Accompanied by a hellish, deafening squealing, we watched as hogs weighing up to six hundred pounds were killed, scraped, dressed, cut up, salted, and packed. This miracle of efficiency went on ten hours a day and six days a week during the four-month packing season. Only the strictest division of labor made it possible, each worker repeatedly performing the same specific task. The gutter, for example, a highly paid specialist earning six-fifty a day (no other worker topped four dollars), removed each hog’s entire respiratory and digestive systems in less than twenty seconds with several rapid cuts. He performed this task, which would take an ordinary butcher ten minutes, some 1,500 times daily. Should the gutter be replaced by a substitute who could do the job only, say, one-fifth as fast, then the whole production process would slow to a fifth of normal output.
The others were visibly impressed by the man’s wage. The Olympics received no salary but shared gate receipts. Among the Stockings, only the Wrights and Brainard earned as much as the gutter. But he could have made millions, for all I cared. I stared at the pools of blood and intestines and steaming water, at flabby, naked, quivering hogs, at men in oilskin suits shiny with wetness and grease.
Outside, I breathed the sooty air as if it were elixir, still noting information on my pad: hams went to the smoking department, salting pieces to the cellar, tongue and feet elsewhere; bristles brought seventeen cents, the tongue a nickel; the fat of the intestines alone paid nearly the entire cost of packing.
A triumph of the industrial revolution. A showcase of the assembly line. In this four-month season 180,000 hogs would be slaughtered by this house alone, and nearly half a million altogether in Cincinnati.
Hail, Porkopolis!
We went up into the hills that rose like ocean swells around the city. Above the pall of smoke were Clifton and the other elegant wooded districts, where the wealthy built their mansions. It was clear that Champion expected to take his place among them someday.
He showed us the stone house of Henry Probasco, a local magnate who had begun as an errand boy in the business he eventually headed. Into this house Probasco had poured limitless money, decorating each square inch to the limits of human ingenuity. Champion’s voice quavered with moral fervor as he described it all, his subtext obvious: Labor hard to elevate yourself and look at what might happen. . . .
At the Mount Auburn Young Ladies School we ascended to a high cupola overlooking woodlands dotted with villas encircled by groves and gardens. Far below sprawled the city, broiling in its overhanging haze. I gazed in wonder around me, enchanted by sylvan vistas. The hilly suburbs were indeed Cincinnati’s glory.
Descending again, we passed the austere Lane Theological Seminary, where Henry Ward Beecher had studied in a bare, forlorn room. The city possessed remarkable religious diversity, according to Champion. Protestants and Catholics actively cooperated. Rabbis—some twelve thousand Jews lived in the city—and Christian clergy actually exchanged pulpits to deliver sermons.
We passed the entrance to the newly finished Garden of Eden Park. I imagined myself strolling over the green expanses inside, Cait at my side. It made a pretty picture.
The news shook me, although most of the others didn’t seem too surprised. Just before we took the field that afternoon, Harry informed us that he’d removed Hurley from the team for breaking rules. He didn’t elaborate, but Brainard later told us the full story. Hurley had gotten roaring drunk the previous night in a Vine Street saloon—Brainard termed it a doggery—and broken three fingers in a brawl. Harry bailed him out of jail and kept it quiet—even Millar didn’t know—but Hurley was definitely finished. I had the sobering realization that, for now anyway, I was the Stockings’ only substitute.
I sat beneath a red canopy and manned the score book. On this humid Saturday nearly five thousand at the Union Grounds exulted in the knowledge that Cincinnati was fast becoming a capital on the sporting map. The West End park swarmed with kids trying to sneak over or under or through the fences. In the Grand Duchess dandified swells and lavishly dressed ladies created what Millar called an “Arabian Nights aspect” of vibrant color. The red-trousered Zouaves were on hand, and when they played “My Johnny Is a Soldier,” women sang along and some wept.
The crowd was astonishingly polite, applauding in the first inning when the Olympics held us to one run and scored four themselves. Harry seemed proud of their sportsmanship. Not so Brainard, whose fastballs had been hammered.
We broke it open with sixteen runs in the fourth and fifth, coasting to a 25-14 win. Harry had his best day so far with six hits. Andy got an ovation in the third when he drove a shot between the outfielders, tore around the bases, and dove under the tag for the game’s only homer.
“Fast little cuss,” a Washington reporter commented.
“He was loafing,” I told him. “Wait’ll you see him really turn it on.
Andy drew me aside in the clubhouse to say he’d sent the money to Newark. Brighid had wired back saying the grieving household was lifted to know that Mother and Father would be reunited forever in the homeland.
“Being the youngest,” Andy said ruefully, “I didn’t credit how much it meant to the others. I’m obliged to you, Sam.”
“Good,” I said, “buy me supper.”
“I sent Cait word too,” he said. “She wants to talk.”
“To me?”
“No, to the wall there.”
My breathing seemed jumpy. “Well, that’s fine. Just fine. When?”
“She asked if I’d bring you by the boardinghouse she keeps. How about tomorrow after I’m done with church?”
“Well, that’s a pretty busy time, but I guess just this once I could clear a space in my appointment book.”
He rolled his eyes. “Ain’t that a dinger?”
We found Hurley packing in his room, disconsolate and drunk. One hand was encased in plaster and
