"Shut thim damned doors, man!" he shouted across to the door-tender; "God kape us but we' it's our last death we'll be ketchin' before we can clane out our lungs o' the dust we've swallowed the day. It's after bein' wan damned slitherin' whorl of grit in the nose of me since eight the morn."
He struck hard on his chisel and a spark flew. A workman, an Italian, laughed.
"That's arll-rright, Jim—fire up!"
"You kape shet," growled McCann. He was unfriendly as a rule to the Dagos. "It's in me blood," was his only excuse.
"An' if it's a firin' ye be after," he continued, "ye'll get it shurre if ye lave off workin' to warm up yer tongue wid such sass.—Shut thim doors!" he shouted again; but a gust of wind failed to carry his voice in the desired direction.
In the swirling roar and the small dust-spout that followed in its wake, Jim and the workmen in his cold section were aware of a man who had been half-blown in with the whirling dust. He took shelter for a moment by the inner wall. The foreman saw him and recognized him for the man who, the manager had just telephoned, was coming over from the office. He came forward to meet him.
"You're the man who has just taken on a job in Shed Number Two?"
"Yes."
The foreman signed to one of the men and told him to bring an extra set of tools.
"Here's your section," he said indicating McCann's; "you can begin on this block—just squaring it for to-night."