Incidentally, I may say that it was claimed later a good brick-clay was found on the John Thomas farm, a half mile east of town. A promoter made the discovery. He planned to build a brick manufacturing plant at the point of discovery, and have a railroad spur run out from town—provided, however, that the town people foot the bill. Also he wanted to sell his expert knowledge at a ridiculously high figure. When it was pointed out to him that a couple of “greenhorn” boys had made fairly good brick from ordinary dirt, without financial sweetening, he gave up the venture.
At the Stowell yard I had the day shift and Sam headed the night shift during the burning procedure. For fuel we used old fence rails—mostly. And it took a lot of them. Rails fed into the five 16-foot fire tunnels to better advantage than any other wood that could be had. Wherever so many rails came from I do not recall. Likely from farms whose owners were making the change over from the old worm-fence to barbed wire, which came along about that time. Besides the firemen—three to the 12-hour shift — there were always crowds of spectators at the yard, in the early evenings.
Stowell was feeling pretty good over the splendid progress we were making, and he said to me one evening, out loud so that all could hear, “I think we ought to give the boys a chicken roast tonight.” Then, to the crowd, “Wot you say, fellows? ‘Ere two of you boys go along with John and bring back a ‘alf dozen chicks—I command John to go.”
Will Gill and Gus Anderson fell in with me. The boys named a place in the north part of town where they thought we might get the chickens without incurring too much risk of being caught. We were now passing John Stowell’s home on the corner where Cleve Battin lives. I said, “Oh, that’s too far. Why not see what Laura (Stowell’s wife) has in her chicken house here on the alley?” Will Gill said, “Why, this is Stowell’s place. We ought not steal his chickens. He might recognize them—and that would spoil all the fun.”
And, by-golly, those two boys refused to put foot on the Stowell lot—and I had to do all the dirty work. I couldn’t blame them though, because it was bright moonlight and the door of the chicken house faced the Stowell residence only a few rods to the south. But it was, probably, just as well. They wouldn’t have known where to find the choice chicks, anyway. And besides, I knew that, let ‘em squawk, Laura and the children were going to stay put. Back at the yard, the word got around that we had stolen Stowell’s chickens — and the whole gang broke into a “Chessy-cat” grin which didn’t come off during the whole evening. Stowell busied himself with the roasting, without outward signs of recognizing a chick.