A short time ago a party of boilermen, who had been discharged from the town, made weekly visits to thevillages round about pretending that they had walked from Sunderland and Newcastle — where a big strike had been declared — and calling themselves a deputation empowered to collect money for their mates at home in the North. The spokesman, a voluble and impudent scoundrel, told impressive stories of hardships and suffering and drew a great many coins from the credulous and sympathetic rustics. By and by, however, a second party, with exactly the same story, came on the scene and professed to be highly indignant on being told that they had been anticipated in their office as collectors. The second batch of visitors did not solicit money; they demanded it, and any who refused were subjected to abuse and threatening language. At last the suspicions of the villagers were aroused. They doubted the genuineness of the tales of distress and of the long march from far-off Sunderland, and closed their doors to the importunate strangers. Very soon trade in the railway town revived; the majority of the men were reinstated and the countryside knew them no more.
The iron foundry is but a few yards from the boiler shed; you may very quickly be introduced to it, with the noise of the hammers and the clatter of the pneumatic apparatus still ringing loudly in your ears. After the din of the boiler shop the quietude of the foundry will be the more remarkable. Here are no plates to be beaten, no rapidly revolving pulleys and shafting, and no uproar. All that can be heard is the dull roar of the blast furnace half-way up the shed, and the subdued noise of the traversing table in the roof above you. The floor is of soft, yielding sand, similar to that of which the moulds for the castings are made, and it is noiseless under the feet. The men sit or kneel on the ground, with their patterns beside them, and construct the duplicates to receive the molten metal. As soon as themoulds are finished the dark, grimy labourers bring the molten liquid, either carrying it in a thick iron vessel lined with firebricks and having a spout on one side — as you would carry a stretcher — or wheeling it along in a big cauldron that swings like a pot, and pour it in through a small space left for that purpose.
The chief interest to the visitor centres in the furnace that contains the molten fluid. This is a large, cylindrical structure, enclosed in a steel frame, towering high into the roof and emitting a terrific heat all around. Near the top is a large platform, reached by an iron stairway, up which you are invited to mount by the grimy furnaceman, more often in jest than in earnest, for the heat there is overpowering. The handrail of the stairway seems nearly red-hot, and the air, puffed out from the furnace, strikes you full in the face, so that you are almost suffocated with it. On the platform is the feeding-place where the fuel and metal are charged — coke to produce the heat and material for the molten fluid, either old broken up castings, or bars of new pig iron. Both iron and coke are thrown in and fused up together. The fluid metal collects and flows out in front, while the debris of the coke — what little remains after combustion — is ejected through a small aperture at the rear. The iron, by its weight, sinks to the floor of the furnace, while the filth and ashes of the coke remain floating on the top — there is no fear of the two intermixing. An iron conduit, working on a hinge, conveys the liquid metal into the pots for the moulds. When the vessels are filled the shoot is raised, and this stops back the metal that goes on accumulating till the next pot is in position.
There is a great attractiveness in the operation of filling the vessels with the molten fluid that, yellowish-white in colour, flows like water from the interior,sparkling and spluttering as it drops into the receptacle beneath. The heat is very intense at all times, and the toil continuous; hundreds of moulds are waiting to be filled from the furnace. Having occasion to visit the shed recently I pushed a way through the crowd of labourers waiting to have their pots filled and stood beside the furnaceman as he was running out the metal. He took no notice of my presence, but kept his eyes fixed upon the conduit.
“Very hot to-day!” I shouted.
“Yes, ’tis,” he replied, without turning round.
“How much metal does the furnace hold?”
“Don’ know.”
“What’s your heat?”
“Don’ know.”
“How many tons of metal do you run out in a day?”
“Don’ know.”
“You must have an idea.”
“Don’ know. Got no time. We’re busy.”
“Are you always on at this rate?”
“We kips on till us stops, same as the rest on ’em, an’ has a sleep in between.” Then, turning round to one of the new arrivals he shouted — “What! bist thee got back ’ere agyen, Charlie? Thee’t eff to wait a bit. I got none for thee yet awhile.” Charlie nodded and grinned, with the sweat streaming down his nose and chin; the whole company smiled appreciatively. Perhaps Charlie was carrying metal for one of the less important moulds, and was used to being put aside and made to wait a few moments, or he may have been one of the day men, of whom there are but a small number in the shed. Nearly everything is done at the piece rate; a few special jobs alone are done according to the day work rule. Under these circumstancesCharlie might have no objection to waiting five or ten minutes.
Most of the moulders dwell in the town, though many of the labourers prefer to inhabit the region round about the borough, in those villages of easy access to the railway centre. Some of the journeymen have served their apprenticeship at small country towns and villages — perhaps in the same county and district — at which agricultural machinery is manufactured. Such as these will be sure to import local methods and characteristics and they will always retain some part of their individual style acquired during their term of apprenticeship. Though the difference of method may not be very great, it will be productive of good results; it is by a combination of several practices and systems that perfection is ultimately attained. Very often, in the midst of a teasing operation, a mate or passer-by may suddenly call to mind a similar difficulty he had in some far-off village yard and thus he will be able to supply the key to the situation. According to the theory of the works’ officials, no difficulties should ever be encountered — they should not even exist. In practice, however, difficulties will often be met with, and when the workman is compelled, by the lowness of his prices, to push ahead at a great speed he is sometimes apt to become confused with a difficulty and to overlook a point that, to the leisured overseer, will be quite obvious and simple.
GETTING TO WORK — THE AWAKENING IN THE COUNTRY — STEALING A RIDE — THE TOWN STIR — THE ARMY OF WORKMEN — “CHECKING” — EARLY COMERS — CLERKS AND DRAUGHTSMEN — FEATURES OF THE STAFF
Atan early hour the whole neighbourhood within a radius of five or six miles of the factory is astir; there is a general preparation for the coming day’s work. The activity will first begin in the villages furthest from the town. Soon after four o’clock, in the quiet hamlets amidst the woods and lanes, the workmen will leave their beds and get ready for the long tramp to the shed, or to the nearest station touched by the trains proceeding to the railway town. Many of the younger men have bicycles and will pedal their way to work. They will not be forced to rise quite as early as the rest, unless they live at a very great distance. A few workmen I know have, for the past twenty years, resided at not less than twelve miles from the town and have made the journey all through the year, wet and dry together. The only time at which they cannot get backwards and forwards is when there are deep floods, or after a heavy snowstorm. Then, if the fall has been severe and the water or snow lies to any depth on the roads, they will be compelled to walk or to lodge in the town. Sometimes the fall of snow has taken place in the night and the workman, under these circumstances, will be forced to take a holiday until it melts and he is able to journey along the road again.
I have heard many accounts, from workmen who had long distances to walk to the factory, of the great and terrible blizzard of 1881, when the drifts in many places along the highways were from sixteen to twenty feet deep. One sturdy fellow took great pride in relating how he made the journeys daily — of six miles each way — during the whole time the snow lay on the ground, though many were frozen to death in the locality. Another workman whom I knew walked regularly to and from the village for fifty years, and at the end of that time bethought himself to get a tricycle. It was amusing to see him, with snow-white hair and the perspiration pouring down his weather-beaten old face, pedalling home from work after a very hot and scorching day at the rolling mills. What with the fatigue of the day’s work and the extraordinary exertions required to propel the machine, he was very nearly exhausted by the time he reached home. Everyone along the highway turned to have a second view of the old man as he trundled his machine along, puffing and blowing with the effort, his face red and fiery; but he was not to be deterred from the innovation. It is probable that walking would have been the easier way of getting backwards and forwards, for the machine was nearly as heavy as a farm cart. There was a slight saving of time, however, and it is a common saying among work-people of all sorts that “Third-class riding is better than first-class walking.” After the old man’s death the tricycle became the property of a band of farm boys who used it as a training machine; it was for a long time a source of fun and amusement to the villagers.
Very often, in the remote villages, where there is no access to the stations at which the factory trains call, a party of workmen club together and hire a conveyance to bring them daily to the town; or they may subscribethe money and buy a horse and cart and contribute equally towards the expense of keeping them. An arrangement is made with the proprietor of a public-house in the town. The horse is stabled and the vehicle stored for a small sum, and the men ride backwards and forwards, comfortable and independent. It was the custom, years ago, during haymaking and harvest-time for farmers to come in with conveyances from the outlying villages and meet the men and drive them home. They went straight from the factory to the farmyard or hayfield, and, after a hearty tea in the open air, or a square meal of bread, cheese and ale, turned in and helped the farmer, both enjoying the change of work and earning a couple of shillings a night as additional wages. This practice was very popular with the factory men, who never ceased to talk about it to their town mates in the shed and rouse them to envy with the frequent narration. Of late years, however, the custom has died out. Labour is too cheap and machinery too plentiful for the farmer to have any difficulty in getting his crops together nowadays.
The majority of the villagers, though compelled to leave home for the town at such an early hour, will yet rise in time to partake of a light breakfast before starting for the shed. The country mothers are far more painstaking in the matter of providing meals than are many of those in the town; they think nothing of rising at four a.m. in order to boil the kettle and cook food for their husbands and sons. Though the goodman may protest against it and declare that he would rather go without the food than give his wife so much trouble, it makes no difference. Every morning, at the usual hour, the smoke goes curling up from the chimney; a cup of hot, refreshing tea is invariably awaiting him on the table when he arrives downstairs. After therepast he starts off in abundant time and takes his leisure on the road; one rarely sees a countryman hurrying to work in the morning.
The boys, on the other hand, will not be as punctual in starting off to work; they will usually be late in setting out, very often delaying till the last moment. They will, moreover, often loiter on the way bird’s-nesting or reading, or perhaps they may start into the farmer’s orchard and carry off the rosy-cheeked apples to eat in the shed or to divide out among their mates and companions. At one time there were three brothers of one house in the village, all working in the factory, though they never under any circumstances went to the town together. The eldest of the three always led the way, the second following five minutes later, and the youngest brought up the rear at a similar interval. The return home at night was made in the same manner: it is unusual to see the members of a family or household going to work together.
Very often the village resident will work for an hour in his garden or attend to his pigs and domestic animals before leaving for the railway shed. If the neighbouring farmer is busy, or happens to be a man short, he may help him milk his cows or do a little mowing with the scythe and still be fresh for his work in the factory. I have known those who, during the summer months, went regularly to fishing in the big brook, or practised a little amateur poaching with the ferrets, and never missed going to gather mushrooms in the early mornings during autumn.
Several boys of the village, especially on the dark winter mornings, used to watch for the freight-trains that sometimes stopped at the signal station and steal a ride down to the works, hanging on to the rails of the brake van, or clinging to the buffers. The practicewas attended with considerable risk, and the punishment, had they been detected, would have been sharp and severe. It was difficult to see them sitting in the shadow of the tail lamps, however, though once or twice we were reported by the signalmen and chased by the goods guards. At one time the train ran through the station without stopping, with three youngsters clinging to the rails of the guard’s van, and it was only checked by accident twelve miles higher up the line. A great chase across fields in a drenching downpour of rain followed, but the goods guard had to own himself beaten and returned to the van. One of the boys was fond of lying down between the metals, and of allowing the trains to thunder along above him — certainly a dangerous proceeding, though he did not think so at that time. All these practices are well-nigh impossible now. Greater care is taken to keep trespassers off the line and the modern system of transverse sleepers for the track hardly permits of lying down between the metals.
One morning, nearly dark, as a village lad was going to work down the line, he was much frightened at seeing a man behaving in a mysterious and suspicious manner underneath one of the bridges. He appeared to be selecting a spot in which to lie across the rails, and as there was a fast train approaching close at hand, the youngster soon became considerably alarmed. To his relief, however, as the engine drew near, the unknown one got off the track, ran up the bank and disappeared. At the same spot, soon afterwards, a young man, suspected of a criminal offence, threw himself in front of an express and was cut to pieces. After that occurrence we boys shunned the line, for that winter at least, and passed to work along the highway. We had many narrow escapes from being knocked down by engines,trains and waggons in the station yard at different times. One morning, being very late, I ran between some waggons that were being shunted, when only a very narrow space remained before the vehicles closed up. In spite of warning shouts, I skipped through quickly, but as I cleared the rails an old shunter, who was waiting on the other side, swung his arm round and struck me a terrific blow behind the ear with his open hand, and loudly scolded me for taking such risks. Half stunned with the blow, I ran off, and freely forgave the old man for his well-meant chastisement. I often meet him now in the town, many years after the escapade, and always remember the incident, though he has doubtless forgotten it long ago.
By five o’clock the people of the inner circle of the radius without the town are well awake, and twenty minutes later the dreaded hooter bellows out, like the knell of doom to a great many. The sound travels to a great distance, echoing and re-echoing along the hills and up the valley seventeen or twenty miles away, if the wind is setting in that direction. This is the first warning signal to the workman to bestir himself, if he has not already done so; to awake from dreams to realities, to shake off the warm, comfortable bed-clothes and don his working attire. It is now the turn of the town dweller to stir. Very soon, here and there, a thin spire of smoke arises from the chimney, telling of the early cup of tea in preparation. The oldest hands, a good many of them grey and feeble, are to be seen making their way towards the entrances to the works. It will take some of them quite half an hour to reach the shed, though that is no more than three-quarters of a mile away. By and by others will come from their houses and join those who are just arriving from the country. These are the town’s early risers.Some time will elapse yet before the regular stream comes forth to fill the street and make the pavements ring with their countless footsteps. Although a few may prefer to come leisurely to work and perhaps wait in the shed some ten minutes before it is time to start at the machines, the great majority loiter till the very last minute and spend not a second of time, more than they are absolutely bound, upon the company’s premises.
At ten minutes to six the hooter sounds a second time, then again at five minutes, and finally at six o’clock. This time it makes a double report, in order that the men may be sure that it is the last hooter. Five minutes’ grace — from six till six-five — is allowed in the morning; after that everyone except clerks must lose time. As soon as the ten-minutes hooter sounds the men come teeming out of the various parts of the town in great numbers, and by five minutes to six the streets leading to the entrances are packed with a dense crowd of men and boys, old and young, bearded and beardless, some firm and upright, others bent and stooping, pale and haggard-looking, all off to the same daily toil and fully intent on the labour before them. It is a mystery where they all come from. Ten thousand workmen! They are like an army pressing forward to battle. Tramp! tramp! tramp! Still they pour down the streets, with the regularity of trained soldiers, quickening in pace as the time advances, until they come very nearly to the double and finally disappear through the entrances. Some of the young men’s faces are ghastly white, very thin and emaciated, telling a story of ill-health — consumption, very likely — while others are fresh and healthy-looking — there are fat and lean among them. Some there are still bearing traces of yesterday’s toil — large black rings around the eyes, or sharp lines underneath the chin andcontinued round the back of the neck. A little more soap and water would have removed them, but in all probability the youngster was extra tired, or in a great hurry to get off to play, or go a-fishing, and so could not endure a tedious toilet. Others, again, come blundering along with eyes only half open — having obviously missed the morning swill — with their shirt unbuttoned at the neck, their boots not laced up, untidy and unkempt, and in a desperate hurry. This one is bare-headed, that one carries his hat in his hand, and another wears his hind before. Many have had no time even to look for their working clothes, but have clapped on the first that met their eyes on arising from bed; you often see one enter the shed dressed in odd garments, and sometimes wearing a shoe of a sort.
The boys and youths are usually the last. They always experience greater difficulty in leaving the comfortable bed, and thepater familiaswill often have had trouble in inducing them finally to wake up and think about work. They do not realise the seriousness of the business as he does, and are very careless on first awaking. By and by, however, the truth dawns upon them; up they scramble, dress, and run out of doors and up the street, and very often do not stop till they come to the shed. I have many a time, as a boy, run from the village to the factory, four miles distant, in thirty-five minutes, as the result of oversleeping. When the youngsters reach the shed, after a long run, they will require a spell of a few minutes before they can start work, and the forgers and hammermen will often have to shout at them several times before they are sufficiently rested to begin.
A great many of the crowd bring their breakfast and dinner with them, either to eat it in the shed, or in the mess-rooms provided for the purpose. Some of themen carry it in a canteen, held under the arm or slung with a string over the shoulder and back. Others bring it tied up in red handkerchiefs, and very many, especially of the town dwellers, wrap it up in old newspapers. The country workmen are more particular over their food than are their mates of the town. Though their fare will be plainer and simpler — seldom amounting to anything more tasty than bread and butter, cheese or cold boiled bacon — they will be at great pains to see that it is very fresh and clean.
That which strikes one most forcibly about the morning crowd is the extraordinary quiet and soberness, both of the men and the juveniles. They seldom speak to each other as they hurry along through the streets and tunnels towards their several destinations — not even those who toil side by side at the same forge or machine, however much they may talk later on in the day. They do not — except in somewhat rare instances — even wish each other “Good morning.” If they happen to speak at all it will usually be no more than to utter a curt “Mornin’,” which is often responded to with a very impolite and often positively churlish “’Ow do!” And as for a smile! A morning smile on the way to work is indeed a rarity. Now and then the careless-hearted lads may indulge in a little playful banter, though even this is not common, but the men never smile in the early morning. There is the day’s work to be faced, the smoke and heat, the long stand at the machine, the tedious confinement, the hard word and bitter speech, the daily anxiety, the unnatural combat for the necessaries of life, and it all looms big on the horizon. By and by, as the day advances and the hands of the clock slowly but surely record the death and burial of the hours, the set features will relax, and the tongue will regain its office. Thefire of human sympathy will be rekindled and man and boy will be themselves again. But this will be not yet. For the present everyone is concerned with his own necessity. He is marching to battle, the issue of which is doubtful and uncertain. When the first victory has been won, which is at dinner-time for him, he will dissolve and be natural and genial, but not now. It is noteworthy that the country workmen will prove to be more sympathetic than those of the town. Many of them will bid “Good morning” to everyone they meet, whether they know them or not. They do not stand upon any kind of formality; answered or not they persist in the salutation, and always add the christian name of the individual where it is known to them.
In the street, near the entrances, are coffee stalls, where, for the modest sum of a halfpenny, the workmen may obtain a cup of the steaming beverage, which is usually of a weak quality and not at all likely to derange the stomach of the individual who swallows it. Another halfpenny will purchase a bun or scone, a slice of “lardy” or currant cake, if anyone shall desire it, so that there is no need for any who can afford a copper each morning to go hungry to work. Some workmen bring food from home in their hand and eat it standing by the stall, where they have stopped to partake of a cup of tea or coffee.
It is pathetic, especially on cold, wintry mornings, to note the rivet boys and others of the poorest class as they approach the entrance by the coffee stalls. Their eyes are fixed longingly on the steaming urns and piled-up plates of buns; they would like to gulp down a good big cup of the liquid and munch several of the cakes. But such luxuries are not for them. They have not a halfpenny in the world, so they contentthemselves with a covetous look and pass on to the labour. Now and then a father, with his little son, will stop to share a cup of coffee, or they may have one apiece, but this is not a common occurrence. All the money is needed elsewhere — for clothes, boots, and household requirements. The better class of work-people — journeymen and such like — never drink tea or coffee at the stalls. That is beneath their dignity. They do not like to be seen breaking their fast in public, and they speak of the beverages as “messes” and “slops.” A few of the workmen will loiter about the street till six o’clock, by which time some of the public-houses will be opened. They will require a mug of ale or a little spirit to put them in order; perhaps they were drunk overnight and want a “livener” before starting in the morning.
At about three minutes past six a smart rush for the entrance is made, and those bringing up the rear will be forced to put on a good spurt in order to gain the shed in time. They have either dawdled about at home, or were late in rising; whatever the reason may be, every morning finds them in the same predicament. The same workmen are always first or last; year in and year out there is little variation in the individual time-table. What a man is this morning he will be to-morrow morning; there is no change week after week or month after month. Moreover, he that is late at the first beginning of the day’s work will most certainly be in the same position at breakfast-time and dinner-time, too. He will come to be noted for that characteristic; he is bound to be late in any case. Such men always parcel out their time with exquisite nicety, so that when the hooter begins to sound they have about twenty yards to run in order to reach the check-box. Immediately after the rearpart of the crowd has disappeared within the entrance the ponderous doors are closed with a loud bang, and the town without looks to be deserted. The men inside the yard scatter, some this way and some that, and are soon out of sight in the different sheds. All that can be seen now are a few clerks sauntering along, usually wearing a flower in their button-hole, and glancing at the morning newspaper.
Every workman is provided with a brass check or “ticket,” round in shape like a penny, or oblong, with a number stamped upon it, corresponding to his name in the register. This has to be placed in the check-box each time the man enters the shed, and it is the only accepted proof of his attendance at work or absence from it. If he loses or mislays the ticket he will be fined a sum equal to half an hour’s wages, whether he likes it or not, and he will consequently often be forced to pay fourpence or fivepence for a portion of metal that is worth no more than a farthing. This will be the price of having his name registered, or, if he is dissatisfied with the arrangement, he can return home and wait till after the next meal-time. Similarly, in the morning, after the five minutes’ grace, whoever is late is charged quarter of an hour for the first five minutes, and half an hour for the next,i.e., till six-fifteen, though there is no reason whatever why a workman should be fined so heavily. A fairer thing to do would be to fine all latecomers a quarter of an hour’s wages and allow them to check till quarter-past six. This is the latest time for checking the first thing in the morning. No workman is admitted later than that hour, but must wait till the re-start after breakfast.
The country workmen will be among the first arrivals at the shed, though they are not usually the earliest comers of all. Some of the townsmen are early risers,and come regularly to the premises half an hour before it is time to begin work. It is remarkable that those who are addicted to very early rising, that is, earlier than is really necessary, will most certainly be found to be deficient in brains and intellect. You will invariably find such ones to be dull-witted, and lower in the mental scale than are many who hurry and come late to business. The old adage —
“Early to bed and early to rise,Makes a man healthy, wealthy, and wise,”
“Early to bed and early to rise,Makes a man healthy, wealthy, and wise,”
“Early to bed and early to rise,Makes a man healthy, wealthy, and wise,”
may be true enough in all three particulars, but it does not necessarily follow that a strict observance of the rule will also endue him with a plentiful supply of brains and intellectual keenness. Healthy it will certainly make him. The application of a little common-sense will easily demonstrate that one reason of his retiring early is the fact that he has no mental pursuits, nothing in which to interest himself outside his daily occupation, so that he is already deficient, and must perforce betake himself to bed. Being free from mental worry and not troubling about intellectual hobbies, he will sleep soundly, enjoy the maximum amount of rest, and wake up fully refreshed and vigorous in the morning. All that such men as these think of is their day’s work, their food and sleep; they have no other object or ambition in life.
As to the entire wisdom of the rule, that is another matter. It was counted sufficiently wise formerly, but we of this day are made of sterner material. Horses and oxen work hard, rest well, enjoy very good health, and appear to be satisfied, if not actually happy, but one man is of more value than many horses or oxen. Work and sacrifice are the only things that will raise a man in the estimation of the world and set him upas a worthy example to his fellows. To those who are content merely to live, and not to shine, may be addressed the words of the Ant spoken to the Fly in the Fable:Nihil laboras; ideo nil habes— “You do nothing, and consequently you have nothing.” At the same time it must be admitted that those who retire early and rise early nearly always prove to be the strongest workmen; they will be capable of great physical exertions and staying powers. But when all has been said, such men are rather to be pitied than envied. They are little more than mere tools and the slaves of their employers — the prodigal squanderers of their powers and lives.
It is a privilege of the shop clerks to arrive a little later than the workmen, and to leave a little in advance of them at meal-times and in the evening. The members of the principal office staff enjoy a still greater dispensation, for they do not begin work at all before nine o’clock in the morning and finish at five-thirty in the afternoon. The clerks are the most numerous of all the trained classes at the factory. With the draughtsmen they form an imposing body, yet though they rank next the foremen and heads of departments, they are not taken very seriously by the rank and file, except when they appear in the shed with the cashbox to pay the weekly wages.
For the sake of distinction the shop clerks are called the “weekly staff,” and the managers and other clerks, with the draughtsmen, are denominated the “monthly staff.” The first-named of these are paid weekly with the workmen; the others receive their salary once a month. The shop clerks are chiefly recruited from the personnel of the sheds, while those of the monthly staff are chosen from over a wider area. In the case of them considerably more training and experience will be required. They must be possessed of specific abilities,and have gone through classes and taken examinations in order to qualify for the positions. It is usual for the more intelligent lads at the higher elementary schools of the town to be recommended to the chiefs of the factory offices. If their qualifications are considered satisfactory, they are started in one or other of the clerical departments and instructed in the several duties. By entering the offices young, and passing from point to point, they have every opportunity of becoming proficient, and are in course of time promoted according to their abilities.
The clerks of the sheds naturally enjoy the confidence of the overseers. They know everything pertaining to piecework prices and output, and are consequently able to furnish the chief with whatever information he desires upon any point. In addition to the clerk there is a checker, who books every article made and supervises the piecework outside the office, and, as if that were not sufficient, a piecework “inspector,” who is commissioned with the power to report upon any price on the spot and to make any reduction he thinks fit. All these co-operate and together supply particulars of the workman and his job, how much he makes on a shift, the precise time it takes him to finish an article; and if it is necessary one or the other stays behind after working hours and computes the number of forgings, or other uses made, and is a perfect spy upon his less fortunate mates of the shed.
An unscrupulous clerk may thus work incalculable mischief among the men. He often influences the foreman in a very high degree, or he even dictates to him, so that you sometimes hear the clerk spoken of as the “boss” and the foreman himself styled the “bummer.” Under such circumstances it will not be wondered at that the clerk is sometimes an unpopular figure in theshed and is looked upon with disfavour, though very often unjustly so. A great deal depends upon the temper and honesty, or dishonesty, of the overseer, for the clerk, in most cases, will take the cue from him. If he is honourable and “above board,” he will not tolerate any covert dealings and tale-bearing. If, on the other hand, he is shifty and cunning, he will encourage all kinds of slimness and questionable proceedings on the part of his clerks.
The members of the monthly staff and draughtsmen occupy quarters grouped around the managers’ offices, and do not often appear in the workshops. When they do so it will be on account of some extraordinary business, or they may come in with the foreman to take a look round and view the machinery. They usually bring a book or drawing in their hand, or under the arm, so as to have some kind of excuse in case they should be challenged by a superior, for even they are not allowed to go wherever they will. I have known draughtsmen to come regularly to the shed provided with a tape-measure, books, and plans, and take the dimensions of a machine again and again. No doubt they were in need of a little exercise and anxious to see the stampers and forgers at work.
Very few clerks, in spite of their leisure and opportunities, are bookish or endowed with a taste for literature; out of over a thousand at the factory less than twenty are connected with the Literary Society at the Works’ Institute. The students and premiums have their debating classes on matters connected with engineering. They meet and read papers on technical subjects, but have little interest in anything natural orspirituel.
FIRST OPERATIONS IN THE SHED — THE EARLY DIN — ITS EFFECT ON THE WORKMEN — CHARGING THE HEATS — THE OIL FURNACE — THE “AJAX” — HARRY AND SAMMY — THE “STRAPPIE” — HYDRAULIC POWER — WHEEL-BURSTING
Arrivedin the shed the workmen remove their coats and hang them up under the wall, or behind the forges. If any shall be seen wearing them by the foreman when he enters they will be noticed and marked: it is a common rule, winter and summer, to take them off on coming into the workshop, except in places where there are no fires. A terrible din, that could be heard in the yard long before you came to the doors of the shed, is already awaiting. Here ten gigantic boilers, which for several hours have been steadily accumulating steam for the hammers and engines, packed with terrific high pressure, are roaring off their surplus energy with indescribable noise and fury, making the earth and roof tremble and quiver around you, as though they were in the grip of an iron-handed monster. The white steam fills the shed with a dense, humid cloud like a thick fog, and the heat is already overpowering. The blast roars loudly underground and in the boxes of the forges, and the wheels and shafting whirl round in the roof and under the wall. The huge engines, that supply the hydraulic machines with pressure, are chu-chu-ing above the roof outside; everything is in a state of the utmost animation. If you were not fully awake before and sensible of what the day had in store for you, youare no longer in any doubt about the matter. All sluggishness, both of the mind and body, is quickly dispelled by the great activity everywhere displayed around you. The very air, hot and heavy, and thickly charged with dust as it is, seems to have an electrical effect upon you. You immediately feel excited to begin work; the noise of the steam, the engines, the roar of the blast, and the whirling wheels compel you to it.
At the same time the morning freshness, the bloom, vigour, the hopeful spirit, the whole natural man will be entirely quelled and subdued after the first few moments in this living pandemonium. Wife and children, friends and home, town and village, green fields and blue skies, the whole outside world will have been left far behind. There is no opportunity to think of anything but iron and steel, furnaces and hammers, the coming race and battle for existence. Moreover, as everything is done at the piece rate, the men will be anxious to make an early start, before the day gets hot. It is especially true of the stampers and hammermen that “A bird in the hand’s worth two in the bush,” and a good heat performed before breakfast is far better than depending upon exertions to be made at a later part of the day.
So, before you can well look around you, before the foreman can reach the shed, in fact, the workmen are up and at it. Those who are earliest on the place usually make the first start. They, and especially the furnacemen and forgemen, often begin before the regulation hour, and make haste to get their fires in a fit condition to receive the metal. First of all, the coal furnaces have to be clinkered. A large steel bar and a heavy sledge break the clinker; the fire-bars are withdrawn, and down plunges the white-hot mass into the “bosh” of water beneath. When this is performednew fuel is laid on, light at first, and sloping gently to the rear wall. The corners are well filled; the floor of the furnace, recently levelled with fresh sand, is firmly beaten down with the heavy paddle, and all is ready to receive the ingots or blooms.
Immediately the forger and his mates swarm round with the metal, either using the crane and pulley, or charging it in upon the peel. The chargeman grunts and scolds and the furnace door is raised, lighting up the dark corners behind the forges. Now the hammer-driver winds the wheel that opens the valve, and fills his cylinder with the raucous vapour; the heavy monkey travels noiselessly up and down, preparing to beat the iron into the shape required. Little by little, as the steam is absorbed by the engines and hammers, the din of the boilers subsides. The tremendous amount of power required to drive the various machines soon reduces the pent-up energy, and by and by the priming ceases altogether. The steam will continue gradually to diminish until the first meal-hour, when it will have reached a low figure, as indicated by the pressure gauge. During the interval, however, it will have risen again, and long before it is time to recommence work the boilers will be roaring off their superfluous energy with the same indescribable din and fury.
To obviate the noise of the simultaneous priming of the boilers an escape valve was recently constructed, and a pipe affixed to carry it through the roof. Owing to the incapacity of the tube, however, the noise, instead of being diminished, was considerably intensified. People heard it in every quarter of the town and thought it was an explosion. No one in the vicinity of the shed could sleep at night, so at last complaints were made to the manager, and the use of the valve was discontinued.
Now the oil furnaces will have been lit up and the smiths’ forges kindled. The two foremen will have arrived and made their first perambulation of the shed, and everything will be in a state of bustle and confusion. Certainly the sparks will not be flying, nor the anvils ringing yet. It will take fully twenty minutes to get everything into order and to produce the first heat. But there is a deadly earnestness evident all round. It will not be long before the busy Titans are stripped to the waist, turning the ponderous ingots and blooms over and over, and raining the blows upon the yielding metal.
The oil forge hails from the other side of the Atlantic, and is an innovation at the shed. It is attached to machinery of the American type, and is well suited for the game of hustle. It is not very large, and occupies but a small space anywhere, but it has this advantage, that it may be moved to any position; it is not a fixture, as are the other furnaces. It is oblong in shape, with an arched roof; and the heating space is not more than several cubic feet. The front is of brick, with as many apertures as are required for the bars of metal, and the back and ends are enclosed in a stout iron frame. The oil — derived from water-gas and tar — is contained in a tank as high as the roof, fixed outside the shed, and is conducted through pipes to the furnace. A current of air from the fan blows past the oil-cock and drives the fluid into the furnace. The heat generated from combustion of the oil is regular and intense; the whole contrivance is speedy and simple.
This is so, however, only when the oil is good and clear. Then there will be scarcely any smoke or fume. The slight flame emitted from the vent-hole on top will be of a copperish colour, and the interior will glitter like a star. The furnace will go right merrily; therewill be no need for the workman to wait a moment. But when the oil is cheap and inferior, or absolutely worthless — as it often is at the shed — the system is a most foul and abominable nuisance. As soon as the forger attempts to light up in the morning, tremendous clouds of black, filthy smoke pour out of every little crack and hole and mount into the roof. After striking against the boards and rafters this beats down to the ground again and rolls away up the shed, filling the place from end to end, half suffocating the workmen with the sickening, disgusting stench, and making their eyes smart and burn. Several times during the operation of lighting up, by reason of the irregular flow through the feeder, the oil in the furnace will explode with a loud bang, shooting out the flames and smoke to a great distance, and frequently blowing the whole front of the forge to pieces, to the great danger of the stampers and the amusement of the other workmen and smiths — for the oil system of heating is not at all popular with the men of the shed.
The stampers’ furnaces, to the number of five or six, are behaving in the same manner, and as there are no chimneys to carry off the smoke the whole smother is poured out into the shed. This will very soon be more than the average man can stand. With loud shouts and curses, down go hammers and tools; the blast is shut off from the fires and a rush is made for the open air until the nuisance is somewhat abated. The overseer walks round and round, viewing the scene with great ill-temper, defending the oil and the furnaces, and blaming the lighters-up for everything, at the same time darting angry looks at those who, half suffocated, have sought refuge outside. So, no matter what the time of year may be, whether summer or the dead of winter, when the chilling winds drivethrough upon the stampers shivering at their fires, he has every door and window thrown open, and often does it himself and stands like a sentinel in the doorway, that no one shall close them up till he is quite satisfied. If he moves away and the half-frozen workmen steal along and adjust the doors, he returns, closes them entirely, and forces the stampers to endure the whole smother, because they dared to meddle with the doors when he had opened them.
By and by, as the heat in the furnaces increases, the smoke will diminish somewhat, though as long as the oil is inferior they will continue to emit a dirty cloud accompanied with deadly fumes and intense volumes of heat, which are forced out by the blast to a distance of several yards, making it impossible for the youth to get near enough to attend to his bars without having his arms and face scorched and burnt. The roof and walls, for a great distance around, are blackened with the soot. There is no mistaking the cause of it, though it is a favourite recommendation of the oil furnaces that they consume every particle of their vapour. When the oil is of a sufficiently good quality this actually happens; it is only when the fuel is cheap and bad that considerable unpleasantness arises.
Our entry to the shed was made through the large door in the north-west corner, near which the first oil furnace is situated. This furnace is attached to a new kind of forging machine conveniently named the “Ajax,” by reason of its great strength. Ajax was the name of two of the mighty ones who fought before Troy, but the manufacturer does not inform us whether the machine is named after Ajax, the son of Telamon, or he that was the son of Oileus, though perhaps the latter is intended. Standing alongside the oil furnace is the first of the drop-stamper’s forges, and next tothat, in a line, are the three drop-stamps themselves. Opposite the Ajax is the foreman’s office — a two-storied building — and a little to one side, straight from the door, is a coal furnace, upon which is superimposed a large “loco” boiler. This reflects a tremendous heat all round, and, together with the furnaces and forges, makes that part of the shed, though near to the door, almost unbearably hot, so that it has come to be called “Hell Corner” by the workmen.
The line of hammers and furnaces is continued up the workshop to the far end under the wall. There also, fixed to the masonry, are the main shafting and pulleys, whirled round at a tremendous rate by the engine in the “lean-to” outside. At the end of the line stand the heavy steam-hammers and, under the wall outside, the blower house, containing machinery for forcing the air for the smiths’ fires. A huge stack of coal and coke is visible through the door at the other end. A small single fan is attached to the oil furnace with the Ajax in order to supply it with air. This travels at a high rate of speed and makes a loud roar, thereby adding to the confused din of the hammers and other machinery. Standing further out in the shed is a second row of smaller steam-hammers and forges with drills, saws, shears, pneumatic apparatus, other oil furnaces, and the American stamping-hammers with their trimmers and appliances. Beyond them is an open space reserved for future arrivals in the shape of manufacturing plant, and towards the south wall are two lines of powerful hydraulic machines and presses with furnaces and boilers attached for heating the plates of metal for punching and welding.
The Ajax machine operates by up-setting. It is worked by youths, one of whom heats the rods of metal, while the other sets them in the dies and pressesthe treadle that brings the machine head forward. As soon as the furnace is sufficiently hot fifteen or twenty bars are thrust through the brickwork in front of the forge, the lubricators are filled, the belt pulled over, and the work begins. The belts flap up and down on the pulleys with a loud noise, the cog-wheels rattle and clank, the “ram” travels backwards and forwards incessantly, clicking against the self-act, the furnace roars and the smoke and flames shoot out. When the bars are white-hot the assistant hands them along; his mate grips them and inserts them in the dies, then presses the treadle with his foot. Immediately the steel tools close up and the ram shoots forward; in about two seconds the operation is complete. Very often the water, running continually over the tools to keep them cool, becomes confined in the dies as they close. The heat of the iron converts it into steam, and, as the ram collects and forces the material, it explodes with a loud report, almost like that of a cannon. Showers of sparks and hot scale are blown in all directions, and if the operator is not careful to stand somewhat aside, his face and arms will be riddled with the tiny particles of shot-like metal ejected by the explosion. It is not uncommon to see his flesh covered with drops of blood from the accident. The bits of metal will adhere tightly underneath the skin, and must be removed with a needle, or otherwise remain till they work out of their own accord.
Both youths of the Ajax dwell in the town, and are known about the corner by the names of Harry and Sammy. Harry’s father was an infantryman, and Sammy’s parent served in the Navy. There is a little of the roving spirit about both of them — each possesses a share of the paternal characteristic. Harry’s father, however, is an invalid, and he is forced to stay at homeand help keep him and his mother, otherwise he would long ago have bidden farewell to the shed, Ajax and all. Sammy, on the other hand, is free and unfettered, but though he has made many attempts to enter the Navy, they were all in vain. First, he was not sufficiently tall or broad in the chest, and later, when, after a course of exercises with dumb-bells, he was able to pass the examinations, he was refused on account of his teeth, which were badly decayed. This was a great disappointment to Samuel. He sulked about for several days afterwards, quarrelled and fought with his mate, and was generally inconsolable. The boys’ chargeman had to intervene as peacemaker and he comforted Sammy, who shed a few tears and finally became reconciled to the forge again, though he often defiantly affirmed that he would not be beaten, not he! He would go to Bristol and get a job aboard ship; he would not stop there in that hole all his life!
Both Sammy and Harry dress much alike, and they resemble each other in their habits. They are both nimble and strong, active, energetic, and high spirited. Both have commendable appetites, and they are especially fond of drinking tea. They have a passionate regard for sports, including boxing and football, but, over and above all this, they are hard workers; every day they are sure of a good sweating at the furnace and Ajax. Both wear football shirts — Sammy a green one and Harry a red and white — in the forge, and they have football boots on their feet. If you should turn out Sammy’s pockets you would be sure to find, among other things, half a packet of cigarettes, a pack of cards, a mouth organ, a knife, a comb, and a small portion of looking-glass. A great many of the town boys and young men carry a small mirror in their pockets, by the aid of which they comb and part their hair and study theirphysiognomies. At meal-times, as soon as the hooter sounds, they hasten to the nearest water-tap, give their faces a rough swill and, with the aid of a portion of looking-glass, examine them to make sure that they are free from the dust and soil of the smoky furnace.
Though the companions of Ajax work hard and perspire much they do not become very tired, apparently, for after the most severe exertions they are still ready to indulge in some sport or other, and run and play or wrestle and struggle with each other on their way down the yard. Arrived home they have their tea, wash and change, and come back to the crowded parts of the town to see and be seen and be moved on by the policeman, returning late home to bed. In the morning they will often be sullen and short-tempered. This invariably wears off as the day advances, however, and they will soon be up to the usual games, singing popular songs and imitating the comic actors at the theatre, where they delight to go once or twice a week.
Close behind the oil furnace, in a recess of the wall, is the fan that drives the blast for this part of the shed, supplying four forges altogether. The fan itself is of iron, enclosed in a stout cast-iron shell or case, and is driven from a countershaft half-way up to the main shafting. Multiplication takes place through this from the top pulley, and whereas the main shaft will make but one hundred and twenty revolutions a minute, the fan below will, in that space, spin round two thousand times. As the engine is running day and night, for more than twenty hours out of the twenty-four, the number of revolutions made by the fan will be over two millions daily. Although, viewed on paper, these figures appear high, yet, if you should stand near and watch the fan itself, it would seem incredible to you that it wouldrequire such a long time in which to complete them. The speed is terrific, and this you may know by the sound, without troubling to look at the gear. The rate of the belts, from the pulleys on to the countershaft, is a further proof of the tremendous velocity of the machine. Although strained very tight on the wheels they make a loud noise, flapping sharply all the while; one may easily gauge the speed of an engine by the sound of the belts alone. The fan itself, at normal times, emits a loud humming noise, like that of a threshing-machine, but when the speed of the engine increases through the relaxation of some other machinery, or the sudden rise of steam pressure in the boilers, it seems to swell with a dreadful fury, and assails the ear with a vicious and continuoushoo-hoo-hoo-hoo-hoo,HOO-HOO-HOO-HOO-HOO, like some savage beast ravenous for its prey. The oscillation of the fan is imparted to everything around. The very ground under your feet trembles, and if you should place your hand upon the outer shell, or on the wooden guard around it, you would experience something like an electric shock, strangely pleasant at first, but very soon necessitating the removal of your hand from the vicinity.
It is dangerous to meddle with the fan while it is in motion. A stout wooden guard is erected around it to prevent any object from coming into contact with the wheels or the interior. If a nut or rivet head should happen to fly and be caught in it, the shell would immediately burst. Very often excessive speed alone will cause a fan to explode. The effect is similar to that of a steam or gas explosion; the heavy cast-iron frame will be shattered to bits, and hurled to a great distance. I remember one in the smithy that exploded and blew up through the roof, making a huge rent. For safety’s sake the fans are often constructed undergroundin order to lessen the danger of explosion, if one should happen.
It is remarkable that while the pulley on the countershaft is travelling at a tremendous speed, so that the spokes are generally invisible, and there appears to be nothing but the rim and centre whirling round, if you look up quickly you will see one spoke quite plainly as it flies over, then it will be entirely lost to view with the rest. The space of time during which it is visible is exceedingly short — it could be no more than a fraction of a second — yet in that brief period the eye perceives it clearly and distinctly: it is something similar to taking a snapshot with a camera.
Formerly, when all the belts were of leather and thickly studded with large broad-headed copper rivets, the boys used to draw near to them and take small lessons in electricity. This could only be done in the case of belts that travelled at a very high rate of speed, such as the one on the fan or the circular saw. Standing dangerously near the wheels they held a finger, or a knuckle, very close to the belt in motion, and were rewarded with seeing a small stream of electric sparks, about as large in volume as the stem of a needle, issuing from the finger-tip or knuckle, accompanied with a slight pain like that produced by the prick of a pin. The velocity of the belt, with the copper, attracted the electricity within the body and drew it out in a tiny visible stream from the flesh. All the belts for high speed work at this time, however, are made of another material,i.e., a preparation of compressed canvas, without rivets. Instead of being laced together they are fitted with a steel-wire arrangement for connection. The ends are inserted, as you would bend the fingers of both hands and thrust them one between the other, and a piece of whalebone is pushed through. Slightas this may seem to be, it is yet capable of withstanding a great strain, and the whole runs much more smoothly than did the old-fashioned leather belts.
A man is specially kept to attend to everything pertaining to the belts. He is known to all and sundry as the “strappie.” Directly anything goes wrong with the connections he appears on the scene smothered in oil from head to foot, and looking very cloudy and serious. He is usually in a great hurry and is not over-polite to anyone. First of all he gives the signal to have the engine stopped. As soon as the shafting is still, armed with a very sharp knife, he climbs up the wall, in and out among the wheels, and unceremoniously cuts away the defective belt. Arrived on the ground again, he draws out the belt, motions “right away” to the engineman, then rolls it up and disappears. In a short while he comes back with it strongly repaired, or brings a new one in place of it. The shafting is stopped again, and up he mounts as before. When he has placed it over the shaft and connected the ends, he pulls it half-way on the wheels and ties it loosely in that position with a piece of cord. As the engine starts the belt assumes its position on the wheel automatically; the piece of cord breaks, or becomes untied, and falls to the ground, and everything goes spinning and whirling away as before. If a belt is merely loose the strappie brings a potful of a substance he calls “jam,” very resinous and gluey, some of which he pours on the wheel and belt while in motion. This makes the belt “bite,” or grip well, and brings the machine up to its maximum speed with the shafting.
Sometimes, if the shafting has not been oiled punctually, it will run hot, or perhaps a small particle of dust will obstruct the oil in the lubricator and produce friction. News of this is soon published abroad by aloud creaking noise that everyone can hear. The workmen take up the cry and shout “Oil, oil,” at the top of their voice; then the engine-driver comes forth with his can and stops the screeching. Occasionally the spindle of the fan will run hot, and especially so if the belt happens to be well tight. This, by reason of its great speed, will soon generate a fierce heat; I recently ran to attend to it and found the spindle of the fan a bright red-hot. Thanks to the warning of the belt, which was slipping owing to the greater exertion required through tightening of the bearings by expansion, I was just in time to prevent an accident. In another moment the fan might have been a total wreck.
Through a doorway in the wall, in an extension of the shed, stand several boilers used as auxiliaries, and, near to them, are two powerful pumping engines and their accumulators, which obtain the pressure for the whole hydraulic plant of the department. The engines are of a hundred and twenty horse-power each, and are fitted with heavy fly-wheels that make forty revolutions a minute at top speed. These draw the water from a neighbouring tank and force it into the accumulators, from which the pressure is finally derived. The accumulators are constructed in deep pits that are bricked round and guarded with iron fencing. They are large weights of fifty tons each — there was originally one of a hundred tons — and are built about a central column of iron or steel standing fifteen or twenty feet above the floor level. Contained in the lower part of the weight is a cylinder; into this the water is forced by the engines and the pressure obtained. The power of the water, when a sufficient volume has accumulated, raises the weights high into the roof and keeps them there, with a little rising and falling, corresponding to the action of the presses in the shed. When the weights haverisen to a certain point they operate a self-act, and the engines stop. Similarly, when they sink below the point they displace a second small lever that communicates with the engine valves and re-starts the pumps. The pressure put on the water is enormous; it often amounts to two thousand pounds per square inch. Since the operation of water is much slower than that of steam, however, the power is not nearly as effective. It would be impossible by its agency to drive machinery at a high rate without the use of gear, though for punching, pressing, and welding some kinds of work the system is admirable and unsurpassed.
The engine that drives the lesser machinery of the shop stands in a “lean-to” and is not nearly as powerful as are those that operate the pumps. A little higher up, in another small lean-to, is a donkey engine that drives the “blower,” which produces blast for the forges and fires. This machine is vastly superior to the old-fashioned fan, and the speed of it is quite low; there is no danger of explosion or other rupture. It is a pleasure, since so much manufacturing plant is introduced to us from foreign countries — America, France and Germany — to reflect that the idea of the blower is English. There is a considerable amount of American-made machinery at the works, and the percentage of it increases every year, though it is often far from being successful. At the same time, it must be conceded that our kinsmen over the sea are very clever in the designing and manufacture of tools and plant, and many of their ideas are particularly brilliant. The English maker of manufacturing tools follows at some little distance with his wares. These, though not actually as smart as the others, are yet good, honest value, the very expression of the Englishman’s character. The chief features of American machinery are — smartnessof detail, the maximum usefulness of parts, capacity for high speed and flimsiness, styled “economy,” of structure: everything of theirs is made to “go the pace.” English machinery, on the other hand, is at the same time more primitive and cumbersome, more conservative in design and slower in operation, though it is trustworthy and durable; it usually proves to be the cheaper investment in the long run. One often sees American tackle broken all to pieces after several years’ use, while the British-made machine runs almostad infinitum. At a manufactory in Birmingham is an old beam engine that has been in use for more than a century and a half, and it is almost as good now as when it was new. The same may be said with regard to English-made agricultural machinery. A modern American mower will seldom last longer than four or five years, but I know of English machines that have been in use for nearly thirty years and are as good as ever, generally speaking.
One man attends to the engines that drive the shop machinery and the “blower.” It is his duty to see that the shafting is kept clean and the bearings well oiled, to watch over the belts and to notify the strappie when one becomes loose or slips off the wheel. Dressed in a suit of blue overalls, and equipped with ladder and oil-can, he remains in constant attendance upon his engines and shafts. He will also be required to keep a watchful eye upon the valves, to regulate the steam to the cylinders, and to maintain a uniform rate of speed for the lathes and drills. Occasionally, if the pressure of steam in the boilers should rise very suddenly — which sometimes happens, as the result of a variable quality of coal and the diversity of heats required by the furnacemen — the engine, in spite of the regulators, will rapidly gain speed and “run away,” as it is called. This mayalso result from the disconnecting a particular machine engaged on heavy, dragging work, such as the saw, or fan, both of which require great power to drive them at their high rate of speed.
Considerable danger attaches to the running away of an engine, especially where it is provided with a heavy fly-wheel. This, if it is whirled round at an excessive speed, is liable to burst, and the consequences, in a crowded quarter, would be disastrous. The danger of bursting lies in the tremendous throwing-off power generated from the hub of the wheel, about the shaft; as the sections forming the circle of the wheel are brought rapidly over there is a strong tendency for them to be cast off in the same manner as a stone is thrown from a sling. If the wheel is exactly balanced, however, and every part of precisely the same weight, so as to ensure perfectly even running on the shaft, the danger of bursting will be small. Grindstones burst much more commonly than do metal wheels. There is not the same consistency in stone as in iron; moreover, there may be a flaw somewhere that has escaped the eye of the fitter or overseer. Consequently, if the speed of the engine driving the stone should be immoderately increased, it will not be able to withstand the throw-off, and will fly to pieces, inflicting death, or very severe injuries upon all those in the vicinity.