Hand-fed Blast Furnace
Day and night, month in and month out, during the life of the fire-brick lining of the furnace, this routine of charging, first coke, next the theoretically correct charge of analyzed iron ores, then limestone, in rotation goes on. From 6 A.M. to 6 P.M. and from 6 P.M. to 6 A.M. on twelve-hour shifts, alternating gangs of laborers push the buggies across to the furnace top, dump and return them to the elevator already up with another load.
The incessant quiver of the iron plates beneath our feet with the rumbling and groaning from the inside of this monster are disquieting and the thought constantly recurs: “What if this powerful creature should just now rebel, as quite occasionally occurred in the old days when all of its moods had not been so well understood?” For this king of metallurgical devices, though gentle and obedient as a lamb under proper treatment, is a domineering fury when it has dyspepsia as occurs whenever its attendants are remiss in their attentions to its diet. “Those explosion doors just below the furnace top—are they in working order and would they be adequate?” But whether, as in recorded instances, the whole furnace top is torn off as evidence of its wrath, or its displeasure is exhibited in a milder way, we much prefer to be absent. The thought is disquieting and we are glad to leave.
Cinder or Slag Flowing into Ladles
“Fireworks” at the Cinder-Notch
Unwilling to test again the elevator for the downward trip, we take to the narrow iron stairway which leads from the top of the furnace to the ground. But this is worse than the elevator, for the stair treads are very narrow and made only of three slender iron rods. To our palpitating hearts they seem to give very insecure foothold and the gaps show that there is nothing but earth beneath us, and that a hundred feet below. To make matters worse, before we creepingly get half way down some visitors below have stopped to watch our slow and trembling steps and our nervous clutch on the low “stingy” hand rail. We hear them innocently inquire of one another why we move so slowly. We wish that we could appear brave, especially before the women in the party, but we could not move with greater alacrity if our lives depended upon it.
Once below again with our breath regained, things are more interesting. The red-hot molten slag which has just been tapped out is running from the furnace along a long trough into a ladle six feet high resting upon a car on the railway track alongside the “cast house,” as the huge structure which houses the lower part of the furnace is called. This smoking, molten slag stream gives off a powerful sulphur smell and throws a lurid glare over everything round about.