III THE OPEN-HEARTH—NIGHT-SHIFTS
"Have a cigarette, Pete," I said, offering a Camel to a very fat and boyish-looking Russian.
"No t'ank."
"What, no smoke?" I asked, incredulous.
"No, no smoke."
"No drink?" I asked, wondering if I had found a Puritan.
"Oh, drink" he said with profound emphasis; and continuing, he told me of other solaces he found in this mortal life.
"Look!" cried some one.
Herb, the craneman, in a fit of extreme playfulness had thrown some wet green paint forty feet through the air at the pit boss, greening the whole side of his face. Al was doing a long backward dodge, and slapping a hand to his painted face, supposing it a draught of hot metal. When he perceived that he wasn't killed, he picked up cinder-hunks and bombarded the crane-box. It sounded like hail on tin.
Pete, the Russian melter, came out on the gallery behind the furnaces, and I could see by the way he looked the pit over, that he was picking a man for furnace work. Somebody had stayed out and they were short a helper. He looked at the fat workman beside me, and then grunted.