Spirit Pouch by Stanford Vaterlaus Page B

around here, and this street goes right past the brick yard.” [18]
    “So, are we almost there?” I quiz, trying not to sound like an impatient child on a long trip.”
    “Yes, but we need to hurry so we are not late.  Mr. Roworth likes us to be punctual.”
    “He sounds like Old Mrs. Harris,” I say glancing at my Casio.  “It’s two minutes to seven.”  I step up my pace as much as my bare feet will allow.
    “There’s the brickyard,” William says, as we come over a small rise.  He points to a group of men standing in a bare field about two blocks away.
    “That’s the brickyard?” I ask, with a little disappointment in my voice.  I am not sure exactly what I am expecting.  I guess in my mind I have imagined an area with a wall or a fence, and maybe a front gate with a brick archway over it with the company name welded in wrought iron.  I suppose a sales office and a couple of forklifts to move pallets of brick would have completed the picture.  But a flat field with a hole in the ground does not seem to meet my expectations.
    “Yep, that’s the brickyard,” William says.  “Come on.  I’ll introduce you to Mr. Roworth.”
    “You’re late, William,” Mr. Roworth states, snapping closed the cover of his pocket watch and letting it slide back down into his vest pocket.
    “Yes, sir,” William answers with humility.  “But I brought a friend who can work, that is if you are in need of a hard working boy.”
    Mr. Roworth turns to look at me and our eyes meet.  Then he looks me over as though he is about to make a purchase and does not want to get stuck with a lemon.  When his eyes reach my stocking feet he frowns, “Where are your boots, son?”
    “I don’t have any, sir,” I answer, trying to show respect.  I have never called anyone ‘sir’ in my life, but it sounds good now, considering that Mr. Roworth is the boss and I want to work.
    “Then I’m sorry, but …”
    “That’s why I’m here, sir,” I interrupt quickly.  “I will work hard and with my first pay I intend to buy shoes … ah … boots.”
    Mr. Roworth takes a deep breath and cocks his head to the side as he looks me over one more time.
    “You’ll have to work with Jack in the pit,” he finally says.
    “The pit, sir?”  I have no idea what the pit is, but it sounds bad.
    “No one said it would be glamorous,” he replies frowning.  “Starting pay is one dollar and fifty cents per day if you are a hard worker.”
    “Yes, sir,” I say working up a smile, but already dreading the unknown pit.
    Mr. Roworth raises an eyebrow and points across the field.  “The pit is that way.  Tell Jack that you are new, and that he is supposed to show you what to do.”
    I obediently set out across the field in the direction indicated by Mr. Roworth’s finger, stepping mostly on grass clumps where I can.  I only have to walk a couple of minutes before I come upon the pit, but it is enough time to consider that one dollar and fifty cents isn’t much for a day’s work.  In fact, it is a long way from minimum wage.  Maybe there is no minimum wage in Colorado, I think.  Or maybe minimum wage doesn’t apply to starting pay.
    It is not much of a pit.  I have seen sand and gravel pits in Tucson and usually that means a huge, bare hole in the ground, with maybe a front end loader sitting in the bottom with a dump truck, several piles of sand, gravel, and rock that had been sifted or crushed to a specific size.  What I come upon here is more like a small depression in the center of a large area that has been cleared of all grass and topsoil.  In the center is the pit, basically a mud hole.
    “Are you Jack?” I call to the young man standing near the pit.  He has mud up to his knees and elbows and is holding a shovel.  I can only see a wisp of sand colored, or maybe it is mud colored, hair poking out from under his tattered straw hat.
    “Yeah,” he says looking up at me.  “But if Mr. Roworth sent you over