Chapter 2
Chapter Two
Jesse
Jesse O’Connor awoke shortly before six in the morning.
His body instinctually knew the exact time he needed to rise for work, even though he would have preferred to sleep much later.
Tentatively, Jesse poked his foot out from under the blankets and frowned the moment he felt the cold air.
His woolen socks were the only thing saving his toes from being instantaneously frozen.
Giuseppe had most likely forgotten to bank the coal before bed.
Jesse let out a sigh. Predictable. It seemed like every week, at least once, Jesse needed to reignite the furnace himself, which then caused him to be late for work.
And every time, Jesse would then receive an earful from Mrs. Walsh about her clothing shop being too cold the moment he returned home.
Without fail, she’d blame Jesse for it, if only because Giuseppe was the sweeter of the two.
Groaning wearily, Jesse pulled his foot back under the covers and rolled onto his back.
For the next few minutes, Jesse lay listening to the faraway sounds of the city.
Even with the windows closed, he could still hear a faint clip-clop of horse hooves outside, most likely one of the nighttime streetcars, which ran too infrequently to justify use of the electric ones.
After enjoying the comfort of his bed for a bit longer, Jesse forced himself to leave it.
Irritated by the frigid temperature (well, perhaps not exactly frigid, but still too cold for his liking), he went into Giuseppe’s room to scold him.
Once Jesse reached the edge of Giuseppe’s bed, he lifted his foot and nudged his roommate’s leg with his big toe.
Giuseppe merely stirred. Jesse repeated the motion twice more, harder each time, and his last forceful poke caused Giuseppe to wake.
“Ten more minutes, ma,” Giuseppe complained, his eyes still closed.
“You forgot to bank the coal last night.”
Giuseppe sighed. “I was tired. You try working sixteen hours in a row and see how well your brain operates after.”
“I told you to try to find some other kind of work.”
“But the steel mill is so close. It only takes me two minutes to make it there.”
Giuseppe rolled over to face the wall, and Jesse shook his head.
“Looks like I’ll need to light the furnace myself. Again.” Jesse started back out of the room. “Thank you for the extra work.”
“You’re welcome!” Giuseppe called back as Jesse stepped into the hall.
Jesse shoved his feet into his shoes, lit the closest oil lamp, and hurried to the basement, shivering as he descended the stairwell.
Once there, he searched for a match and soon found half a box in the far corner near an old pile of wood.
Over the next few minutes, Jesse worked to relight the furnace, stuffing some newspaper into the furnace’s firebox with the coal and then igniting the paper with a match.
Slowly, he piled in more pieces of coal, and when the fire was steady, he went past Mrs. Walsh’s clothing shop and back to his and Giuseppe’s place.
It only took Jesse a little over a half hour to get ready for work afterward. He opted not to eat breakfast since he had wasted so much time in the basement lighting the furnace. He figured he’d wait until lunch to visit one of the bakeries near Putnam Press and have an extra-large treat instead.
Outside, on Ashland Boulevard, Jesse caught one of the streetcars to work. He rode northeast to State Street and then north to the print stop, one of many located between South Plymouth and South Federal in Chicago.
The streetcar line let him off only one block over, which meant that, thankfully, he’d only have to battle the icy January wind for a couple of minutes before he’d be back inside.
Keeping the top of his overcoat shut by clutching tight to its lapels (one of the buttons had popped off at some point in the past few weeks), Jesse gritted his teeth as he walked.
By the time Jesse reached Putnam Press, his hands were so frozen he could barely even open the door, though he eventually managed.
Inside the shop, Jesse was greeted by the familiar sounds of the rows of working presses—the creaking of wood and repetitive clangs of the metal platens—mixed with the low hum of continuous conversation, and a shiver passed through him as his body adjusted to the building’s warmth.
Quickly, he removed his overcoat, hung it on the wall, and then took off his gloves.
Finally, he inserted his time card into the newly purchased Bundy clock, punching in for his shift.
As soon as Jesse reached his station (he’d been tasked with printing a series of flyers and tickets for the week on the old Gordon Jobber), his work friend, Thomas Grant, abandoned his place next to the two-man Prouty Press (or “Grasshopper,” as it was sometimes called) to come talk to him, leaving old Ellis Williams to complete the last rotation of the hand-crank with a huff.
“Good morning,” Thomas said. “Did you hear the news? Mr. Putnam sold us.”
Jesse raised an eyebrow. “Sold us? Really?” He looped his apron over his head and hooked his hands behind his back to tie it. “Why? And to whom?”
“I’m not sure why. I think that maybe he’s moving out of the city. Anyway, he sold the shop to a man who owns one of the other printing offices nearby. Someone in the Hughes family?”
Jesse’s face fell. He knew of the Hughes family.
Everyone did. Warren Hughes owned one of the biggest railway car manufacturing plants in Illinois, as well as a few other businesses in the city, and his son, Arthur, owned Hughes Press one block over.
Jesse hated them on principle. Back at Illinois Industrial University, a pretentious man named Percy Verne had taught him that the wealthiest people—people who were rich not only in financial worth but in opportunity and social privilege as well—only really valued three things: money, status, and reputation.
And Percy had shown Jesse exactly how narrow-minded his type of people were.
He had also broken Jesse’s heart.
Pushing thoughts of Percy out of his head, Jesse picked up the jar of ink from his work station table and removed the cork.
“Well, hopefully we won’t see much of him,” Jesse said, finding a brush. He proceeded to prep the machine by smearing some ink on the wooden disc. “I can’t imagine he’d be more involved than Mr. Putnam was. I bet Mr. Stevenson will still be in charge of the shop.”
Mr. Frederick Stevenson was a master printer, but for the last two years, he had mostly only overseen everyone else’s work, rather than operating the machines himself.
He handled everyone’s schedules as well.
It was Jesse’s impression that the owners and financial backers of most of the print offices in Chicago—men like Arthur Hughes—weren’t exactly engaged with the more mundane operations of their businesses.
“Mmm, you’re probably right,” Thomas said with a resigned shrug.
“Still, it’s interesting news. I wonder if Mr. Hughes will have new kinds of work for us.
Newspapers with a larger circulation or something.
Could be fun to learn a new machine.” He perked up a little.
“Ah, or maybe he’ll even buy us one of those huge rotary presses they have in some of the more established shops! ”
“Doubtful,” Jesse said, pumping the floor pedal with his foot. “We’re short on space here, in case you haven’t noticed. Except for the empty top floor. But it’s a mess up there.”
“He might have one of those big presses in his other shop already,” Thomas reasoned. “If so, it’s possible that he’ll ask if one of us wants to transfer. I’d love to work for a bigger shop myself. Ellis would, too.”
As though Ellis’s ears were ringing, the man called out to Thomas, “Aren’t you coming back? We have work to finish.”
Thomas sighed. “You heard the man. Guess I better go.”
Jesse held up his hand in a half-hearted wave as Thomas started back toward his station.
Once the ink rollers were completely coated, Jesse started on his own work.
Over the next three hours, Jesse printed eighty flyers for a new corset shop.
The repetitive motions of loading new paper and pushing the floor pedal lulled him into a trance, the monotony feeling more blissful than tedious right now.
After Jesse was finished, he started composing the plate for the next job.
Composing—configuring the metal sorts onto a composing stick—wasn’t a skill that everyone at the print shop possessed.
Every other employee at Putnam was only a press operator.
But Jesse had learned how to be a compositor (or “typesetter” as they were sometimes called) from Mr. Stevenson.
While Mr. Stevenson had trained others as well, Jesse had been the only person to take to it.
Almost everyone else found it too tricky to organize the typeface backwards, but Jesse’s mind could conjure up the image of mirrored text without trouble, and so, composing provided him with opportunities to break up the monotony of operating the machinery. He loved creating formes.
One hour later, Jesse was nearly finished with making the new forme when he heard someone come into the shop.
He looked toward the front. There were two someones, actually—Mr. Stevenson, with his too-long chinstrap beard and knee-length coat, and a tall, elegant-looking man with piercing blue eyes and striking eyebrows (prominent but not unpleasant in the least).
Jesse’s face flushed, and he cursed himself for noticing the man’s looks.
He tried not to notice handsome men anymore.
Especially not handsome men who obviously belonged to Chicago’s elite.