Chapter TWO: The Long Boats

Two weeks later, Old Faithful chugged away from the curb in front of the Steele home with the farewells of Sandy’s mother ringing in the ears of both boys.

“Goodbye, Sandy; goodbye, Jerry,” she had cried, waving one hand with a gaiety that was at odds with the tears forming in her eyes. “Be good boys, both of you. And please be careful! Give my love to your father, Sandy.”

“Okay, Mom,” Sandy had shouted back. “And tell Aunt Netty I’ll send her a postcard.”

Mrs. Steele had nodded and brushed a hand across her eyes. Then she waved again. For fully another minute, she stood on the porch steps watching until the freshly painted jalopy piled high with luggage and other belongings at last disappeared around a corner. Then, with a sigh, she went inside to begin packing for her own visit to a widowed sister who lived in northern California.

In the front seat of Old Faithful, meanwhile, there was anything but tears. Both boys wore wide grins on their faces as they rolled down the main street in Valley View, waving and calling cheerfully to friends that they passed. As they neared the bus terminal, they saw Quiz Taylor herding a group of boys into a big station wagon.

“So long, Quiz,” Sandy called. “See you in September.”

Quiz Taylor looked up and his round, bespectacled face broke into an affectionate grin. “So long, boys,” he yelled. “Hope you have an ore-full time.”

Both Jerry and Sandy made wry faces at Quiz’s terrible pun, but then they burst into good-natured laughter and waved again to their stubby friend as Old Faithful sped on down the street.

“He’s something, that Quiz,” Jerry said.

“He sure is,” Sandy said. “I kind of wish he were coming along.”

“Well,” Jerry said slowly, spinning the wheel to make the turn that would take them through the higher part of town lying between them and the highway, “Quiz would be okay if we were going to write a history about ore mines. But _working_ in one? Nosirree!”

“I guess you’re right, Jerry. Give Quiz a week up there and he’d have the whole history of mining memorized, backward and for—”

“Oh, ho,” Jerry said, interrupting. “Do you see what I see?”

Sandy leaned forward. They were passing along Ridge Road, the finest street in town. A hundred yards ahead of them, in front of the March mansion, a big black Cadillac limousine was drawn up to the curb. A uniformed chauffeur held the rear door open while Mr. March got in. Standing on the curb, awaiting his turn, was Stanley Peperdine March.

“Shall we wave to the stinker?” Jerry asked with a grin.

“Might as well,” Sandy said. “No sense in holding a grudge.”

“Okay,” Jerry said, and as Old Faithful came abreast of the shining, expensive March car, he tooted the horn gaily and called out, “Hi-ya, Pepper, old sport.”

“Hi, Pepper,” Sandy yelled, and lifted his hand to wave. But Pepper March had looked up and stiffened when he heard Jerry’s voice. He stared straight at them both with open dislike, and then, as Sandy Steele raised his hand in greeting, Pepper March raised his to his nose and wiggled his fingers at both of them!

There was a silence in the front seat of Old Faithful. At last, it was broken by Jerry James, saying in disgust, “See what I mean, Sandy? You’re too nice to that stinker.”

“Oh, well,” Sandy said. “At least we can look forward to a whole summer without Pepper.”

Then Jerry slipped his jalopy into second gear as they descended the steep ramp leading down to the highway. In a moment, they had reached the broad cement strip and Jerry carefully forced the speedometer up to a point a few miles below the limit. Then he let out a long exultant yell. “Only two thousand miles to go, Sandy!” he shouted above the roar of Old Faithful’s motor.

“Yep,” Sandy said. “Minnesota, here we come!”

What a trip it was, from inland California east and north to the shores of Lake Superior! The boys alternated at the wheel during those glorious five days. They averaged 400 miles a day. For the first time, they got a notion of the grandeur of their country, as Old Faithful whined patiently up the terrific grades of the Rocky Mountains and the boys could see the gigantic peaks rearing grandly in the air.

Then they were rushing down again into the valley of the Great Salt Lake in Utah and through the clean, neat streets of Salt Lake City. After climbing again into Wyoming, they drove across the Bad Lands of South Dakota into Minnesota. It was wonderful, indeed, driving by day, frequently pausing to take in the sights, and sleeping out under the stars.

One night they chose a farmer’s field to spread their sleeping bags in. In the morning, Sandy awoke suddenly. He had dreamed that his mother had come into his bedroom and was smothering him with kisses. “Aw, Mom,” he protested, “cut the kissing.” When he opened his eyes, he saw that he was really being kissed—by a big brown cow who was busily licking his face.

“I guess the cow didn’t like your sleeping on the best eating-grass,” Jerry laughed as they ran from the field and jumped back into Old Faithful.

That was on the morning of the last day, and by that afternoon, they had driven through Duluth and finally come to the Lake Superior port of Two Harbors—not far from the Mesabi pits inland.

When the two of them got their first glimpse of the lake they couldn’t believe their eyes.

“It’s as big as the ocean,” Sandy said in amazement.

“You can’t even see the sides, let alone the other end,” Jerry said. “It sure is different seeing a thing than reading about it in school.”

But they _really_ boggled when they saw the enormous ore docks built out into the water, with the famous “long boats” of the Great Lakes nestled beneath them. The size of the equipment for loading the boats with precious ore was truly unbelievable.

“They’re like skyscrapers lying on their sides,” Sandy said. “Look, look, Jerry! See all those railroad cars up on top of the docks. There must be hundreds of them.”

“Railroad cars! Is that what they are? They look like Tootsie Toys from here.”

“Yes, but how about those ore boats? I never saw ships so long. Look at that big one over there, will you, Jerry? It must be twice as long as a football field.”

Although Sandy was not aware of it, he had come pretty close to hitting a bull’s-eye. Some of the ships, or boats as they call the Great Lakes vessels, actually were 600 feet and more in length, and a football field, as Sandy well knew, is only 300 feet long. Just then, the boys heard a terrific clanking and clanging above them. Looking up, they saw a gigantic crane seize a railroad car as though it truly were a toy, turn it over in the air and let the ore run out of it—like a boy shaking sand from his shoes. The ore dropped down through chutes into the holds of the freighters below.

For a full minute, neither youth could speak. They were too filled with admiration for the vast industry their country had created on the shores of the inland seas, and too full of pride in the achievement.

Then Sandy said, “We’d better go find my father before it gets too dark.”

Jerry nodded and they climbed back into Old Faithful and drove on. At last, when they came to what appeared to be a series of hills filled with puffing and panting steam shovels occupied in slicing deep cuts into the hillside, Jerry stopped the car in front of a sign that said:

Lake Ore Mines, Inc.

“That’s it!” Sandy exclaimed. “That’s where Dad’s doing his testing. Lake Ore Mines. Come on, Jerry, drive through the gate.”

“But, Sandy,” Jerry said in disbelief. “These can’t be mines. I don’t see any mine shafts.”

Sandy grinned. “If you’d paid more attention to Mr. Wilson instead of diagraming football plays you’d know that the Mesabi doesn’t have shafts. There’s so much ore on top of the ground here that they don’t need them. They just skim it off with steam shovels. Strip mining, they call it.” With a sheepish shrug of his broad shoulders, Jerry James let out the clutch and Old Faithful leaped ahead. They drove along a bumpy dirt road, raising clouds of dust. They went for about a mile across a maze of railroad tracks over which the ore cars passed, before they reached a rough wooden shack.

The front door opened and a short, strongly built man stepped out. He had the rolling gait of a sea captain, and from this and the nautical, visored cap that he wore, Sandy guessed that he was a skipper of one of the ore boats. The man stopped and looked at them, and both boys saw that he had a small, flat nose, little brown, close-set eyes and thin, tight lips. He needed a shave, too.

“Pardon me, sir,” Sandy said politely. “But can you direct us to the Government Geologist’s station?”

The man paused and gave them a searching look before he answered. “Back there,” he said, jerking his finger over his shoulder—and walked away.

Jerry and Sandy exchanged glances. Then the shack door opened again. This time, John Steele stepped out—trim and youthful-looking in his leggings and whipcord breeches and open-necked shirt and wearing the campaign hat he’d saved from his days in the U.S. Marines.

“Dad!” Sandy shouted, overjoyed. He almost knocked his friend down in his haste to greet his father.

“Well, well,” John Steele said. “If it isn’t the adventure twins from Valley View, California. How are you, son?” he said, grasping Sandy’s hand. Then he gave Jerry a hearty whack on the arm. “Glad to see you again, Jerry. How was the trip out?”

“Great, sir!” Jerry said with enthusiasm. “I’ll never forget it.”

“That’s the ticket. Do these things while you’re young, boys. Sort of gives you a cushion of memories for your old age.”

John Steele’s face went grave.

“You didn’t get my telegram, did you, Sandy?”

“Telegram, sir?”

“I see you didn’t. Well, boys, buck up—there’s another dose of bad news coming. I’m afraid I won’t be able to get jobs for you.”

“No jobs!” the two youths chorused disbelievingly.

“That’s right. This low-grade ore situation has gotten so bad that ... well, to make a long story short, boys, there’s not as much work around here as there used to be. And that means jobs only for those who really need them.”

Sandy and Jerry stood as though thunderstruck. They felt as though their world had suddenly caved in on them. Neither of them knew what to say, but both felt the same weary, sinking feeling in their stomachs. For a long second, Sandy Steele stared at his father. It had been on the tip of his tongue to argue with him, to say that they could do the job as well as any grown man. But Sandy knew better.

He knew that his father would be angered by any such suggestion. He would remind Sandy that most of the men in the mines were family men with responsibilities. No, Sandy thought, this is just another one of those times where I’ve got to “take it on the chin,” as Dad says.

Taking it on the chin was sort of a Steele family motto. John Steele had no use for whiners or whimperers, boys who complained that their coach didn’t like them or their teacher was unfair. He had always taught his son to be dogged. “It’s the dogged men who get things done, Sandy,” he would say. “Even if most of the world’s applause often goes to the flash-in-the-pan.”

Remembering this, Sandy lifted his chin and tried to grin. “What do we do now, Dad,” he said, “punt?”

Mr. Steele smiled. “That’s the spirit, son,” he said. “Now, listen. The sun will come up tomorrow just as it always does and by then you may be over this little disappointment. So supposing you two walk around the mines a bit while I finish my work, and then we can have dinner and talk things over.”

“Okay, Dad,” Sandy said.

“Sure thing, Mr. Steele,” said Jerry.

Trying to hold their heads higher than they felt like holding them, the two boys turned and strolled off toward the lake shore. As they walked, they hardly heard the rattle-and-bang of the steam shovels digging ever deeper into the hillsides. Nor were they very much aware of the railroad cars that would receive the ore and then go clattering out on the ore docks to fill the holds of the ships. They were too deeply plunged into gloomy thoughts of the long, dull summer that lay ahead of them back home in Valley View.