Toward noon I went to George's. The pit craneman, Herb, was there, eating George's roast beef and boiled potato, and looking half asleep.
"I'll fire you," I said.
"I'm on nights this week," he returned, with a slow smile; "I couldn't sleep, so I thought I'd get up and eat some. Besides, I've got to go to the bank. You're with the blast-furnaces now, huh?"
"Yes."
"Like 'em?"
"Yes, I think I'll like blast-furnace work," I said, "if I get to be stove-tender or something. Good boss, Beck."
"They say so. Pete's as crabby as ever in our place. He fired one of the second-helpers last week, Eric—d'you know him? Used to come in drunk every day, worked for Jock on Eight."
"That's too bad," I said; "he gave everyone a good time. Let me tell you how I amuse the gang on the blast-furnace. You know the way they break ingots for a test on the open-hearth?"
"Yes."
"It's not like that with us. I gave everybody on Five a treat because I thought it was."