The stove gang moving between stoves Thirteen and Fourteen were caught and brought into this for muscle, and a couple of passing millwrights drafted.
"Hold up the goddam end," from Steve, boss by common consent.
"A little beef this time!" from a blower. "What the hell's the matter, sick?"
We all swear between breaths, and take a grip higher on the rope—the weight cracks the flange again, and makes the bar shiver.
When the new cooler, which resembles more nearly a gigantic flower pot, without any bottom, than anything else, is in place, there's a cry of: "Big Dolly!"
That involves four or five men, lifting a kind of ramrod with a square hammer-end, from the rack, and lugging it to the cooler.
I get near the ramming end this time; Tony is near me on the other side. Together we hold the hammer against the cooler. As the end strikes, the jar goes back through the men's hands.
"Now top."
Arms raise the bar painfully, and hold it poised a little unsteadily, sway back, tense, and drive.
"Hold it, hold it on the cooler, goddam you."