‘Everybody’s doing it, doing it, doing it;Everybody’s doing it now.’”
‘Everybody’s doing it, doing it, doing it;Everybody’s doing it now.’”
‘Everybody’s doing it, doing it, doing it;Everybody’s doing it now.’”
“Yes, and you’ll be doing it directly! ’Tis all your fault. If you was to look after your work instead of acting about so much that wouldn’t have happened. Blasted well light that fire up!”
“Here’s the gaffer comin’.”
“A good job too! I don’t trouble.”
“What the hell’s up this end? Ya on a’ready this mornin’? I’ll send the pair of you home directly.”
“’Tis my mate here. He’s the cause of everything. He’s no good to me. He won’t do nothing.”
“D’ye hear this?”
“I allus does mi whack.”
“Don’t talk to me. Hello! What’s this ’ere? Who bin smashin’ the window? Ther’ll be hell to pop over this. If I reports ya you’ll be done for, both on ya.”
“Please, sir, I kicked a piece of coke and it went through the pane.”
“Hey?”
“The hammer fled off the shaft and went through the window.”
“Why the devil don’t you look after the shaft then, and keep the wedges tight. You’ll knock somebody’s head off presently. I daresay you was at that blasted football again. The first I ketches at it I’ll sack. Have un clean off the ground. I’ll give un football!”
“Light that fire up, Laudy!”
“Got a job on over ’ere, gaffer.”
“Wha’s the trouble?”
“Top cylinder busted, ram cracked, and the crown of the furnace fell in.”
“How did that happen?”
“Night chaps, I s’pose. ’Twas done when we got here this mornin’.”
“You’re out for the rest o’ the wik then. Set yer mind at rest on that. Damn it! Everything happens on nights. This blasted night work’s a nuisance. Go and tell Deep Sea and fetch the brickies, and get they on to’t. Wher’s yer mates?”
“Waitin’ instructions.”
“They can go home, and stop ther’ if tha likes. Got nothin’ for ’em to do. Go and tell ’em.”
“Sign this order, sir.”
“Come on then, quick! No time to mess about with you. Hello! Bailey’s Best! Wha’s this for?”
“Leg irons.”
“You don’t want best for them. Cable’s good enough for they. What ya thinkin’ about?”
“Have a look at this ’ere die, guvnor?”
“Wha’s up wi’ he?”
“Wants dressin’ out, or else re-cuttin’.”
“Spit in him, and get yer iron hot!”
“Wanted on the telephone, quick! Number fifteen shop.”
“Got no coke out at the hip, gaffer!”
“The water tank’s half empty.”
“The glass on the boiler’s smashed.”
“Please, sir, the chargeman’s out, and he got the key of the box.”
“And my mate bin an’ squished the top of his finger half off.”
“Damn good job, too! How many more on ya?”
“Are you coming to answer number fifteen?”
“Oh, be God!”
“Another day doin’ nothin’. You can never start till the middle o’ the wik.”
“Steady on with that oil, Laudy! Steady on, I tell you! He’ll go off directly.”
“BANG!”
“There! What did I tell you!”
“Oh, Christ! My eyes got it.”
“Serves you damn well right! I told you on it. You got the front half out now. Get some oily waste.”
“There’s plenty here.”
“You haven’t got the back stopped up yet. Get some wet sand and stop that hole up. Now then! Be quick with you!”
“Steady on a bit, then! I don’t want to get burned to death.”
“Serve you right if you was to!”
“Steady on, I say! Damn well do it yourself then! I’m not going to get myself burned.”
“I shut him off. Make haste with you. Ya ready?”
“Right.”
Foo-oo-oo-oo-oo.
“What a blasted smoke! Shut some of that oil off.”
“Let it alone! That won’t hurt. We wants to get on.”
“It gets down my inside. I shall spew in a minute.”
“That’ll do you good.”
“Shut some of it off.”
“Let it alone, I tell you!”
“I’m not going to be pizened.”
“’Tis no worse for you than ’tis for me.”
“I can’t see two yards.”
“Hello! Hello! What the hell’s on there?”
“’Sweep! Sweep! Sweep!”
“Steady on with that oil, mate! We gets all the smoke here.”
“I can’t help it.”
“Yes you can help it, too! Shut some of that oil off.”
“That won’t make no difference.”
“Wind off, mate! and hammer down. This is a bit too thick. Hey! Gaffer! Are we expected to work in this?”
“That’ll kill the worms in yer guts.”
“I can’t stand this. My head aches splittin’. I’m half-smothered.”
“We don’t care a damn about the smoke, mate, as long as we can get the iron hot. ’Tis no worse for you than ’tis for the rest. If you don’t like it you can stop out. There’s plenty more to take yer place.”
“That’s all you get for your trouble! Wants the inspector in here. It’s worse than bein’ up the chimmuck. Go on, mate! Hammer up, Jim.”
“He’ll be all right directly, old man. He ain’t got hot yet.”
“Hot, be hanged! He ought to be dropped in the middle of the sea, and you along with him! The pair of you ought to be down with theTitanic.”
“Don’t talk wet!”
“Come on, Laudy! and put some pieces in the fire.”
“I ain’t filled the lubricators yet.”
“Ain’t filled the lubricators! What ya bin at this half-hour?”
“God! Give us a chance.”
“’Twill be breakfast-time before we makes a start.”
“I wish ’tood be! I wants mine.”
“What the hell a’ ya talkin’ about?”
“Baa-a-a!”
“Now then! You knows what I told you! Get and put some pieces in the fire.”
“Can’t find my tongs now.”
“Where did you leave ’em last night?”
“Chucked ’em down.”
“What’s this here?”
“That en’ them.”
“Damn well go and look for ’em then. You’ll lose your head directly.”
“Strike a light, mate! That key’s in there tight.”
“Look out! Hold that bar up.”
“I wants the tongs first.”
“I shan’t hit you.”
“I don’ know so much.”
“Come on! A couple o’ blows’ll do the trick.”
“Not in these trousers!”
“Old Ernie’s thinkin’ about the Tango.”
“The tangle, more likely.”
“Don’t you worry, mate!”
“Ya got him?”
“Right!”
Slap, slap, slap.
“Whoa! Wait a minute. That hammer’s comin’ off.”
“Hold him up.”
“Is he shifted?”
“He’s gone a bit, I think.”
“Hold your hand the other side, and feel him.”
“Now go on. Steady, mate!”
Slap, slap.
“Ho! Hooray!”
“What did I tell you?”
“Everybody’s doin’ it, doin’ it, doin’ it.”
“Our mate’s strong this mornin’. He bin eatin’ onions.”
“Give us a bit of that packing. That thin piece! Now get the pinch bar, and prise the monkey up.”
“How’s that?”
“A bit higher. Right! That’ll do.”
“Key in?”
“Ah! Slap him in.”
“Give us the sledge.”
“Get that big un.”
“Shaft’s broke in two.”
“Get the furnace one, then.”
“How about packing?”
“Same as before.”
“Look out, then!”
“Blow up, mate?”
“Right away with you.”
“How tight do you want him?”
“As tight as you can get him. Slip him in. That’ll do now.”
“Hey-yup! Hammer up. He’s burned a bit, mate.”
“Be hanged! You only got half a piece.”
“Can’t help it. That was stoppin’ to get the key out.”
“Go on. Hit him!”
Bang, bang, bang.
“Whoa! That’ll do.”
“What’s the dies like, chum?”
“All right now.”
“Blow up?”
“Ah! Let’s have you.”
“Tool up, mate!”
“The chain’s twisted.”
“Can’t you see it’s upside down! D’you want to smash the bounder? Now go on.”
Bang.
“Light again.”
Bang.
“That’ll do. Oil up.”
[2]“Pi, Pi, Balli! Let’s have you! whack ’em along there!”
[2]παῖ, παῖ, βάλλε = Boy! boy! whack ’em along.
[2]παῖ, παῖ, βάλλε = Boy! boy! whack ’em along.
“Hullo!”
Whizz.
“As quick as you like, mate! We’ve got to move to-day. Hit him, there!”
Bang, bang, bang.
“Whoa! Tool up, quick! Light, now!”
Bang.
“One more. Light!”
Bang.
“That got him.”
“Pi, Pi, Balli! All hot! All hot! Let’s have you!”
Whizz.
“Hooray!”
“Not much afore breakfast, but look out aater!”
“Wormy’s makin’ some scrap on the next fire. Look at ’im!”
“Rat, O! Rat, O! Get that rat out o’ the fire, old man.”
“Don’t burn ’em! Don’t burn ’em!”
“Another snider, O!”
“The blasted jumper won’t work.”
“Oil they tongs a bit.”
“Pizen that rat in the fire.”
“Go to the boneyard and dig Smamer up, and fetch he back.”
“What the hell are ya talking about? Don’t you never spile one?”
“Hair off! Hair off!”
“Don’t get your bracers twisted.”
“Tell him off, kid.”
“I’ll put my hand in your mouth directly.”
“You’re the finest worm I’ve ever seen.”
“Come on here, and not so much of your old buck!”
“Get out of the road, and let Pep have a try.”
“Damn well get away from here! Who the hell can hot iron with you about? Your face is enough to spoil anything.”
“Get ’em hot! Get ’em hot!”
“Get hold of that lever, you reptile!”
“I’ve seen better things than you crawling on cabbages.”
“How’s that? Will that do for you?”
Whizz. Slap.
“Get that muck out o’ your fire.”
“Hit him hard! Right up.”
Bang, bang, bang. Knock.
“Keep off the top!”
“You said right up.”
“Shut some of that steam off.”
“Steam’s all right.”
“Shut it off, I tell you!”
“Shut it off yourself! Mind the tongs, or you’ll get it.”
Bang, bang, bang, bang.
“Don’t answer me back or I’ll flatten you out.”
“Nothing’s never right for you. You ought to be in a bigger town.”
“Tool up, there!”
“Rope’s off the wheel, mate!”
“Shut the blasted wind off.”
“He’s cut all to pieces.”
“Tha’s knockin’ the top. I told you of it. I shall ast the gaffer for another mate. This’ll take us till dinner-time. Go and get the spanners, and ast Sid for a new rope, and look sharp about it!”
“Now, Laudy! Wake up with you! We shan’t earn damn salt.”
“I don’t trouble. I can’t help it.”
“Well! Come on, then.”
“Tongs won’t hold ’em.”
“Get another pair.”
“Which uns?”
“There’s plenty more about.”
“I’m sick o’ this job.”
“You don’t like work.”
“’Cause you’re so fond of it!”
“Don’t waste them ends off. They won’t fill up as it is.”
“I reckon the fella as started work ought to come back and finish it.”
Crack.
Boom.
Bump.
“Don’t burn the damn things! Look at that! All over me.”
“My clothes is afire.”
“What’s yer little game there, eh? Med as well kill a fella as frighten him to death.”
“Oo! My grub got it!”
“Get these others out first.”
“What O! I’m not goin’ to seemygrub burn. What doyouthink?”
“All the damn lot’ll be spoiled.”
“I don’t care a cuss! I got some tiger in there.”
“Steady that oil a bit.”
“God! Doan it stink!”
“Shut some of it off, I tell you. It’s running all over the place.”
“Half on it’s water.”
“That second one there, and keep to the top row.”
“Hey-up!”
Crack.
“Why don’t you be careful?”
Snap. Bump.
“Back tool’s jammed now.”
“The safety bolt’s broke.”
“Shut the belt off.”
“Look out, then!”
“Stop the oil, and pull them others out.”
“Let ’em alone! We shan’t be a minute.”
“Well! Jump about then.”
“Here’s Calliper King comin’!”
“Tell him to clear off. We can do very well without him. That fellow makes memad.”
“If you was to put the spanner on the nuts sometimes you wouldn’t get half the trouble.”
“All right, mate! There’s no damage done. We can’t think of everything.”
“Your bearings are hot.”
“They’ll get cold directly.”
“You might get them seized.”
“Damn good job! Shove some oil into ’em, kid!”
“Who are you calling kid?”
“Look out, there!”
“I shall report you, mind!”
“You can please yourself. ’Twon’t be the first time. If you’ll only keep out o’ the road we shall be all right. Blow up, Laudy!”
Foo-oo-oo-oo-oo.
“Pull the belt over.”
“Right?”
“I’m ready.”
“Take him, then.”
Crack.
Click, clack. Bump.
“How’s that?”
“That got him. Now we shan’t be long!”
“Yip ho! All new uns!”
“I got that pistol in my pocket.”
“Is he any good?”
“Kill at hundred and twenty.”
“What? Inches?”
“Inches be damned! Yards, man!”
“You never killed anything with him.”
“Ain’t he, though? I know he have.”
“What have you killed? A dead cat?”
“Dead cat! You’re afraid to let me try him on you.”
“You couldn’t hit a barn door.”
“I tell you what I done.”
“What’s that? Oh! I know. Who shot the sheep? Baa-a-a!”
“Shut your blasted head!”
“Pride o’ the Prairie! Got any cartridges?”
“Half a boxful.”
“Slugs or bullets?”
“Slugs.”
“Let’s have a look!”
“Get this work done first. ’Twill be breakfast-time directly.”
“Hey-up! He’s slightly wasted.”
“I should blasted well think so.”
Crack.
Boom.
“Hello! There’s another snider!”
Bang.
“Keep him there! We don’t want your scrap.”
“Pi, Pi, Balli! Tha’s a good heat, mate!”
“We haven’t done anything yet.”
“What! Tell somebody else that yarn! Hear that, Jim?”
“Wha’s up?”
“Chargeman says we ain’t done nothin’ yet.”
“More we ain’t, have us?”
“Have us not! Tha’s only a rumour.”
“I didn’t think we had.”
“You bin asleep an’ only just woke up. All good uns, too.”
“We shall want ’em, bi what I can see on it.”
“What d’ya mean?”
“Look at the next hammer! They won’t start to-day.”
“How’s that, mate?”
Whizz.
“Mind my toe.”
“Good shot, that!”
“Cool your tongs out.”
“Have a drink.”
“Put it on the anvil.”
Bang, bang, bang.
“Whoa! Tool.”
“Ain’t he slippy!”
“Light blow.”
Bang.
“That takes a bit of doing, one hand!”
“Come on, Lightning!”
“Unknown swank!”
“All hot! All hot!”
“You’ll get the price cut directly.”
“Come and see the boys!”
“I’m a-lookin’ at ya!”
“Ain’t a burned one yet.”
“Don’t make a song about it.”
“You got a good mate on the hammer.”
“Fifty without stoppin’ the wind. All new uns!”
“See who you are!”
“Stand back, and mind the mallet! There’s one for you, Wormy!”
“Take a couple, mate?”
“Come on with ’em.”
Slap, slap.
Bang, bang, bang.
Bang, bang, bang.
“Fire’s gettin’ low. Wants some more coke up.”
“Wher’ d’ye want thase few pieces, Willums!”
“Tip ’em up anywhere, Mat!”
“All you’ll get to-day.”
“You’re talking wet. They won’t last five minutes.”
“You’ll hef to see gaffer, then. We got tochangeknives.”
“Get out of the road, or you’ll get your whiskers singed.”
“Dossent thee fret thy kidneys. This is too damn hot for me. You got no room to mauve.”
“Somebody got to do a bit.”
“Thee dossent do’t all.”
“You’d have to go home if I did.”
“Top hammer’s stopped now. Middle un’s ready.”
“What’s up a-top? Going to start, there? See that rope’s all right! Have the sharp edges took off the wheel.”
“We be done for.”
“What’s the matter?”
“Top block broke. Only had forty more to do.”
“Ram up, and get your dies out. Give a hand there, mates.”
“’Tis all bad luck this mornin’, ain’ it?”
“’Tis the chaps as make the luck. What do you think? We get on all right.”
“Here’s the bummer in a tear.”
“Why the hell don’t you be careful! You’ll break all the tackle in creation. First one thing and then another. Ropes and wheels and dies. You wants to go home for a month. That ’ood teach ’e a lesson. You don’t trouble a damn for nothing.”
“I asked the fitters to see to it, and they wouldn’t come.”
“That block was never strong enough for the job.”
“Go an’ fetch Moses. What ya goin’ to put in next?”
“Pull-rod levers. Die seventy-two.”
“Don’ want them. Put in hunderd an’ one.”
“Chargeman says levers. Wanted urgent. Chaps bin up after ’em.”
“Let ’em wait. I’m the foreman. You knows that.”
“All right. Don’ make no difference to me.”
“Did you send for me?”
“I did. Get on wi’ new blocks for piston rods.”
“Any alterations?”
“Not as I knows on.”
“We’ve had complaints about the others.”
“I don’t care. Let ’em file ’em. The devils be never satisfied.”
“Better have ’em a bit stiffer?”
“They’m stiff enough. They wasn’t set level.”
“They was as level as a billiard table, gaffer!”
“I could a’ shoved my finger underneath ’em.”
“I had ’em packed tight everywhere.”
“Then you didn’t have yer iron hot. ’Tis no good to arg’ the point. Take care wi’ the next lot, mind!”
“Let him go to hell! He’d make anybody a damn liar. Key out. Hang on to that spanner. Damp up, and shut the blower off. Fetch the iron trucks. We shall want some help to get these out o’ the way.”
“Billy, sing that song,That good old song to me!”
“Billy, sing that song,That good old song to me!”
“Billy, sing that song,That good old song to me!”
“Now, Jacko! Give us a hand here.”
“I can’t. My leg’s bad.”
“That won’t hurt your leg, will it? I wants your hand, not your leg. ’Tis all in the gang.”
“I got one stuck on the jumper.”
“All right. Blind you! We’ll do it ourselves. Thisisa show! Come on, mates! Keep the handles down, and mind he don’t tip.”
“Give him a blow on that bar to get him off the jumper, can’t ya; and don’t stick up there doin’ nothin’. You ain’t heard our mate’s new nickname, have you, Wormy?”
“No. What’s that?”
“Flannel. Know why that is?”
“No.”
“Cos water allus makes him shrink. Look at him! The only curly-headed boy in the family!”
“You hump-backed, monkey-faced baa-boon! You broke loose from the Zoo, you did. I won’t hit another stroke for nobody, now, damn if I do!”
“Get out! I’ll spiflicate you!”
“I’ll bash the tongs across your head.”
“What ya goin’ to do? Take that!Nowwhat ya goin’ to do? I’ve had enough of your jaw.”
“Let the kid alone, can’t you!”
“I’ll get my own back on him, before night, see if I don’t. I’ll drop the hammer on his head.”
“Fetch him out, Wormy!”
“Hey-yup!”
Whizz-z-z.
“Keep that hammer still, will ya! Hit him if you dares! Now go on. Steady!”
Bang, bang, bang, bang, bang.
“Whoa! whoa! steady! steady! Light when I tell ya!”
Bang, bang, bang, bang, bang, bang.
“Blast you! What a’ you doin’? You smashed him all to pieces.”
“I told you I’d do it.”
“Workin’ your breakfast-time, there?”
“Goin’ to keep on all day?”
“Ain’t you goin’ to chuck up?”
“How’s the balance?”
“What! only just started?”
“Whack ’em along!”
“How many more?”
“Work ’em out!”
“What time is it?”
“’Ere’s old Sid with the checks!”
“What’s up, Flannigan?”
“Only wants two minutes!”
“Flatfoot’s gone by.”
“You’re on late, mate!”
“What’s going to happen?”
“Got a book-ful?”
“Tool up, there!”
“Put him up yourself!”
“Put that tool up, Wormy, and catch hold o’ that lever.”
“Light blow!”
Bang.
“Whoa! That’ll do.”
“What cheer, Sid!”
“Stand back, here, and let’s get by.”
“Wants a lot o’ room for a little un, don’t ya?”
“Not so much as you. Not so much as you. My time’s precious, not like yourn. We got summat to do, we have.”
“Ah! Sit on your backside an’ count they checks out, that’s all.”
“Goin’ to have your bit o’ brass when I offers it to you?”
“Put him on the anvil.”
“Shan’t! Take him in your hand. Lose him, and then blame me.”
“My hand’s oiley!”
“Don’ matter! Wipe him in your breeches, can’t you? Come on, kidney bean-stick!”
“Little fat maggot!”
“Go on, bones!”
“Pimple on a cabbage!”
“Alpheus!”
“Sideus!”
“Nemo mortalium omnibus horis sapit!”
“σφραγιδονυχαργοκομήτης.”
“Lend my father your wheelbarrow!”
“Using your knife breakfast-time, kid?”
“No! I got bread and scrape.”
“Who got the frying-pan?”
“You can have him for a fag.”
“I got a bit o’ dead dog, I have.”
“What d’ya call it? Looks like a bit of Irish.”
“That never died a natural death!”
“That drove many a man up a tree!”
“Lend us that catalogue of firearms, Dick!”
“He’s underneath the bucket.”
“How much longer ya going to keep on?”
“I wants to get my blocks right afore breakfast.”
“Laudy! You left that rotten stinking oil on.”
“No, I didn’t!”
“Yes you did! Stop it off, and put that board in the hole!”
“I tell you it’s shut off. That’s only the stink you can smell.”
“It makes me feel rotten. I shan’t want any grub.”
“Ain’t it damn hot! We shall be dead afore night.”
“Hit him, Wormy!”
Bang, bang, bang.
“Whoa!”
“What’s the die like?”
“Wants to go over a bit yet.”
“Chuck it up!”
“Lie down, can’t you!”
“Mind your own business!”
“Put him through the tool.”
“Got the coke ready for after breakfast, Jim?”
“Ah!”
“I’m going to put you through your facings, by and by.”
“I don’t trouble! I ben’ a-goin’ to work no harder for nobody.”
“Look out for Ratty! He’s peepin’ about. He’s going to report the first one as puts his coat on afore the hooter goes.”
“He’s worse than old Wanky!”
“’Tis all damn watchmen here!”
“How’s the minutes?”
“It’s quarter past.”
“There’s the buzzer!”
“There he goes!”
“Tools down, mates!”
“Whack ’em down!”
“Hooter!”
“Hoo-ter-r!”
“Hoo-oo-ter-r-r!”
THE NIGHT SHIFT — ARRIVAL IN THE SHED — “FOLLOWING THE TOOL” — THE FORGEMAN’S HASTE AND BUSTLE — LIGHT AND SHADE — SUPPER-TIME — CLATTER AND CLANG — MIDNIGHT — WEARINESS — THE RELEASE — HOME TO REST
Whateverthe trials of the day shift at the forge may be, those of the night turn are sure to be far greater. For the daytime is the natural period of both physical and mental activity. The strong workman, after a good night’s rest and sleep, comes to the task fresh, keen, vigorous, and courageous. Though the day before him be painfully long — almost endless in his eyes — he feels fit to do battle with it, for he has a reserve of energy. In the early morning, before breakfast, he is not at his best. He has not yet “got into his stride,” he tells you. His full strength does not come upon him suddenly, it develops gradually. He can spend and spend and spend, but cannot exhaust. Nature’s great battery continues to yield fresh power until the turn of the afternoon. Then the rigid muscles relax, and the flesh shows loose and flabby. The eyes are dull, the features drawn; the whole body is tired and languid.
But this is with the day shift, working in the natural order of things. A great change is to be observed in the case of the night turn. There nature is inverted; the whole scheme is reversed. The workman, unless he is well seasoned to it, cannot summon up any energy at all, and he cannot conquer habit, not after months, oreven years of the change. When, by the rule of nature, he should be at his strongest and the exigencies of the night shift require that he should sleep, that strength, bubbling up, keeps him awake, dead tired though he be, and when he requires to be active and vigorous just the reverse obtains. The energy has subsided, the sap has gone down from the tree. Nature has retired, and all the coaxing in the world will not induce her to come forth until such time as the day dawns and she steals back upon him of her own free will. That is what, most of all, distinguishes the night from the day shift, and makes it so wearisome for the pale-faced toilers.
There is a poignancy in preparing for the night shift, the feeling is really one of tragedy. This is where the unnaturalness begins. Everyone but you is going home to rest, to revel in the sweet society of wife and children, or parents, to enjoy the greatest pleasure of the workers’ day — the evening meal, the happy fireside, a few short hours of simple pleasure or recreation and, afterwards, the honey-dew of slumber. As you walk along the lane or street towards the factory you meet the toilers in single file, or two abreast, or marching like an army, in compact squads and groups, or straggling here and there. The boys and youths move smartly and quickly, laughing and talking; the men proceed more soberly, some upright with firm step and cheerful countenance, others bent and stooping, dragging their weary limbs along in silence like tired warriors retreating after the hard-fought battle.
There is also the inward sense and knowledge of evening, for, however much you may deceive your external self, you cannot deceive Nature. Forget yourself as much as you please, she always remembers the hour and the minute; she is far more painstaking and punctual than we are. The time of day fills you witha sweet sadness. The summer sun entering into the broad, gold-flooded west, the soft, autumn twilight, or the gathering shades of the winter evening, all tell the same story. It is drawing towards night; night that was made for man, when very nature reposes; night for pleasure and rest, for peace, joy, and compensations, while you — here are you off to sweat and slave for twelve dreary hours in a modern inferno, in the Cyclops’ den, with the everlasting wheels, the smoke and steam, the flaring furnace and piles of blazing hot metal all around you.
Within the entrance the place seems almost deserted. The huge sheds have poured out their swarms of workmen. The black-looking crowds have disappeared, and the great, iron-bound doors are closed up and locked. The watchmen, who have been patrolling the yard and supervising the exodus of the toilers, are returning to their quarters. Only the rooks are to be seen scavenging up the fragments of bread and waste victuals which the men have thrown out of their pockets for them.
Arrived at the shed you are greeted with the familiar and dreadful din of the boilers priming, the loud roar of the blast and the whirl of the wheels. The rush of hot air almost overpowers you. You feel nearly suffocated already, and half stagger through the smoke and steam to reach your fire and machine standing under the dark, sooty wall. As you thread your way in and out between the furnaces and among the piles of iron and steel you receive a severe dig in the ribs with the long handle of the man’s shovel who is cleaning out the cinders and clinker from beneath the furnaces, or the ash-wheeler, stripped to the waist and dripping with perspiration, runs against you roughly with his wheel-barrow and utters a loud “Hey-up!” or otherwise assails you with“Hout o’ the road, else I’ll knock tha down,” and hurries off up the stage to deposit his load and then comes down again to get in a stock of coal from the waggon for the furnaces. Here the smith is preparing his fire, while his mate breaks up the coke with the heavy mallet; the yellow flames and cinders are leaping up from the open forge by the steam saw. The oil furnaces are puffing away and spitting out their densest clouds of pitchy smoke, filling the shed, while the stamper fixes his dies and oils round, or half runs to the shears in the corner and demands his stock of iron bars to be brought forthwith. The old furnaceman, sweating from the operation of clinkering, shovels in the coal and disposes it with the ravel. The forging hammers glide up and down, clicking against the self-act, while the forger and his mates manipulate the crane and ingot, or charge in the blooms or piles. Everyone is in a desperate hurry, eager to start on with the work and get ahead of Nature, before she flags too much. It is useless to wait till midnight, or count upon efforts to be made in the hours of the morning.
All this is during your entry to the shed and often before the official hour for starting work. On coming to your post you, too, strip off hat, coat, and vest, and hang them up in the shadow of the forge, then bind the leathern apron about your waist, see to your own fire and tools — tongs, sets, flatters, and sledges — obtain water from the tap by the wall, shout “Hammer up!” to your mate, and prepare to thump away with the rest. The heat of the shed in the evening, from six o’clock till ten o’clock, is terrific in the summer months. For hours and hours the furnaces and boilers have been raging, fuming, and pouring out their interminable volumes of invisible vapour; the sun without, and the fires within have made it almost unbearable. The floor plates, the iron principals, the machine frames,the uprights of the hammers — everything is full of heat; the water in the feed-pipes is so hot as to startle you. As the hour draws on, towards nine or ten o’clock, this diminishes somewhat. The cool night air envelops the shed and enters in through the doors, restoring the normal temperature, though, if the night be muggy, there will be scarcely any diminution of the punishment till the early morning, when there is always a cooling down of the atmosphere.
Now the general toil commences in every corner of the smithy. The brawny forger pulls, tugs, or pushes the heavy porter; the stamper runs out with his white-hot bar, spluttering and hissing, and poises one foot on the treadle while he adjusts it over the die, thenPum-tchu, pom-tchu, ping-tchu, ping-tchu, goes the hammer, and over he turns it deftly, blows away the scale and excrescence with the compressed air, andpom-tchu, ping-tchu, again replies the hammer. Here he claps the forging in the trimmer, click goes the self-act, and down comes the tool. The finished article drops through on to the ground; the stamper thrusts the bar into the furnace, turns on more oil and off he goes again. The sparks swish and fly everywhere, travelling to the furthest wall; he wipes away the sweat with the blistered back of his hand, looking half-asleep, and rolls the quid of tobacco in his cheek.
Hard by the smith is busy with his forge and tools. His mate is ghastly pale and thin in the yellow firelight, though he himself looks fat and well. He sets the blast on gently till the iron is nearly fit, then applies the whole volume, to put on the finishing touch and make the iron soft and “mellow.” This lifts up the white cinders in clouds and blows them out of the front also, so that now and then they lodge on the blacksmith’s arms and in his hair, but he shakes them off and takeslittle notice of them. He jerks the jumper up and down once or twice, turns the heat round quickly, then shuts off the blast, and with a lion-like grip of the tongs, brings it to the anvil and lays on with his hand-hammer, while his mate plies the sledge. Presently he throws down his hammer, grips the “set tool” or “flatter,” and his mate continues to strike upon it till the work is completed. If the striker is not proficient and misses once or twice, he jerks out, in a friendly tone — “On the top, or go home,” or, “Go and get some chalk” —i.e., to whiten the tool — or, “Follow the tool, follow the tool, you okkerd fella.” Once, when a smith had a strange mate — a raw hand — with him, and bade him to “Follow the tool,” when he put that down the striker continued to go for it till it flew up and nearly knocked out the smith’s eye, but he excused himself on the ground that he thought he had to “follow the tool.”
Here is a skinny, half-naked fellow, striving with all his might to draw a heavy bogie piled up with new blooms, half a ton or more in weight. His head is thrown far forward, about a yard from the ground. His arms, thin and small, are strained like rods of iron behind his back; only his toes grip the ground. He shouts out to someone near for help.
“Hey! Gi’ us a shove a minute.”
“Gi’ thee tha itch! Ast the gaffer for a mate. I got mi own work to do,” the other replies, and keeps hammering away.
Next is a belated stamper in want of tools. “Hast got a per o’ tongs to len’ us a minute, ole pal?”
“Shove off wi’ thee and make a pair, or else buy some, like I got to. Nobody never lends I nothin’,” is the answer he receives.
This one wants a blow.“Come an’ gi’ I a blow yer.”
“Gi’ thee a blow on the head. I got no time to mess about wi’ thee.”
Another is concerned as to the hour — there are those whose thoughts are always of the clock, anxiously awaiting the next stop. “What time is it, mate?”
“Aw! time thee wast better,” or “Same as ’twas last night at this time. Thee hasn’t bin yer five minutes it.”
Perhaps the steam pressure is low. “Wha’s bin at wi’ the steam, matey? We chaps can’t hit a stroke.”
“Got twisted in the pipes, I ’spect. Go an’ put thi blower on, an’ fire up a bit, an’ run that slag out.”
This one cannot obtain his supply of bars from the shears. “Now Matty! Hasn’t got that iron cut? I can’t wait about for thee.”
“Dwunt thee be in sich a caddle. Thee ootn’t get it none the zooner. Other people got to live as well as thee, dost naa!”
“All right! I shall go and seehe,” (the overseer).
“Thee cast go an’ do jest whatever thee bist a-mine to. ’Twunt make a ’appoth o’ difference.”
By and by the overseer comes up and shouts — “Hey! Can’t you let these chaps on, Matthews?”
“No, I caan’t! Tha’ll hef to woite a bit. Ther’s some as bin a-woitin’ all night, ver nigh. ’Tis no good to plag’ I, else ya wunt get nothin’ done at all.”
Here is the forger bellowing at his driver.“Go on! Go on! Hit him! Hit him! Hit him! Light, ther’! Light! ’Old on! ’Old on! Whoa, then! Castn’t stop when I tells tha? Dost want to spile the jilly thing? Gi’ us up they gauges. A’s too thick now. Up a bit, ther! Hit un agyen! Light now! Light! Light! That’ll do! Whoa! Take ’old o’ this bar, an’ gi’ us that cutter. Now, Strawberry! turn ’e over in the fire, an’ don’ stand ther’ a-gappatin’. ’Aaf thi ’ed ’ll drop off in a minute. Ther’s a lot to do yet, else ya won’ get no balance. Hout o’ the road, oot!”
“Haw-w-right. Kip yer wool on. ’Tis a long time to mornin’ it. Thee bist allus in a caddle,” the other answers.
“Shet thi ’ed, an’ mind thi own business, else I’ll fetch the gaffer to thee! Pull up ther’, an’ le’s ’ev un out on’t. We be all be’ind agyen! Everybody else ull a done afore we begins! Hang on to that chayn, Fodgy! Now then!Alltogether!Ugh!”
So the ingot is brought out with shouts and cries, the rattling and jingling of chains and the loud roaring of steam in the roof outside. The blaze of the furnace and the spluttering, white-hot metal make it as light as day in the shed. The forger and his mates stagger under the weight of the ingot and porter-bar and incline their heads to escape the fierce heat. Their faces and necks are burnt red and purple — of the colour of blood-poisoning. Their shirt sleeves are hanging loose to protect their arms; they wear thin, round calico caps on their heads and leathern aprons about their waists. At the first blow or two the sparks shriek around, and especially if the ingot is of steel and happens to be well-heated. The smiths yell out at the top of their voice and rush to save their clothes hanging up beside the forge. The men’s faces look transfigured in the bright light. Their shadows, huge, weird, and fantastic, reach high up the wall, even to the roof. The smallest object is thrown into relief and the shafts of the sledges cast a shadow as sharp and clear as from the sun at mid-day. As the mighty steel monkey descends, half covering the white mass, the shadow falls on the roof, walls, and machinery around, and rises as the smooth, shapely piston glides upward into the cylinder; up and down, up and down it goes, like the rising and falling of acurtain. This continues till the heat of the forging diminishes and the rays of the metal are no longer capable of overpowering the light cast out from the fire-holes and the smoky, sleepy-looking gas-jets hanging in lines adown the smithy.
As the iron becomes cooler the hammer beats harder and harder. The oscillation is very great and the sound nearly approaches a ring. The steam roars overhead and leaks and hisses through the joints of the pipes and glands. The oil in the stamper’s dies explodes with a cannon-like report. The huge hydraulic enginestchu-tchuoutside; the wheels whirr and hum away in the roof, and the smith’s tools clang out or ring sharply on the anvil. Without, through the open doors, the night shows inky black; the smoke and steam beat down and are blown in with the wind, or the fog is sucked in quickly by the currents. Now the rain beats hard on the roof and runs through in streams, while the wind clatters between the stacks and ventilators overhead with a noise like thunder; or, if it is mid-winter, the light, feathery snowflakes are wafted in from above and sway to and fro and round and round, uncertain where to lodge, until they are dissolved with the heat and finally descend in small drops like dew upon the faces and arms of the forgers.
At the end of every hour the watchman with his lamp passes through, like a policeman on his beat, and stands a moment before the furnace to warm himself or to watch the shaping of the ingot. The old furnaceman views him askance, or ventures to address him with a “How do?” or “Rough night out,” to which the other responds with a nod, or a “Yes; ’Tis!” and takes his departure into the blackness outside. At frequent intervals the overseer walks round and takes his stand here and there, with his hands behind him, or twistinghis fingers in front, or with his thumbs thrust into the arm-holes of his waistcoat, and glares at the men, spitting out the tobacco juice upon the ground or on the red-hot forging. Presently he shouts: — “Ain’t ya done that thing yet? How much longer ya going to be? He’ll want a bit o’ salt directly. Wher’s Michael? Ain’t he in to-night? Wha’s up wi’ he?”
“He’s a-twhum along o’ the owl’ dooman to-night,” someone answers. The grimy toilers curse him under their breath and wish he would soon clear off, which he presently does, slipping quickly away into the shadows or climbing up the wooden stairway into the well-lit office.
The first spell is at ten o’clock — that is, after four hours of terrific hammering and sweating. This is the supper-hour. Here the engines cease and the wheels stop their grinding. The roar of the blast has ceased, too; there is not a flicker from the coke fires. The old furnaceman is still shovelling away, for the forger was on till the last moment. Now he “stops up,” lays a little coal dust along the furnace door, shuts off his blower, puts down the damper, and proceeds to rinse his hands in the water bosh. All the while he was attending to his fire he had the wiper about his neck and held one corner of it in his mouth. After drying his hands with it he gives his grimy face a good rub, goes to his clothes hanging up by the wall, slips on his waistcoat, stirs his tea in the can with the blade of his pocket-knife, takes his food from the peg and comes and sits down near the furnace, or in the sand-bunk. The one in charge of the steam walks from boiler to boiler, setting on the injectors. They admit the cool water with a murmurous, sleepy sound — there is no priming yet. The furnace fire glitters through the chinks of the door or grate like the stars on a frosty night. The old furnaceman does not eat much. He tastes a littleand bites here and there, then he wraps the whole up again.
“What! Bistn’t agwain to hae thi zupper, then?” some one enquires.
“No-o! Can’t zim to get on wi’t to-night,” he answers.
“Well! Chock it out for they owld rats, they’ll be glad on’t. Yellacks is a girt un ther’ now, in atween they piles!”
Try how you will you cannot enjoy your food on the night shift. I have carried mine home again morning after morning, or thrown it out for the birds in the yard. I have seen men — and especially youths — go to sleep with the food in their mouths. You are too languid to eat much, and what you do eat has no savour. It is remarkable, also, that while you continue working you do not feel the fatigue so much, but as soon as you sit down you are assailed with increased weariness; you feel powerless and exhausted and have no strength or energy left. Many, in order to keep awake and fresh, go out into the town, deserted at that hour. Some walk outside in the yard and bruise their shins against this or that obstruction in the darkness. Others, again, after partaking of a few mouthfuls of food, go on making up their fires, not only to keep themselves awake, but also to help the work forward and earn their money for the shift. I have many times worked all night — through both meal-hours — in the attempt to earn my wages, and then have been deficient.
Here and there a small party will sit together and chat the meal-time away, or a few will endeavour to read. Very soon, however, the newspaper or book slips from the fingers. The tiredness and heat together prevail; the eyes close and the mouth opens — the toiler is fast asleep. Presently someone comes on the scene with aloud shout: “Hey-yup! What! bist thee vly-ketchin’ agyen? Get up and check, else tha’t be locked out,” or another staggers round with half-closed eyes and bawls out, “’Ow beest bi tiself, Bill?“ the reply to which usually is, ”Thee get an’ laay down,” or “None the better for thy astin’.” Occasionally several will start singing a song, or hymn, and be immediately assailed with loud cries of “Lay down, oot!” or “Yeow! Yeow! Kennul! Kennul!” or a large lump of coal is thrown against the roof to break and fall in dust upon the choristers. Some spread rivet bags in front of the furnace and lie upon them and others lie down upon the bare bricks or iron of the floor. A few minutes before eleven o’clock the stragglers arrive back from the town. The old furnaceman bestirs himself, lifts the damper, sets on the blower, routs the coals of the fire and shouts, “Come on, yer,” to his mates. The steam-hammer man opens the valve and raises the monkey, making it glide up and down to work the water out of the cylinder, the forgemen and smiths bustle about again and the terrific din recommences.
So the furious toil proceeds hour by hour.Bang, bang, bang. Pum-tchu, pum-tchu, ping-tchu, ping-tchu. Cling-clang, cling-clang. Boom, boom, boom. Flip-flap, flip-flap. Hoo-oo-oo-oo-oo. Rattle, rattle, rattle. Click, click, click. Bump, bump. Scrir-r-r-r-r-r-r. Hiss-s-s-s-s-s-s. Tchi-tchu, tchi-tchu, tchi-tchu. Clank, clank, clank, clank, clank.The noises of the steam and machinery drown everything else. You see the workmen standing or stooping, pulling, tugging, heaving, dragging to and fro, or staggering about as though they were intoxicated, but there is no other sound beyond the occasional shouting of the forger and the jerking or droning of the injectors. It is a weird living picture, stern and realistic, such as no painter could faithfullyreproduce. If the oil in the stampers’ forges is worse than usual the dense clouds of nauseating smoke hang over you like a pall so thickly that you cannot see your fellows a few paces away, making it intensely difficult to breathe and adding a horrible disgust to the unspeakable weariness. Then the bright flashing metal and the white gas-jets show a dull red. Even the sound seems deadened by the smoke and stench, but this is merely the action of the impurity upon the sense organs; they are so much impaired with the grossness of the atmosphere as to fail in their functions. By and by, when the air has cleared a little, it all rushes back upon you with increased intensity. Everything is swinging and whirling round, and you seem to be whirled round with it, with not a thought of yourself, who you are, where you are, or what you are doing, but keep toiling mechanically away. Ofttimes you would be quite lost, but the revolutions of the machine, the automatic strokes of the hammer, and thehabitof the job control you. And if this should fail, your mate, half asleep, whacks his heat along and casts it upon your toe, or sears you with the hot tongs, or he misses the top of the tool at the anvil and strikes your thumb instead. There are many things to keep you alive, and always the fear of not earning your money for the turn and having to be jeered at and bullied by the chargeman or overseer and so have your life made miserable. The faces and fronts of the smiths and forgers, as they stand at the fires or stoop over the metal, are brilliantly lit up — yellow and orange. Here are the piles of finished forgings and stampings upon the ground — white, yellow, bright red, dull red, and almost black hot; the long tongues of fire leap up from the coke forges, and every now and then a livid sheet of flame bursts out from the stamper’s dies. There is plenty of colour, as well as animation, in thepicture, which obtains greater intensity through contrast with the blackness outside.
The greatest weariness assails you about midnight, and continues to possess you till towards three o’clock. Then Nature struggles violently, demanding her rights, twitching, clutching, and tugging at your eyelids and striving in a thousand ways to bring you into submission and force her rule upon you, but the iron laws of necessity, circumstance, and system prevail; you must battle the power within you and repel the sweet soother, struggling on in the unnatural combat. The keen eye of the overseer is upon you, who is always whipping you to your task, or the watchman is striving to take you loitering and so bring himself into notice; it is useless to give way. Necessity urges; the body must be clothed and fed. There are the wife and children at home, and you must live. I have felt it, and I know what it is. There, in the smoke and stench, the heat and cold, draught and damp of midnight I have slaved with the rest, not harder or with greater pains than they, though perhaps I have noted the feelings whereas they have not. The eyes ache, the ears ache, the teeth ache, the temples ache, the shoulders ache, the arms ache, the legs ache, the feet ache, and the heart aches. I have many times wished, in those dark, awful hours, that the hammer would smash my head; that I might be suddenly caught and hurled into eternity, and I have heard others express the same wish openly and sincerely. Sometimes I have stolen out of the great doors to stand for a moment in the open in the cold dark or starry night, and looked out towards the hills, or away over the town with the whirl of the shed behind me. There was the great red moon showing through the clouds low down, or the fiercely glittering Mars setting in the west, or inky blackness above, with a fewtiny lights twinkling in the far-off streets of the town and a silence as deep as death out beyond. If I could but have heard the old barn owl hooting in the farmyard, the cow lowing in the meadow or stall, the fox yelping in the little wood, or even the bark of a dog, I should have been strengthened and relieved, but there was never a sound of them — nothing but the black outlines of the sheds around, the small distant lights of the town and the great white blaze and crash of noises within. Even to pause there is but to intensify the torture and the cold air soon chills you to the bone. The only course open is to keep toiling away with the rest and wear the night out.
The second stop is at two o’clock and is of brief duration — twenty minutes or half an hour at the outside. It is merely a break in order to have a mouthful of food, a something, so that it shall not be said that the men have to toil for seven consecutive hours in that unspeakable weariness. Here the huge engines become silent again and the heavy pounding stops. The wheels and machinery under the wall look as inert and innocent as though they had never moved; it would be difficult to imagine that they were capable of such noise and uproar if you had not heard it yourself but a few minutes before. The boilers, relieved of the strain upon their resources, begin to prime again with a continued crashing, shattering sound which the boilerman tries in vain to subdue with cold water through the injectors. The furnace glitters and the oil forges smoke. The air is laden with the peculiarly nauseous fumes of the water-gas that make the toilers feel sick and ill and destroy the appetite.
This time the men are unusually silent and mopish. Each selects a place for himself and sits, or lies down, apart from the others. Only the tough, wiry forgeman,the strong smith, or the hardy coalies and ash-wheelers can attack the food. The rest usually go to their jackets, open their handkerchiefs, look at the contents, eat a little perhaps, half-heartedly, and wrap them up again. The constitution of the forgeman is almost like iron itself. He and the smith can usually manage their meal, and the coal-wheelers, from being constantly out in the fresh air, are not quite as weary as are the others, and so can relish the food better. On Friday nights — when the men are more than usually drowsy — the food may be a little more tempting and tasty. At six o’clock the wages were paid, and at supper-time a few, at least, will have gone or sent out into the town for an appetizing morsel: some sausages, rashers, a mutton chop, a pound of tripe, a bloater, or a packet of fried fish and chipped potatoes — the youth’s favourite dainty. Then, in the early hours, amid the din of the boilers, the black frying-pan or coal shovel is produced and the savoury odour is wafted abroad. The greatest pleasure, however, is usually in the anticipation of the meal. The food itself is seldom eaten — or no more than a small part of it, at least — the other is cast out for the rats and rooks. Years ago, in the autumn, we boys used to gather mushrooms in the fields on our way to work and cook them for “dinner” in the early morning and suffer severely for it afterwards. Nature, disorganized with the exigences of the night shift, refused the proffered dainties. It is difficult to digest even ordinary food taken in the unwholesome air of the shed at such an unearthly hour.
Punctually to the moment, if not before time, the engines begin to throb again; the piston rods, gliding slowly at first, soon attain a rapid speed. The huge crank, flashing in the bright gas-light, leaps over and over. The big belt strains and creaks as though itwould avoid its labour and the turning of the shaft overhead, but the heavy fly-wheel spins round, and the little pulleys and cogs go with it; they must all obey the urging of the mighty steam wizard lurking in the green-painted cylinder. The donkey engines, forcing the blast, are coughing and spitting out the white vapour and labouring painfully under the wall in the lean-to outside. Within the fires are flashing and the flames leaping, and the toil goes on as before.
About three o’clock, or soon after, the weariness begins to diminish somewhat, and the old habit of the body reasserts itself. The natural hour of repose is passing, and the fountain of energy begins to bubble up within you; you feel to be approaching the normal condition again. The fatigue now gives place to a feeling of unreality and stupidity; you seem to be dazed and irritable, as though you had been aroused from sleep before the accustomed time. Now you experience deep pains in the chest, resulting from loss of sleep. The head aches as though it would burst and the eyes are very painful and “gritty,” but you feel cheered, nevertheless, with the thought of daylight, the coming cessation from toil, and the opportunity of obtaining a breath of fresh, pure air again. The overseer slips to and fro quickly about this time in order to keep the men well on the move, pricking here and prodding there, and visiting those whom he knows will tell him all the news of the night’s work — such as may have escaped him. The toilers pay him but little attention, however, and keep plodding languidly away.
Steadily, as the day dawns, the light within increases, red, white, or golden, stealing through the thick glass of the roof or by the wide open doors, and soon after one appears with a long staff and turns off all the gas. It is really day once more, and there is not much longer togo. At twenty minutes past five the hooter sounds loudly, calling up the men of the day shift, and the pace flags visibly. A few, however, who have not done any too well in the middle hours of the night, hammer away with increased energy right up to the last, for they know the day overseers and the chargemen will go round and feel the forgings to see how late the others were toiling. If the iron is cool they know that their mates have been dilatory and the tale is told around.
A few minutes before six o’clock the engines slow down and stop and the roar of the blast ceases. The steam-hammers are lowered with a loud thud and the furnace fires are banked up; the mighty toil is over, for this turn, at any rate. Now the forgers and stampers unbind their aprons and roll them up; the smiths stow their tools, placing these in the iron box and those in the boshes of water to soak the shafts and tighten the handles of the sledges. After that they swill their hands at the tap, put on muffler, jacket, or great-coat, and file out of the shed — dirty, dusty, tired and sleepy-looking. Not for them the joy of morning, the vigour, freshness and bloom, the keen delight in the open air, the happy heart and elevated spirit. They slouch away through the living stream of the day toilers now arriving as black as sweeps, half-blinded with the bright daylight, blinking and sighing, feeling unutterably and unnaturally tired, out of sorts and out of place, too, and crawl home, like rats to their holes, to snatch a little rest, and recuperate for new efforts to be made on the following turn.