He was rather proud of being a blower on furnace No. 6.
After the slag had been sampled he said: "Where d'ye eat, boy?"
"I eat at Mrs. Farrell's."
"How much?"
"Seven a week."
"Too much. Pretty goddam good is it?"
"Damn good food," I said.
"Is Mrs. Farrell a widder woman?"
"No," I said, "she's not."
"Well," he said, "if you hear of a damn fine little widder woman, let me know will yer?"