We fixed some stout planks into a run-way between the top of a brick-pile and the freight car, after the door had been unbarred. We found a shallow and creaky barrow under a shed. After helping me fill it with the first load, Brock tried to wheel into the car what we had put in. He gained the edge of the plank, and the ill-balanced load dumped over on the ground. “We put in too many, to begin with,” suggested Brock. “Next time we’ll reduce the load by half. I forgot they were so heavy. I was too ambitious.” The next load went across the planks successfully, and after they had been dumped on the floor of the car, Brock said, “I’ll pack these in the car the way the man told me, and then when the load is properly started, we can take turns with the barrow.” At first it was exciting and warm work, but after the first warm glow had died down in the blood, my body began to stiffen with the exposure. Then my muscles, ill-treated by excessive and continuous lifting of the loads, began to tighten and shoot with pain. But at first, I did not care to let Brock know, Brock, who was snugly shielded from the wind, with the easier and less straining task. But he must have noticed me gasp in with a load for he suddenly leaped to his feet and said, “Your turn here, now, Priddy. Give me the barrow!” I flung myself to the dusty floor of the car when he relieved me of the barrow and never lifted a hand until I heard him coming with his first load. Then I picked up a brick and fitted it in one of the rows, and tried to say cheerfully, when he entered, “Is that placed right, Brock?” “All right, Priddy,” he replied, and then went out whistling with the barrow. With the change in the task, I recuperated somewhat, and worked on with the thought warming me, that every hour added twenty cents in cash to my credit. When the first twenty cents had been earned, I took heart and said to myself, “Well, I shall be able to buy that stamp for the letter!” Brock ceased whistling after his fourth load. I took a look at his face. It was pale and strained. “Hadn’t you better take a breathing spell, Brock?” I suggested. “It comes hard when one isn’t used to it. That barrow wheels hard, too. We ought to have brought some wheel grease.” “I guess I will sit down a few seconds,” agreed Brock. “It’s quite a lift--at first, but I think we’ll manage the job, don’t you?” “We’ll try!” I commented, grimly. So we passed the barrow from hand to hand, the loads growing smaller and smaller as the noon hour approached, and the need of rest and change becoming more and more imperative. When half-past eleven arrived I proposed that we eat our lunches; not so much for the mere satisfaction of hunger, but for the opportunity of absolute rest for an hour. Brock assented to the proposition the instant it had left my lips. In fact, he dropped his barrow in the middle of the plank; an act on which I commented by that fragment of an old song: