Inside was a forge with bellows such as any country blacksmith has, and here Vulcan manufactured earthquakes and volcanos at will.
He could create seismic disturbances all over the world, in a trice throw Vesuvius into hysterical contraptions, or make things suddenly red-hot in Mexico or the British Honduras. His wares were known in every quarter of the globe, and he didn’t even so much as advertise.
On this particular night he stood as usual at his forge—a great big, husky, bearded fellow in a red flannel undershirt bared at his brawny, hairy chest, and with sleeves rolled almost up to his shoulders to give the tremendous muscles of his arms full play.
He wore a round leather cap and had on a leather apron tied to his burly waist by leather thongs. Things needed touching up a bit, and he was getting busy.
“Where are those lazy ’prentices of mine?” he roared, in rumbling tones, as he pumped the bellows, while the flames in the forge leaped higher and higher. “Spry, Flash, Nimble, Twist, and the rest of you—where are you, I say? Has my voice grown so weak, you rogues, that you cannot hear me? Come hither this instant!”
From all directions in response to the angry summons came imps in red attire that fitted their lithe, supple bodies as snugly as the skins of eels.
They somersaulted down the chimney, popped up like jack-in-th’-boxes from the earthen floor, and described parabolas through the air from the cavern’s ceiling, grouping themselves humbly on their knees before their irate master, with their arms supplicatingly extended.
“Here at last, are you?” again roared Vulcan. “And none too soon, either! Where have you been, imps? Idling your time away? Quick! heap coals on, all of you, or the fire will be out!”
Forthwith they flung balls of living fire into the forge, and, as Vulcan pumped away at the bellows, he burst out in lusty song: