But hot as it was on a midsummer day, the whole business had a great fascination for me, and I would not have left it on any account.
The doctor, too, seemed wonderfully interested. Kicksey came about two o’clock to say that the dinner was ready, but the doctor would not leave the furnace; neither would I, and each of us, armed with a pair of tongs from the kitchen and parlour, stood as close as we could, ready to put on fresh pieces of charcoal as the fire began to sink.
“How long will it take cooking, sir?” I said, after the furnace had been glowing for a long time.
“Hah!” he said, “that’s what I can’t tell you, Sep. You see we have not got a regular furnace and blast, and this heat may not be great enough to turn the ore into metal, so we must keep on as long as we can to make sure. It is of no use to be sanguine over experiments, for all this may turn out to be a failure. Even with the best of tools we make blunders, my lad, and with a such a set out as this, why, of course, anything may happen.”
“Anything happen, sir?” I said.
“To be sure. That ore ought to have been put in a proper fire-clay crucible.”
“What’s a crucible, sir?” I said.
“A pot made of a particular material that will bear any amount of heat. Now perhaps while we are patiently waiting here that pot in the furnace may have cracked and fallen to pieces, or perhaps melted away instead of the ore inside.”
“Oh, but a pot would not melt, sir, would it?” I said.
“Melt? To be sure it would, if you make the fire hot enough. Did you ever see a brick-kiln?”