"Come on, men, last door."
"My shovel you son-of-a—!"
Now they were tapping on Number 6. The melter came out of his shanty; he had had a sleep since the last furnace tapped. He rubbed his eyes, and went out on the gallery. I could hear his "Heow." Four poor devils were standing in the flame, putting in manganese. Thank God, I don't shovel for Six.
"A jigger," from Fred.
"Sure."
When I went for it, the sores on the bottom of my feet hurt, so that I walked on the edges of my shoes. I was so delighted with the idea of its being six o'clock, with no back-walls ahead, that I almost took pleasure in that foot. I stopped in front of a fountain and put my right arm under the water.
The recorder in the Bessemer was asleep. He was a boy of twenty. I woke him up, and grinned in his face.
"Fifteen thou' for Number 7."
"You go to hell, with your goddam Number 7!"
I grinned at him again, knew it was just the long turn, knew he'd give me that fifteen thousand pounds; went down stairs again—