Beppo and his workmates toiled for hours, shovelling garbage out of a long line of trucks.
The trucks crept forward, headlights blazing, but the more they emptied the longer the line became.
″Faster!″ the foreman kept shouting. ″Hurry it up, or we'll never be through!″
They didn't finish the job till midnight, by which time Beppo's shirt was clinging to his back.
Being older than the rest and not the most robust of men,
he flopped down wearily on an upturned plastic bucket and struggled to get his breath back.
″Hey, Beppo,″ one of his workmates called, ″we're off home now. Coming?″
″In a minute,″ wheezed Beppo. He clasped one hand to his aching chest.
″Feeling all right, old man?″ called someone else. ″I'm fine,″ Beppo called back.
″Just taking a little breather, that's all. Don't wait for me.
″Okay,″ said the others, ″good night.″ And off they went.
It was quiet when they'd gone, except for an occasional rustle and squeak from rats scrabbling in the garbage.
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