“Well, come on, then,” he said; “we’ve got to be moving.”
As they went along the corridor, Bob became aware of doors ahead opening to right and left. He saw the flash of flames and heard the whirr of wheels and the hub-bub of hammers.
“This room to the right,” said Fitz Mee, “is the machine-shop; that on the left is the forging-room.”
They visited each in turn, and the lad was delighted with all he saw.
“He! he!” he laughed when they were again out in the corridor and free from the thunder and crash and din that had almost deafened them. “The idea, Fitz, of me not wanting to go through your factories; of not wanting to see everything! You bet I want to go through! You thought I’d be afraid—that’s what you thought; and the mayor, too. But I’ll show you; I’m no baby—not much!”
His companion grinned impishly, but made no reply.
The next place they entered was the great moulding-room. Open cupolas were pouring forth white-hot streams of molten metal, which half-nude and sweaty, grimy goblins were catching in ladles and bearing here and there. The temperature of the room was almost unbearable; the atmosphere was poisonous with sulphurous gases. Bob crossed the threshold and stopped.
“Come on,” commanded his companion; “we must hurry along, or we won’t get through to-day.”
“I—I don’t believe I care to go through here,” Bob said hesitatingly.