all the way across the United States—three
thousand miles.
Tomorrow is a very important day. Men
have already laid tracks to this spot, all the
way from the Pacific coast—where my father
and I came off the boat from China. And
from back in the East, the same. Now here,
at Promontory Summit, we are building the
last four miles. When we finish tomorrow,
East and West will be connected. There will
be a great celebration. If we can finish our
work on time.
We have been working as hard as we can.
Each day we wake up when the sun is just
peeking over the mountains. All day long we
work—while the sun rises higher, and the
air grows hotter, and the dust rises in clouds.
We don’t stop until the sun is a disk of flame
sinking behind the mountains.
Our crew is all-Chinese. Our men are
small and wiry, but they are very strong. My
father and the other workers are the spikers.
They follow the Irish crew along the lines.
The Irishmen are like bears with their
bushy beards and huge hands. They lay down
heavy wood ties, evenly spaced across a lev-
eled path. Then they lug five hundred-pound
iron rails and place them across the ties.
Our spikers come along next. They swing
heavy mauls to drive iron spikes through
the rails into the ties. The air is loud with
clanging and banging—almost as noisy as
firecrackers!
I’m only twelve, so I don’t do the spik-
ing. My job is to carry water. But this is hard
work, too, believe me. When the water pailsare full, they are so heavy. I’m not very big,
and I’m very skinny. But father says my mus-
cles are getting hard from work.
All day I move up and down the line. The
workers are always thirsty. They are gruff,
and they never thank me. They don’t ask my
name. Sometimes I feel almost invisible.
The worst is Mr. Moran. He’s the crew
boss. Today, he roars at me from far down
the line. “Hey, you! Get over here—bring me
water—now!”
I hurry as fast as I can. I mustn’t spill any
precious water. But the hot sun beats down,
and I’m so tired. My foot catches on a rail,
and I stumble. A little water sloshes out of the
pails. I hear some of the men snicker.
Tears sting my eyes, but I hold them
back. I turn them into a tight, hard ball of
anger that sits in my stomach. I get to Mr.
Moran, panting. He glares at me. “Stupid!” he
yells. I scoop out a dipperful of water and he
drinks it in one gulp. He wipes his dripping
black beard on his filthy sleeve. “Now get
lost!” he says.
I turn and trudge away. Just then, I hear
a harsh cough behind me. It’s Mr. Moran.
He bends forward with his big hands on his
knees. He coughs and coughs. With each
breath he makes whistling, wheezing sounds.
The men all stop and stare.
He straightens up. “What are you looking
at? Get back to work—all of you!” he yells.
We all obey.
After the day is done, my father and I
make our way back to the canvas tents of our
Chinese crew. We cook rice and vegetables forMAULS ARE BIG HEAVY HAMMERS.
HOLD THAT SPIKE STILL, CRICKET!
MEW!BE CAREFUL WITH
THAT, PLEASE!
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