck in gate. Da gate von’t open by self. It takes pull on chain. Ain't nobody pullin’ chain till you clear outa da vay. See? Now give it try. You climb up chute. You touch gate. I hold steady.”
Tor took off his dust-covered shirt and shoes. He hopped into the wagon, ducked under the open chute and entered headfirst, pressing his hands and bare feet against one side of the chute and his back against the other. He climbed the twenty feet to the top in less than a minute, touched the gate and slid back down again, dropping out of the bottom.
“Vaht’s a matta, boy?” said the foreman. “Couldn’t make it? Iss too much fer ya?”
“No, Sir,” replied Tor as he reached for his shirt and shoes. “I got to the top, touched the gate, and slid down again, Sir.”
“Ya? Vel den, I’d say ve have new clean-out boy. You listen for my vistle, boy. Ven you hear it, come a-runnin’. You’ll be helpin’ ta keep da line movin’ and da coal delivered on time.”
In the horse barn, Tor found a washtub, set his shoes and shirt aside, and filled the tub half full from a hydrant near the stalls. He stepped into the ice-cold water, scrubbing at the stubborn black of the coal before drying off, using a horse blanket for a towel.
Tor crossed the yard, climbed the stairway, and returned to his room. With shirt and pants hanging on the wall pegs, he wrapped himself in his blanket. He sat on the bed wondering about his new life. Sure, the LaSalle Street Boys’ Orphanage was not where he wanted to stay. The boys worked from dawn to dusk every day. The food was always the same and never very good. Here, at the coal yard, he had his own room but no friends. Here he had an important job to do. Was it too dangerous? And what happened to the last boy? Why were Big Jake, Foreman Wadalski, and Mr. DeWilde not willing to speak of him?
With the sounds of horse-drawn wagons moving through the coal yard in the background, Tor’s thoughts strayed back to New York, to his mother. How excited they had been to be on their way to Wisconsin to join his father who left four years before. He struggled to remember what his father looked like. Although Tor had a few clear recollections, like his deep voice and strong bear hugs, other memories of his father were hazy. He could picture his mother with ease, right down to her long hair, bright smile, and the blue calico dress she wore on the train. But memories of his father had faded.
The roar of coal dropping into a wagon jerked Tor’s thoughts back to Foreman Wadalski. How long would it be before he heard that shrill, piercing whistle of his? And what could, what would it bring?
As time went on, Tor fell into his work routine with ease. Occasionally, Big Jake Riggens would check up on him. One day Jake brought him a new shirt, britches, and leather work-boots.
“Can’t have you lookin’ like you ran away from some Chicago orphanage,” laughed Big Jake as he piled the clothes and boots onto Tor’s outstretched arms. “You take good care of these, Son. They're store-bought. They will have to last you a long while.”
“Yes Sir, Mr. Riggens. Oh, thank you. Thank you! I will keep them neat and clean, Sir.”
“I bet you will, Tor. I believe these will be among the few clean clothes ever found in this dust-laden coal yard. You and me and the clerks and Mr. DeWilde will be the only ones fit to appear in public.” Big Jake laughed as he walked back down the stairs. Tor was eighteen days in his new home and job at the Chicago River Fuel and Dray when he heard the loud whistle from the lips of Foreman Wadalski. Leaning his mop against the wall and moving the bucket out of the way, Tor raced up the stairway, down the hall, and into his room, stripping off his shirt as he ran. Within seconds he was in his old britches and out the door.
Tor dashed across the yard. Three workers and Emil Wadalski surrounded chute number three.
“You need me, Mr. Foreman? Was that whistle for me?”
Wadalski turned, saying, “Ve got jam, boy. Dis iss good chance to earn yer keep. Git up dere and save da day, boy. I steady chute. You clean out good.”
Before the words were out of his foreman’s mouth, Tor Loken was into the bottom of the tube and on his way up. Again he pressed his bare feet and hands against the inside of the cylindrical tube, bracing his back against the wall behind him. He quickly worked his way to the top, finding it blocked by a large chunk of coal. In the blackness above him, he felt for something to grip. A second wedge-shaped piece was tightly trapped between the large piece and the protruding head of a steel bolt. Tor pushed and pulled but nothing moved. As cramped as the space was, he was able to pull out his pocketknife. Tor worked the stub of the broken blade between the two coal pieces. Wiggling it, he noticed a slight movement in the larger piece of coal. Moving the knife with one hand and pulling with the other, he forced both pieces to shift. Then gravity took over. The coal fell, striking him in the face and shoulders. Tor lost his grip and slid down the chute and into the bed of the wagon, coal chunks and dust following him. Wadalski grabbed his arm and pulled him clear just as several more large pieces of coal fell.
“Vell done, boy. Vell done!” shouted Wadalski. “You got jam cleaned out. Ve’re back in business, boys,” he shouted to the teamsters and tenders men. “Da boy saved da day!”
It took Tor a few moments to collect his wits and realize what had happened. He was black from head to toe and had coal dust in his eyes, ears, nose, hair and pockets. Wadalski handed him a rag to wipe his eyes.
Tor turned to leave and then turned back. “My knife,” he shouted. “Where’s my knife?”
Wadalski used his shovel to search. Tor spotted the knife, blade still open, and snatched it up.
“Dere’s knife, boy. Now off mit ya to da horse trough. Youse look like wharf rat at midnight.”
Tor folded in the blade, slid the knife into his pocket, and left. Now he knew what this job was all about and how dangerous it could be. He saw how one pull on the long chain could drop a thousand pounds of coal chunks into a wagon. He knew if the gate opened at the wrong time, he would be dashed twenty feet to the wagon below and buried.
Tor entered the horse barn, filled the washtub, and, grabbing a small chunk of soap he had placed there earlier, began scrubbing up when he heard Big Jake Riggens' voice.
“You all right, Tor?”
“Yes, Sir, Mr. Riggens. I didn’t think I could break the coal free. Next thing you know I’m flat on my back and black as molasses. But I got the jam cleared out, Mr. Riggens.”
“Good for you, Tor. Good for you. Mr. DeWilde will be proud of you boy, and so am I. You told us you’d do your best and, by golly, you held true to your word. Good for you, Tor Loke
n.”
“Mr. Riggens, I would like to know about the boy I replaced. What happened to him?”
Big Jake Riggens was silent.
Tor pressed. “Mr. Riggens?”
“There was an accident, Tor. I will say no more. There was an accident and we needed someone to do his job. We needed someone like you, Tor. That’s why you are here and he is not. That’s all I can say about it. It’s all you need to know.”
Big Jake left the barn. Tor returned to his room to change clothes. He resumed his cleaning chores, hoping not to hear the sound of Foreman Wadalski’s piercing whistle.
Two days later, first thing in the morning, the shrill whistle cut the air. Within two minutes, Tor entered chute number one. As the foreman steadied the chute, Tor reached the top and felt around for the cause of the obstruction. Again several large coal chunks were wedged in tightly and held fast behind a protruding bolt head. All it took was a pull on one chunk and the jam was freed. This time Tor was ready. He protected his face and pushed the black chunks past him to the wagon below. He then slid down and into the blinding sunshine.
“Good virk, Tor,” the Foreman said, handing him the rag. “Now off mit ya, boy. Keep an ear out fer me vistle.”
No more coal jammed in the chutes during in next three weeks. Dry weather came to Chicago and the coal was more cooperative in the lower humidity. Later, after some rainy weather came in, Tor cleared three more jams within two days. This last steamer of coal, he learned, was an inferior quality with many large chunks in each load. He heard the men talking. They said Mr. DeWilde was angry about this and the supplier would suffer for the mistake. Tor had no trouble clearing the jams.
Early one morning, Tor, wearing his freshly washed clothes, waited by the front door to the office with a broom and dustpan in hand. He had a plan.
As Ignatius DeWilde stepped out of his private cab, he said, “Why, Tor, good to see you. I am told you are doing a good job for us, a good job, indeed.”
“Thank you, Sir,” replied Tor. “Sir? I know I’m not supposed to be a bother, but I think I know how to make the loading go better.”
“Better? Well you don’t say! Just how would you go about that, boy?”
“Well, Sir, I’ve been at the top of every one of your loading chutes. Each time, I find the coal chunks are not just jammed up with each other, but they are also getting caught on the heads of the bolts holding the chutes to the collar.”
“Bolts?”
“Yes, Sir. There are six bolt heads sticking out far enough to catch the coal as it goes by. I think I have the answer, Sir.”
“And what might that be?”
“It’s right here, Sir,” he said, pointing to the running board of DeWilde's coach. “See these bolt heads here? These bolts are rounded off so they don’t catch on anything, so you don’t trip or tear the cuffs on your britches. You could put bolts like these in place of the others, and the coal won’t catch as it goes flyin' by. I know it will work, Sir. I’ve been up in those chutes and I’ve seen the coal hung up on those square bolt heads. I just know it will work, Sir.”
“Well, boy, it is good to see you’re trying to improve our system. I’ll tell you what I will do. I will ask our shop foreman to look into it. Maybe it can’t hurt to try out this idea of yours.”
Tor grinned. “I know it’ll help, Sir. I just know it!”
“We will see, boy,” said DeWilde as the coach pulled away.
At the end of the day, Tor noticed workers removing chute number one. He sat at his table, eating his supper, watching the men through the window. Later, in the twilight, he could see the chute being reassembled.
A month later, and after seven jams in the other chutes, Big Jake Riggens said DeWilde ordered all coal chutes fitted with carriage bolts. Tor's idea worked. Chute one had not jammed since being refitted with round-headed bolts. The change would be made on Sunday, the only day of the week when the yard closed. Tor was anxious, hoping the carriage bolts would end the jamming problem and spare him from more trips up those dangerous cylinders.
Saturday afternoon, Tor heard Wadalski’s shrill whistle. He was ready to climb in minutes. Wadalski steadied the chute. Tor climbed to the top.
This jam was different. In the total blackness he could feel two large coal chunks wedged against each other and the bolt heads. Tor worked to loosen them but couldn’t. He reached for his knife, but, in his haste, had left it in his new britches. He probed with his fingers for any handhold on the coal.
“C’mon, boy. Ve need dis chute virkin’,” shouted Wadalski. “Open ’er up, boy.”
“I can’t get a grip. I can’t get hold of it.” Tor scratched and pulled as best he could but couldn’t manage to move the coal.
“Let’s go mit you. Clean ’er out, boy! Vaht’s da matta mit ya? Let’s go!” yelled the foreman.
Tor dug the nails of his left hand into one of the coal pieces, noticing slight movement.
“Tor! Ve got vagons to load! Vat ya doin’ up dere? Let’s go! Clean ’er out, boy! Vat’s takin’ so long?”
Tor slowly loosened the piece. Growing angrier, Wadalski tried shaking the tube from his position on the ground. It shook and swayed, making Tor’s work harder. As the foreman shook, the long gate chain swung out and wrapped around the side of the chute.
One violent shake later, the chain swung around again. Its momentum caused a wave in the chain. The wave rose to the top. Snap, the gate opened just as the jam came free.
Tor felt the force of the coal as the gate hit him in the side of the face. Like a ball from a cannon, he was thrust down the length of the chute. He slammed into the wagon. A load of coal followed, pinning him to the bed. Buried, he tried to breathe. The weight of the coal on his chest would not let him. He heard the sound of a shovel. He tried to move his arms, legs, and head. He couldn’t. Now he heard two shovels as they slashed into the half ton of coal. Closer and closer they came. Tor suddenly felt a sharp pain in his side as a shovel sliced into him.
“Here,” shouted Wadalski. “Dig here.”
By now, four men were frantically clearing away the coal. One reached into the pile near where Wadalski’s shovel struck Tor. He grasped the boy’s arm. Another man found an ankle. Between them, they pulled the boy free. All four workers carried him from the coal pile, laying him on the ground.
“Water. Get some water!” screamed a workman.
Tor gasped for air and spit coal dust onto the ground. He tried to stand but the pain in his side from the shovel wouldn't let him. He looked up at the men who had pulled him out.
“Thank you,” whispered Tor, mustering his loudest voice.
“Don’t talk now,” said one of the workers. “Here, drink some water. Wash that coal dust down.”
Tor took a big gulp of water but didn’t swallow. He spit it out along with coal and coal dust. He closed his eyes as he felt a wet rag wiping his face and neck. Tor then drank a sip of water as the man with the wet rag wiped the cut made by Wadalski’s shovel. Wincing with pain, Tor pulled away.
“Not too deep. Should heal,” he heard someone say.
Sitting up, Tor looked back at the wagon, the scattered pile of coal, and Foreman Wadalski, apparently unconcerned with what had happened. He struggled to his feet, then, feeling the gash in his side, collapsed. Dazed, Tor looked up to see Big Jake Riggins.
“Tor, you all right?”
“Me? Oh, uh, I’ll be fine. I better wash up. Mr. Riggens, one more day and we won’t see another jam. One more day.”
“Sylas, Cal,” said Riggins, “you get the boy over to the barn. We’ll have Doc Williams look him over, get that cut stitched up.”
As the two men helped him cross the yard, Tor looked back to see Big Jake Riggens confront Emil Wadalski. He couldn’t hear the words exchanged, but he could tell Jake was not pleased. As he watched, Wadalski’s shovel suddenly swung toward Riggens. Just as on the boy’s first day in the yard, Big Jake’s club streaked through the air. This time, though, it caug
ht the loading dock foreman solidly across the face. Teeth flew into the air and the shovel fell harmlessly to the ground with a clatter, Wadalski following.
“Calvin, I will wager you a week’s wages we’ll have a new foreman by Monday morning,” said one of the men. “No bet, Sy. No bet.”