The Leather Duke

“Fine, Mr. Towner, fine. Best counter sorter we’ve ever had.”

“Glad to hear it. Don’t favor him. Treat him just like anybody else...”

“Sure, Mr. Towner, sure. Thank you, Mr. Towner.”

Mr. Towner smiled pleasantly and walked off. Kessler grabbed up a counter and fumbled it, from sheer nervousness. “That’s Mr. Towner,” he whispered. “The big boss.”

“The guy who owns the works? Democratic, ain’t he?”

“No, Republican.”

Johnny, looking down the line, saw Mr. Towner stopping at one of the benches.

“That’s his son, Elliott,” Kessler whispered hoarsely. “Don’t look at them.”

Johnny picked up a leather counter, squeezed it. “You mean the old boy owns the joint and he makes his son work here?”

“Sure, Mr. Towner did that himself when he was learning the business. Old Harry Towner started the company. When this Mr. Towner — Young Harry — graduated from college, the old man put him here in the factory — a week in every department, to learn how each piece of leather was made. Then he sent him out on the road as a salesman. Now Elliott’s learning the business. We got him this week, next week he goes into the heel department. In three-four weeks he knows the whole business and starts selling.”

Johnny shot a furtive glance down the line of benches. Young Elliott, a handsome young man, was wearing overalls, a tan work shirt and a cotton apron like the other counter sorters. His father was conversing jovially with him.

Johnny exhaled heavily. “Is he really the best counter sorter here?”

Karl Kessler gave him a quick look. “Are you kidding?”

Johnny chuckled. “Oh, like that, huh?”

“Comes in at ten o’clock, takes two hours for lunch. Goes to the club down on Michigan Avenue—”

“In that outfit?”

Kessler grunted. “Takes a half hour to wash and change his clothes. Young Harry wasn’t like that. We used to work eleven hours a day in those days and Harry came in at seven in the morning like everybody else...”

“You were here then?” exclaimed Johnny.

“You kiddin’? I been here thirty-nine years...”

“Johnson said he started to work here thirty-nine years—”

“Yeah, that’s right. He came to work about six months after I did. Just a punk. I broke him in. Used to kick him in the pants...”

“Still do it?”

“Huh? He’s the foreman, now.” Kessler risked a look off to the right, saw that Mr. Towner had left his son’s bench and gone elsewhere. “All right,” he said to Johnny, “you can get to work here, now.” He nodded to Sam Cragg. “You come with me.”

He led Sam down the line to a vacant section of bench, adjoining that of Elliott Towner. Johnny shook his head and picked up a counter. He squeezed it as Karl Kessler had shown him, put it down and squeezed a second counter. Not that the squeezing meant anything to him, but that seemed to be necessary.

Chapter Three

A hiss at Johnny’s left attracted his attention. He turned and saw a white-maned old man with a white walrus mustache glaring at him.

“How you like the yob?” the oldster whispered.

“Fine,” Johnny replied, “just fine.”

“Yah, I bet. No good, place like this, for young people...”

“Oh, I dunno,” Johnny said, easily. “Sounds like a steady job to me. Johnson’s been here thirty-nine years and Kessler says he came here before Johnson—”

“Yah, and you know how much money Johnson gets?”

“Five hundred a week, I guess.”

“He don’t get five hundred a month. Sixty dollars a week he gets and Karl — t’irty-nine years he works here and you know what he makes, now? Forty-four dollars!”

Johnny whistled. “You make it sound pretty bad.”

“No place for young man. Fella like you should start himself a business. That’s where the money is. Lookit the Dook—”

“The Dook?”

“Harry Towner, that’s what they call him, The Leather Dook...”

“Oh, Duke!”

“Sure, Dook. One of the richest men in Chicago. Owns this place, four-five tanneries, stock in six-seven shoe companies, couple office buildings. His father died rich and the Dook he double the money. Few years the young Dook get it all...”

“The lad sortin’ counters, down there?”

“Yah, young punk. Like have him on my ship for a voyage, I teach him few things. Don’t know I’m old sea captain, huh? Yah, sailor all my life, until eight years ago, when they take away my ticket; Now I work in leather factory. ’Nother year or two and they fire me. Maybe I go back to Copenhagen.”

Down the line, Sam Cragg had received his four or five minutes of instruction from Karl Kessler. The moment the assistant foreman left, Sam turned to Elliott Towner.

“What time do they bring the money around?” he demanded.

Elliott Towner looked at him pleasantly. “I don’t think they bring any money around.”

“The pay!”

“I’m sure, I don’t know.”

“You mean you’re not interested,” Sam snapped belligerently. “You’re the boss’s son, you don’t care about your pay. You get your spendin’ money whether you work or not.”

“Oh, I say,” protested young Towner. “That’s a little unfair, isn’t it?”

“Unfair, me eye! I get thirty-two bucks a week; how much do you get?”

“Twenty dollars.”

Sam blinked. “Huh? Who’re you tryin’ to kid?”