The Silver Star

by Gilbert, Morris

  “I didn’t hire on to be a janitor. Mr. Ford hired me to work on cars,” Peter said.

  “Mr. Ford put me in charge of this shop, and you’ll fall in line or else you can pack up your tools and get out!” For a moment it seemed to Peter that Pennington was going to grab him, but the big man contented himself with another blistering stream of profanity, followed by a final warning. “Shape up or you’ll be out on your ear, Winslow!” Then he turned and stomped away.

  “Better watch that guy.” Peter turned to see Gerald Ramsey, a short, tubby man with long, dexterous fingers that could tune an engine to its finest pitch. Ramsey shook his head. “Been some changes since you been gone, Pete. I don’t know why Mr. Ford hired that guy. They say he’s a genius, but he’s a mean buzzard! He punched Shorty White out last Thursday—busted his nose. Don’t give him any lip. Ford backs him up, but I don’t know why.”

  Peter took all this in, then nodded shortly. “Thanks for the warning. I’ll watch myself,” he murmured, then turned back to the engine he was working on. As he worked he considered his options. There were plenty of other automobile companies looking for good mechanics; since the turn of the century the manufacturers had proliferated. But in his mind Henry Ford was the up-and-coming man in this growing industry. As he tightened the nuts on a bolt, Peter thought about Ford’s history.

  Ford had built a quadricycle in 1896, using a buggy-type chassis, bicycle wheels, and gas-pipe hubs. It went twenty miles an hour but had no reverse. Three years later he built another quadricycle while working as superintendent of the Detroit Automobile Company. In 1901 he built a third car with fancy fenders and a steering wheel. He also built his first racing car powered by a twenty-six horsepower, two-cycle engine. It had been a fast car, averaging forty-three miles an hour, beating a Winton in a race at Grossepoint, Michigan.

  When the Detroit Automobile Company folded that same year, Ford organized the Henry Ford Company but did not stay long. In 1902 he organized the Ford Motor Company with twenty-eight thousand dollars capital and joined the mad race to provide cars to Americans who were demanding them in record numbers.

  The first cars were rich men’s toys, and every wealthy man had one or two as a plaything. Paved roads were nonexistent, and cars ran no faster than a horse’s gallop. The novelty soon spread, however, and by 1900, America had eight thousand cars. The public was fascinated by these frail, costly, bulky contraptions that shook, trembled, clattered, spat oil, fire, and smoke, and smelled terrible. For a time it was not certain that the automobile would replace the horse, and even the name for these strange vehicles was uncertain. In a magazine contest the new name for the wheeled vehicle was “Motorcycle.” Runners-up included “Petrocar,” “Autobat,” and “Motorfly.”

  After the first popular American car debuted in 1901, the gasoline engine Oldsmobile business picked up and it became a male sport. Perhaps the car embodied the age-old male cravings for power and exploration. It was almost entirely a man’s world. From the very start, society took a negative attitude toward women driving; some steering wheels carried the warning “Men and boys only.” There were reasons for this exclusivism: roads were often muddy ruts and cars were tremendously hard to handle.

  As Peter continued working, he thought about the history of the machines that had so engaged his dedication. When he reached for a wrench, he suddenly became aware of Cecil Pennington peering over his shoulder. He did not work any faster, nor did he turn to look at the man, but kept his attention on the engine in front of him. He knew Pennington was trying to intimidate him and did not give evidence that he was aware of the foreman’s presence. Finally Pennington snorted and stalked down the assembly line. Peter could hear his raucous voice cursing Gerald Ramsey and then others farther down the line.

  I’m going to have trouble with that fellow, he thought. This worried him because he had great admiration for Henry Ford. He had met Ford in New York almost by accident and begged him so hard for a job that Ford said, “If you can find your way to Detroit, I’ll give you a chance.” That had been all Peter Winslow needed. He’d packed his suitcase and was waiting when Ford returned from New York. He went to work in Ford’s factory and had been happy there. Although he had little contact with Ford himself, the factory had always been a pleasant place to work. Now, however, the shadow of Pennington hung over everyone like a dark and brooding thundercloud ready to burst at the slightest provocation. There was none of the loud joking and rough horseplay that Peter remembered from before. The camaraderie among the workers was gone now, and every man feared for his job.

  All day long that first day back on the job, Peter became more and more conscious of the gloom in the section of the plant where Pennington was foreman. As Peter left that afternoon, walking beside Gerald Ramsey, he muttered, “Not a very happy place anymore. I don’t understand why Mr. Ford hired that clown.”

  “He’s some kind of topnotch engineer,” Ramsey shrugged. “They claim he practically invented the Winton over there. Ford paid a lot of money to get him here, but I don’t think he knows how Pennington treats the hired help. That big lug is always great around Mr. Ford, smiling and speaking quietly. Never a curse word do you hear when Ford’s around.”

  “He’s not worth it, I don’t think,” Peter said as they walked along.

  “No, but Ford will find out someday. Pennington’s already fired three of the best men in the shop because they wouldn’t kowtow to him.” He looked nervously around, as if Pennington could overhear, and shrugged his thin shoulders. “I’m leaving myself, Pete.”

  Surprise washed over Winslow’s face. “Why, you can’t do that, Gerald. You’re on the way up here. You’re the best mechanic in the shop.”

  “It ain’t worth foolin’ with, Pete. I’m going to work for the Stanley people.”

  “Don’t do that. Those steam engines they’re trying to build won’t work in cars. I know a lot of people are going for it, but you wait and see. The gasoline engine will put them out of business pretty soon.”

  “That may be, but they’ve offered me more money than I’m getting here, and I can’t put up with Pennington’s bullying any longer.” Ramsey slapped Peter on the shoulder. “Let me put a word in for you. They need good men over there. No sense fooling around with that gorilla.”

  “No, thanks a lot, Gerald. I think I’ll stick it out here.”

  ****

  Gerald Ramsey’s departure left an empty spot in Peter’s life. He had roomed with him ever since he first came to Detroit, and the two got along very well both in and out of the shop. Ramsey was replaced by a dour Scotsman named McCone, who never spoke a cheerful word to anyone. Peter soon grew lonesome, especially during the hours after work. He missed Ramsey a great deal.

  Two weeks after Ramsey had left, Peter was busy installing an engine in the framework of Ford’s racing car, the Arrow, which had run a record ninety-one miles per hour the previous January. It was Ford’s pride, and he allowed only his best men to work on it. Sometimes he himself came down and oversaw the innovations he wanted built into it. Scheduled to leave the next morning for New York on a business trip, Ford stopped by late that afternoon to check on the Arrow and to talk to Peter. “Hello, Winslow,” Ford said. He was a tall, thin man with a narrow face and a pair of intense brown eyes. “Haven’t seen you since you got back. Did you have a good vacation?”

  “Very fine, Mr. Ford, but I was glad to get back and work on the Arrow.”

  Ford smiled briefly, and the two men talked for some time about the racing car. Finally Ford nodded. “You have a feel for fast cars, Peter. I want you to get the Arrow in top shape. Put all your time in on it. I’m going to race it again next month, and I want that engine running smooth.”

  Peter was enthusiastic. “I’ll be glad to, Mr. Ford. I’d like to be there when you drive it in that race.”

  Ford straightened up. He turned to Peter Winslow and grinned. “You’d like to drive it yourself, wouldn’t you?”

  “Yes, sir, I sure w
ould. Who wouldn’t?”

  “Well, maybe we’ll see about that. If you’re as good a driver as you are a mechanic—well, I’ll give it some thought. Take care of the Arrow.”

  “I’ll have it purring like a kitten by the time you get back, Mr. Ford.” As Ford went to give some instructions to Pennington before he left, Peter turned back to his work and felt better the rest of the day.

  The next morning Peter threw himself into renovating the car, forgetting to eat lunch, he was so carried away. It was almost four o’clock when he heard Pennington’s voice bellowing, “You’ve spent enough time on that car, Winslow. Get down there and work on that Model B.”

  Straightening up, Peter turned to face the muscular foreman. “Mr. Ford told me to stay on this until it’s done,” he said quietly.

  Pennington could not bear to be crossed. “You do what I tell you!” he said, cursed for a moment, then shoved his thumb toward the Model B down the line. “Go down there and pull that engine and get it done before you leave today! You understand?”

  “I’ll have to do what Mr. Ford said,” Peter said tensely, aware that most of the men in the near vicinity were listening carefully to his clash with the foreman. “He told me to stay on the Arrow until the changes he wanted were made.”

  Without warning, Pennington reached out and grabbed Peter’s coveralls by the lapels and jerked him around. Caught off balance as he was shoved violently away, Peter stumbled and fell flat on the cement floor. Anger washed over him like a red wave. He was not a violent man, as a rule, but there was a temper in him that once in a while got out of control. He jumped to his feet in one motion and faced Pennington. “Don’t ever put your hands on me again, Pennington!” he warned.

  “It’s Mr. Pennington to you, Winslow. And I’ll put my hands on you whenever I please!”

  Pennington reached out to give Peter another shove. Suddenly, the foreman found his wrists grasped by a steely grip. Despite his weight and heft, he was jerked violently forward. Peter had grabbed Pennington’s wrists with both hands and with a grunt now spun the man around. Pennington’s feet scrabbled, trying to keep his balance, but he never caught it. With every ounce of his strength, Peter heaved and released Pennington’s wrists. The foreman practically turned a flip, landing on his shoulder blades. The explosive huff as his breath was driven from him was heard by every man standing around watching.

  Silence fell over the shop as Pennington lay for one moment trying to catch his breath. Rolling over he pushed himself up, doubled up his hamlike fists, and advanced toward Peter like an angry bull. “I’m going to bust you up good, Winslow, and then throw you out! You’re fired!”

  “You can fire me, but I don’t think you’re man enough to bust me up!” Peter said. He stood where he was, his feet spread wide, his fists clenched and held waist high. He had always been able to defend himself and had a wiry strength that was hidden by the loose coveralls. As Pennington stepped forward and drove a mighty fist toward his face, Peter simply stepped inside it, pushed it aside with his left arm, and with the power coming up from his right leg through his torso with every ounce of his two hundred pounds, he struck the foreman just above the belt buckle. His fist sunk into the doughy stomach, and Pennington doubled over. As he did, Peter brought his forearm down across the foreman’s meaty neck. Pennington fell to the floor gasping for breath, and his legs seemed to move helplessly.

  Peter Winslow stood looking down at the foreman a moment and then began to collect his tools. When he was through he turned and saw that Pennington had gotten to his feet. The foreman’s face was chalky and he was swaying.

  “Get out of here! You’re fired!” he gasped.

  “Mr. Ford will have to hear about this,” Peter said.

  “Go on! Get out of here!”

  Peter shrugged and, picking up his toolbox, left the factory. He went straight to his room, deposited his tools, then stood for a time looking out the window.

  “I’ve done it this time,” he muttered. “It’ll be me or Pennington, and I’m not an engineer. Mr. Ford likes me, but he’ll have to back up the foreman.”

  It was three days later, after Peter had walked the streets waiting impatiently, when Ford returned from New York. By the time Peter got to him, Ford had heard of the fight and of Peter’s firing. He listened quietly while Peter gave his version, then shrugged, a sadness showing in his eyes. “I’m sorry, Winslow,” he said finally. “I know Pennington’s had trouble with the men before, and good ones, too, but I can’t go over my foreman’s head.”

  “Sure, Mr. Ford. I thought it’d be that way.”

  “Here. I’m going to write you a letter of recommendation. It’ll get you a job, I think. Maybe with the Oldsmobile people.”

  Peter stood while Ford wrote a letter, and then the tall man rose and handed it to him. “I don’t write many recommendations like this, Pete. Good luck to you. Maybe someday things will change. I will always be glad to have you back under different circumstances.”

  “Thank you, Mr. Ford. I’ll look forward to that.”

  Peter left the factory speaking to no one, and as he walked out the door, a sadness settled on him. It was not just the job that bothered him, but the loss of his contact with Henry Ford. He knew that no matter where he went, he would be stepping down, and the usual cheerfulness that was part of him seemed to vanish as the doors closed behind him for the last time.

  ****

  October had come, driving away the heat of summer and bearing the promise of winter soon to come. As Peter Winslow moved along the main street of Detroit, there was no spring in his step nor excitement in his face. He had spent almost a month looking for a job in Detroit that had something to do with automobiles. He had failed, however, and the very best he could do was land a job in a furniture factory. For the past two weeks he had made the same leg to fit a kitchen table all day long. A frown settled on his face as he stepped inside a grocery store and began to pull a few cans off the shelf. He heard a loud, piercing tenor voice singing “I’m a Yankee Doodle Dandy,” a song that was sweeping the country. It was from the musical Little Johnny Jones written by George M. Cohan, and as Peter brought his small collection of goods to the counter, the singer, a short Italian with curly black hair and olive skin, grinned. “How do you like-a my singing?”

  “You ought to be in the show.”

  “That’s-a right. I should be. Here I am clerking in a grocery store when I could be the American Caruso.” The clerk added up the items on a pad, then said, “That’ll be three dollars and twenty-two cents. Did you hear the other song from that show?”

  “I don’t guess so.”

  Immediately the clerk filled his lungs and with great gusto began to sing, “Give My Regards to Broadway.” He knew every word of it and performed as though he were in front of an audience of ten thousand people. “Not bad, eh?” he said, grinning broadly when he had finished.

  “Not bad,” Peter said, smiling briefly. “You ever thought of singing for a career?”

  “I never thought of anything else,” the clerk said, shrugging his plump shoulders. “I’m-a just doing this until I get my break in the big time. I’m-a going to New York as soon as I get the money. That’s where all the big singers get their breaks. You ever been there?”

  “Yes. My sister’s an actress. She was in a play there. Two of them, as a matter of fact.”

  At once the clerk became interested and demanded to know all about Peter’s sister. When Peter told him that she had gone to Los Angeles to make movies, he shook his head, stating flatly, “That’s-a no good. They ain’t got no sound. No place for singers, but maybe you could get your sister to recommend me to somebody on the stage in New York.”

  Peter suddenly found this amusing. “Well, you got a big enough voice for it. I’ll give you her address and you can write her.” He wrote down Priscilla’s Los Angeles address and said, “What’s your name?”

  “Tony Ameche,” the clerk said. “That’s-a me.” He took the address, s
tared at it, and then grinned broadly. Sticking his hand out over the counter, he pumped Peter’s hand up and down. “One of these days I’m-a gonna say, ‘When I was just a grocery clerk, I got my first break when a man called Winslow stopped where I was selling groceries.’ ”

  “Good luck, Tony. I hope you make it.”

  “I hope you make it, too. What is it you do?”

  “I make table legs. Thousands of them. All just exactly alike for twelve hours a day.”

  The bitterness in his visitor’s voice caught Ameche’s attention. “What is it you want to do?” he said. “Everybody wants to do something.”

  “I want to race cars, but it doesn’t look like I’m going to do it.”

  “Sure you will. I’ll be a big star, and you’ll be a race car driver. We’ll both be rich and famous.”

  “I hope so, Tony. Well, good luck.”

  ****

  Over the next few weeks, Peter stopped in at the grocery store several times and soon became good friends with Tony Ameche. The two of them ate out, and Tony took Peter to the best Italian places in Detroit. On their third meeting, Tony came in with his cheeks puffed out, his dark eyes glowing with excitement. He was waving a sheet of paper in the air, and he grabbed Peter around the shoulders and hugged him, muttering fiercely in Italian.

  “What’s the matter with you, Tony? What’s going on?”

  “Look at this,” Ameche said, shaking the paper in front of Peter’s eyes.

  “Well, hold it still. I can’t read it like that.” Peter jerked the paper out of the Italian’s hand and read it. “Why, this is from sis.” He scanned it and then grinned broadly. “Well, you can’t say anything better than that. I’m surprised she took my recommendation. I’m no musician.”

  “She’s-a saying she’ll get me an introduction to Mr. Phil Donner. He’s-a gonna do a musical. I’m-a going to New York tomorrow.”