I heaved on the hot-blast chain, and the indicator climbed.
We had a pleasant, light brown chocolaty slag, that day, which meant good iron. When the metal runs out with large white speckles, she has too much sulphur; when she smokes, you'll get good iron.
The other day they had too large a load of ore for the coke and stone in her.
"Sledge!" yelled the keeper.
A cinder-snapper brought up two, and held the bar while the keeper and first-helper sledged. They worked well, and I watched with fascination the hammer head whirl dizzily, and land true at the bar.
At last the liquid slag broke through, jet-black as if it were molten coal, flowing thickly down the clay spout. The clay notch was hammered and eaten away, and had to be remade.
I watched the stove-tender on Number 7 as he opened the cold-air valve. His motions were exactly calculated—the precise blow, to an ounce, to loosen that wedge.
"How long have you been stove-tender?" I asked.
"Ten years," he said.
"Go down to the stockroom and tell the skip-man, one more coke," said McLanahan.