FITTERS--THE STEAM-HAMMER SHOP--FORGEMEN--THEIR
CHARACTERISTICS--BOILERMAKERS--THE FOUNDRY--THE BLAST
FURNACE--MOULDERS
There are two large fitting sheds at the works--for engine- and
carriage-fitting. They differ in several respects but are on the whole
consimilar, both in the nature of the work done and in the composition
and individuality of the staffs employed. The duties of the fitters are
very well indicated by their denominative: they prepare and fit together
all the machinery parts for the locomotives and carriages as well as the
steam-brake details and other apparatus of a complicated nature. The
sheds also serve as centres for supplying the other shops with their
small staffs of fitters who superintend repairs to the local machinery,
attend to the steam-hammers, fix new shafting, and so on.
The fitting sheds are large buildings and are packed with machinery of
every conceivable shape and kind. Within them are lathes large and
small, machines for slotting, shaping and drilling, drills for boring
round and square holes, punches and shears, hydraulic tackle, and
various other curious appliances almost incapable of description. There
are hundreds of yards of steel shafting, pulleys and wheels innumerable,
and miles of beltage. The space between the roof and the floor seems to
be entirely occupied with swiftly-revolving wheels and belts. To view
the interior is like peering into a dense forest where all is tangled
and confused and everything is in a state of perpetual motion. At the
same time there is a minimum of noise. Here are no steam-hammers beating
on the stubborn masses of iron and steel and making the foundations of
the earth tremble beneath you, no riveters’ hammers battering on the
hollow plates of the frames and boilers, and no pneumatic tools ringing
out sharply and driving one to distraction with the unspeakable din. The
wheels revolve almost without sound; the shafting turns and spins
silently. The lathes are nearly noiseless in operation, and the drills
only creak a little now and then as a small portion of the detached
metal becomes blocked underneath the tool and runs round with it. The
greatest noise is made by those who are busily chipping at the benches;
otherwise there is comparative quiet when we remember the tremendous din
of the neighbouring workshops.
As there are no furnaces or forges in the fitting shed, and abundant
ventilation, the air is cool and free from smoke and fume. The work is
less laborious than is that of the smithy or frame shed, and the men are
not required to perspire much. Both the fitters and the machinemen wear
cloth suits, with a thin blue jacket or “slop” and overalls, and you
rarely see them stripped or with their shirt-sleeves turned up. This is
so much the rule that if they should be seen to take off their coats at
a job in either of the outlying sheds the circumstance will be noted as
of unusual occurrence by the rank and file. They will immediately raise
a good-natured laugh and jokingly tell them to “put their jackets on if
they don’t want to catch a cold.” One local fitter, by reason of his
great fondness for carrying a drawing with him wherever he goes and the
readiness and ease with which he has resort to it in order to explain
away the most trivial detail, has earned for himself the title of “The
Drawing King.” A second, as the result of his artificial activity with
the callipers, is styled “Calliper King,” while a third, by his
volubility, has secured the expressive nickname of “Fish-mouth.”
An amusing and true story is told of a chargeman of the fitting shed. He
was lying seriously ill and believed himself to be at the point of
death. While in that condition he was conscience-stricken at the thought
that he had had one or two very good prices for work in the shed. He
accordingly sent for his foreman to come and visit him. When he arrived
the sick man unburdened his soul and begged him to cut the prices
forthwith; he said he “could not die with it on his mind.” In due time
the prices were cut. The old fellow’s period had not yet come, however.
He got better and had the satisfaction of returning to the shed and
working at the reduced rates, the laughing-stock of his companions.
The fitters are usually looked upon as the men _par excellence_ of the
shed. Like the smiths, they have usually travelled far. Some have
visited every part of the kingdom, while others may have served
abroad--in America, at the Cape of Good Hope, in China, or Egypt. A few
have been artificers in the Navy or in the Mercantile Marine; here is
one, for instance, who, by reason of his nautical experiences, has
gained the nickname of “Deep Sea Joe.” It will commonly be found that
those who have gone furthest from home are not only the best workmen--as
having had a more varied and extensive experience--but they are also
more broad-minded and sympathetic towards their mates and labourers.
The majority of the fitters are members of Trades Unions, and of all
other classes at the works, perhaps, they take the greatest pains to
protect themselves and their interests. By contributing to the funds
of their organisations they are insured against accidents, strikes,
or dismissal, and are thus placed in a position of considerable
independence. They are required to serve an apprenticeship of five or
seven years’ duration before they are recognised as journeymen and they
are, by a common rule, compelled to go further afield in order to obtain
the standard rate of wages. Nearly all the foremen of the different
sheds are appointed from among the fitters; whatever qualities an
outsider may discover he stands but little chance of being preferred for
the post.
Before a fitter has been promoted to the position of foreman he is a
bold champion of the rights of Labour, one loud in the expression of his
sympathy with his fellowmen, a staunch believer in the liberty of the
individual and a hearty condemner of the factory system. If he has been
appointed overseer, however, there is a considerable change in his
manner and attitude towards all these and kindred subjects. A great
modification of his personal views and opinions soon follows; he begins
to look at things from the official standpoint. He is now fond of
telling you that “things are not as they used to be.” Possibly they are
not, as far as he himself is concerned, but there is another view of the
situation. At the same time, he will be fairly loyal to his old mates,
the journeyman fitters, and treat them with superior respect. To the
labourers, however, he will not be so well-disposed. He will ignore
their interests and rule them with a rod of iron.
I have said that steam-hammer forging is on the decline in the railway
town. The chief cause of this is the recent development of the process
of manufacturing malleable cast steel, which has largely taken the place
of wrought iron forging both in the locomotive and elsewhere. Formerly
all wheels were forged in sections and were afterwards welded up, and
the work provided constant employment for the steam-hammer men. Now they
are obtained elsewhere, more cheaply, it may be, though they are of an
inferior quality. Engine-cranks also, which at one time were made
exclusively on the premises, are nearly all bought away from the town,
and this was a second great loss to the shed. All that remains is the
manufacture of the less important details, such as connection rods and
levers, with a few special or repair cranks now and then.
The steam-hammer shed has thus been deprived of much of its importance.
The big machines, capable of striking a blow equivalent to a hundred or
two hundred tons’ pressure, have been removed and put on the scrap-heap,
and their places have been filled by other and less powerful plant. The
old forgemen, too, with their mates who worked the furnaces, are
missing. Of these, some are dead, some have been discharged, while
others have been reduced and are scattered about the yard. He who
formerly shouted out his orders at the steam-hammer and controlled the
mighty mass of iron or steel with the porter, turning it round and round
to receive the tremendous blow, is now hobbling about with a shovel and
wheel-barrow, cleaning up the refuse of the yard, in receipt of a
miserable pittance. Perhaps he is lame as the result of a blow, or he
has a withered arm through its having been “jumped up” with the driving
back of the porter, or he may have lost an eye. A portion of steel has
fled from the hammer rod, or from the “ram,” and struck him in the eye
and he is blind as a consequence.
Several years ago there was at the factory a splendid forger, a cool and
highly-skilful workman, and one possessed of fine physique. He was tall,
square and broad built, full of bone and muscle, solid and strong, and,
though of seventeen or eighteen stone in weight, he was very nimble and
of unerring judgment. One day he received the offer of a job in the
Midlands, at nearly double the wages he was getting in the railway town,
and he decided to accept the post. Accordingly he left the shed and took
over his new duties. He had not been away long, however, before he met
with a serious accident that quite incapacitated him from following his
occupation as a forgeman. A careless or unskilful hammer-driver had
struck a terrific blow out of time, and the porter-bar, driven out
suddenly, forced the forger’s hand and arm violently to the shoulder,
completely crippling him. A ruined man, he came back to the town and
gained a wretched livelihood by helping to serve the bricklayers and
masons with his one arm.
The steam-hammer forger is one of the most skilful and useful, as well
as the most interesting of men. He may possibly have learned his trade
in the town, or he may hail from Sheffield, Middlesborough, Scotland or
Wales. All these places are noted for extensive manufactures in iron and
steel and for the efficiency of their workmen, and especially of their
forgers and furnacemen. If any forger in the shed is reputed to have
come from the Midlands, the North, or the iron region of Wales, he is
sure to be considered something of a prodigy. He comes bearing with him
a part of the laurels of his township and all eyes will be upon him to
see how he acquits himself of the responsibility. Very often, however,
he quite fails to fulfil the expectations entertained of him and is
easily beaten by the local men. After all, it was but the name; he is no
better than many who have learned their trade in the shed. Perhaps he is
not even as efficient as they, though he did come from “Ironopolis” and
forged very many tons of steel ingots in an incredibly short space of
time, though this happened “years ago,” if you chance to press him at
all concerning the matter.
The forger is not always a man of big physical proportions. On the
contrary, he is more usually of a medium, or even of a diminutive type;
you seldom or never find one as stout and heavy as is the average smith.
The nature of the toil forbids this. The smith, at his work, is more or
less stationary. His forging, moreover, is not so heavy, nor is he
exposed to such great heat. The forgeman’s ingot may weigh four or five
tons, all blazing hot, with a porter-bar of thirty hundredweight or more
attached, and though this will be suspended from the crane and he will
have several mates to help him, it will yet require the whole of their
powers to remove it from the furnace to the hammer and to turn it over
or push it backwards and forwards to receive the ponderous blow. But if
the forgeman is inferior to the smith in the matter of stature and bulk,
he easily beats him in strength. He is a very lion in this respect.
Underneath his thin, shrunken cheeks and skinny arms are sinews almost
as tough as steel itself. In the most blinding and deadly heat of the
furnace, with three or four tons of dazzling metal exactly in front of
him and the sweat pouring out of the hollows of his grimy cheeks and
running down his nose and chin to drop in a continual stream on the
ground beneath, he still pushes, heaves, and shouts loudly to his mates,
and works and slaves quite unconcernedly. He is almost as fresh at the
end of the operation as he was at the beginning. Nothing seems to tire
him down; he is for ever active and vigorous.
The forgeman often proves to be a rather irritable individual, one sharp
and sour to his mates and hasty in his temper. His companions at the
hammer--with the exception of the furnaceman--are so many children to
him; he orders them here and there with the slightest ceremony and
shouts out his orders at the top of his voice. At every command he
utters they hasten to obey, fearing his testiness, and when he roars out
at them they shake in their boots. Perhaps they are slow in handing him
a tool, or they have applied the wrong gauge, or the hammer-driver has
struck too hard a blow. Whatever it is, the forgeman’s wrath is aroused
and they must suffer for it. In his anger he calls them many names that
could not be styled complimentary and withers them with looks. Then,
whatever kind of blow the hammerman strikes, it will be wrong. If it is
light, he wanted it heavy; if heavy, he required it light--the mere
suggestion of a blow. He will often, in the same breath, roar out at the
top of his voice--“Hit ’im! Hit ’im! Light! LIGHT! LIGHT!” and will
immediately explode with passion because his order was not acted upon to
the letter. By and by the exasperated hammer-driver will venture to
reply to his autocratic mate, and a smart battle of words ensues, in
which the forgeman, however, usually comes off best. The old furnaceman,
greyheaded, or totally bald with the heat, will fire away with his coals
and wink at the gaugeman now and then, but never a word will he utter.
He knows his mate thoroughly, and understands his temper perfectly.
Accordingly, he hears all and says nothing; it makes but little
difference to him which way the forging goes as long as he has performed
his heat properly. Perhaps, after this, things may run a little more
smoothly for a time, or matters may even become worse. I have known
mates to work at the same hammer and not speak to each other for a year,
not even to give the necessary instructions as to carrying out the
forging.
Though there could be no excuse for this foolish exhibition of
ill-nature, many apologies may yet be made for the nervous and irritable
forgeman. In the first place, his work is enormously hard and exacting;
and in the second, there is a great responsibility resting upon him
which is not shared by his workmates. The value of the forging in his
hands is often considerable, and the least error on the part of his
furnaceman or hammer-driver might completely spoil it. If the metal
should be in the slightest degree overheated it would burst all to
pieces at the first blow of the hammer, and if the hammer-driver should
happen to strike a heavy blow at a critical moment, he might spoil the
piece in that way, or otherwise necessitate a considerable amount of
labour to get it into shape again. All this is a matter of serious care
to the forgeman, and as his mates are very often raw hands or careless,
dull-headed fellows, it is not to be wondered at that he should now and
then discover some perverseness of temper.
It is interesting to note the style of working adopted by different
forgers. This, of course, will vary with the man’s capability for the
job, his gift, his skill acquired, and his natural temper. All forgers
are not possessed of a uniformity of skill and capacity, any more than
are all musicians and painters equal in their arts; wherever you go you
will find good, bad and indifferent workmen. It may at once be said,
however, that bad forgemen are not tolerated for any length of time. If
they cannot handle the porter and bring their ingot or bloom to a
successful finish they are quickly removed and better men put in place
of them, for iron and steel ingots are too valuable to be wasted with
impunity. As a rule, the quiet workman is the best; that is, he who
talks least to his mates, and who does not bawl out every order at the
top of his voice. Such a one will often remove his bloom from the
furnace, bring it to the hammer and complete it without speaking a word.
A nod of the head or a few motions of the hand will be sufficient; his
mates understand him perfectly and everything proceeds without a hitch.
The hammer-driver, encouraged to use his discretion, knows exactly what
kind of a blow to strike--heavy or light, light or heavy--when to stop
and when to begin. The grimy mate, usually styled the donkeyman, stands
by with the gauges; at each pause he fits them to the white-hot mass of
iron or steel and again the hammer descends, regularly and evenly. The
tremendous “monkey” goes high up, almost out of sight overhead, and
glides noiselessly downwards till it beats the metal, making the pulley
chains rattle and jingle and the whole shed to totter and tremble. I
have often sat on a gate, or under the trees in the fields on a still
evening, towards midnight, and counted the blows struck on an obstinate
forging in the shed five miles distant.
It is a pleasure to watch the skilful forgeman perform his heat and
shape the ponderous bloom under the steam-hammer. If you observe him
closely you will see that he scarcely moves his body. He stands in one
position, easily and naturally, all the time, in a slightly stooping
attitude, yet he has full power over the heavy weight in his hands. When
he shifts the porter, or turns the forging round, his arms are the
instruments; it is all performed deftly and simply, with a minimum of
exertion. There is a style in it the most casual observer must readily
perceive. He cannot help being struck with the extreme simplicity and
attractiveness of the whole operation, and he will at once recognise the
skilful forger from the unskilful, the gifted craftsman from the mere
amateur or improver.
The inferior forgeman will be full of excitement, noise and bustle. He
will peer into the furnace half-a-dozen times before he is satisfied as
to the heat of the bloom, and grumble and scold the furnaceman all the
while. Then, after darting to and fro, backwards and forwards, kicking
things out of his way and seeing to this and to that, he bawls out to
his mates to “pull up, and get on the pulley chain.” After a
considerable amount of pulling and shoving, grunting, sweating, twisting
and turning the ingot, he at last succeeds in bringing it to the hammer,
having lost a great part of the heat in the transit. Even now he is
undecided as to how to begin the shaping of the piece and has to
consider a moment or two before giving the word to start. At last he
shouts out to the driver, and the preliminary blows fall. A dozen times,
where there is no need of it, he stops the hammer and makes his mate try
the gauges. Then he goes on again, thump, thump, thump, now shouting out
“Light!” at the top of his voice, following up with a very loud “Whoa!”
If his mate happens to be in the way he gives him a rough push and tells
him to “get out,” takes up the gauges and fits them himself and
afterwards throws them down with violence, and repeats the performance
till the bloom is in some manner completed. When the porter-bar has been
lopped off and the forging placed on the ground he examines it several
times, going to the furnace and coming back to view his half-finished
labour and making as much fuss as though he had just forged a
battleship, till even the door-boy is disgusted and passes sarcastic
remarks upon his ceremonious chief. Considerably more slotting and
shaping will always be required on his piece than on that of the other
forgeman, and his work will be left till last in the machine shop. The
skilful forger will shape his bloom perfectly, so that there will be but
a very small amount of facing to do to it; his work will be sure to
receive praise, while the other’s will as certainly be execrated.
The men of the steam-hammer shed differ from the rest of the factory
hands in having to work a twelve-hour day. Very often the heats are
ready to draw out at meal-times, and it would be ruinous to leave them
to waste in the furnace while the men went home to breakfast and dinner.
Accordingly, the forger and his mates boil water in a can on the neck of
the furnace, or over a piece of hot metal, and make their own tea to
drink. Occasionally the mid-day meal is brought to the factory entrance
by the forgeman’s little son or daughter, or he may bring in a large
basin full of cooked meat and vegetables and warm it up himself. Perhaps
the fare is a rasher of bacon. This the workman brings in raw and either
roasts it over the furnace door, or on a lump of hot iron. Perhaps he
uses a roughly-made frying-pan; or he may place it in the furnaceman’s
shovel in order to cook it. If the furnaceman sees him, however, he will
certainly forbid this, for heating the shovel will spoil the temper of
the steel and cause it to warp. He will say, moreover, that coal charged
into the furnace with a shovel that has had “that mess” in it will never
heat the iron, and I have more than once seen the half-cooked food
unceremoniously turned out into the coal-dust. A common name for the
roughly-made frying-pan is a “rasher-waggon.”
At night, when the day’s work is over and everything has been left neat
and tidy for the succeeding shift, the forger stows his leathern apron,
cap and jackboots, rinses his hands in the bosh, and leaves the shed,
walking a little in advance of his mates and preserving the same temper
he has displayed at the toil. His mates, however, together with the
ingenuous and mischievous door-boy, are not so conventional in their
behaviour. Since they are free to go home and roam the streets or
trudge off into the country once more, they indulge in games and fun
before they leave, and sing and whistle to their heart’s content.
Meanwhile the old furnaceman has damped his fire and made everything
ready for the mate who succeeds him. Now he, too, swills his hands in
the bosh and gives his sweaty old face an extra special rub with the
wiper, puts the muffler around his neck, slips on his jacket, and,
taking his dinner-can under his arm, proceeds through the tunnel and out
into the town.
Very few of the forgemen were born in the town; they have nearly all
come in from the villages round about and become urbanised. After their
toils in the hot shed they do not want to have to journey far to their
homes. Their dwellings are consequently usually within easy distance of
the forge, though here and there is to be found one who has the courage
to continue in his native village. As their wages are above the average
paid at the works--though the rate is not nearly as high as it is at
most steam-hammer sheds--the forgers are enabled to indulge themselves
in the matter of living. Their food will accordingly be of the very best
quality, and when that has been paid for there is yet a fair supply of
pocket money remaining. Most forgemen are fond of a glass of ale; it is
a rare thing to find a teetotaler in their ranks. They are much given to
talking of their achievements at all times and in all places, and they
occupy long hours in telling of the famous jobs they have done on many
occasions--a special crank for this or that engine, a big piston-rod or
monkey for an outside firm, or a mighty anchor for an ocean-going
vessel.
In point of real usefulness and importance the boilermakers stand second
to none at the works. Though they may not be as highly skilled as are
the fitters individually, collectively they form a much more imposing
and vigorous body, and one that is far more essential to the absolute
needs of the firm. To whatever extent the forger or fitter may be done
without, or unskilled men put in place of them, that is not possible in
the case of the boilersmith. His labour, as well as being very
important, is distinct from that of all others at the factory; his is an
exclusive profession. In the making of locomotives for the line the
boiler is by far the greatest item, and it is very difficult and
expensive to construct. The work must be performed with exquisite care
and everything must be conscientiously well done. There must be no
shoddy work in a boiler; no “nobbling over,” concealment of flaws, or
deception of any kind, or disastrous consequences would be inevitable.
The plates must all be admirably shaped and fitted, the bolts and stays
very strong and sound, and the whole most carefully adjusted and
riveted. The time required for the construction of a first-class boiler
for a locomotive is about six months, and the cost is near about a
thousand pounds. All the inner plates are of copper, which is used in
order to allow of regular expansion and contraction. The tubes are of
iron or steel, and number several hundreds. Tubing is a branch of work
distinct from boilermaking properly so-called, and is undertaken by
those less skilful than are required for the other processes.
Boilermakers are divided into two classes--the platers and the riveters.
Those of the first grade prepare the plates, perform the marking-off and
cutting-out, see to the drilling of the holes and afterwards bolt the
parts together. The riveters follow and make everything solid and
compact. Nearly all the riveting is done by hand; very little is left to
the chance work of the machine, which is often faulty and unreliable.
Rivets put in by hand are far more trustworthy than are those done by
the machine. The hammered heads will be tougher and more durable than
those that have been squeezed up by the hydraulic apparatus.
The two grades of boilermakers are kept separate and distinct. Every man
is provided with a card certifying to which class he belongs, whether to
the platers or riveters, and he can--as a general rule--only obtain a
job upon that kind of work specified by his ticket. Similarly, if he has
been employed on repair work for any length of time he will have great
difficulty in getting re-admittance into the ranks of those engaged on
the new boilers. The trade throughout is jealously guarded and
protected. The rules are well-defined and published far and wide; there
is no setting aside the regulations. Notwithstanding the division of
work on a boiler the efficient boilersmith is qualified to construct one
throughout, from the marking of the plates to the insertion of the
tubes. The valves and other fixings are usually attached by the fitters.
The din of the frame shed and the unearthly noise of the pneumatic
apparatus on the headstocks and plates is not to be compared with the
tremendous uproar of the boiler shop. Here are no less than two hundred
huge boilers, either new ones being made, or old ones undergoing repairs
and engaging the attentions of four or five hundred boilersmiths, to say
nothing of tubers and labourers hammering and battering away on the
shells and interiors. There are boilers in every stage of construction
and in every conceivable position on the stocks. Some are upright, some
are upside down, some are standing on end, some lying on their sides,
and others are scattered broadcast. The workmen swarm like ants
everywhere, crawling over the tops, inside and out, in the smoke-box
and fire-box, and lying on their backs underneath. Hundreds of tools are
in operation at once. Hundreds of hammers are falling, banging and
clanging perpetually, with an indescribable noise and confusion. If you
would be heard you must shout at the top of your voice and make yourself
hoarse in the attempt. The boilersmiths, who are used to the conditions,
do not try to address each other at their work; they have discovered an
expedient. Instead of straining their throats and lungs in the vain
effort to make themselves heard they simply motion with the head or
hands; their mates come to know what is required and obey the
telegraphic intimation, and so the work proceeds.
The boilermakers are a bold and hardy class, sturdy in their views and
outlook, and very independent. As in the case of the fitters, smiths,
and other journeymen, they have travelled far and wide and become
acquainted with many workshops and sets of conditions. Very often they
will have tramped the whole country, from end to end, in search of
employment, for though as a class they are indispensable their ranks are
often over-crowded, and when trade is slack the services of many of them
are dispensed with. As with the majority of other journeymen, if they
are thrown out of employment, though they may be idle for a long time
and reduced to dire straights, they seldom deign to do other work, but
shift from place to place and beg food along the highways and through
the villages. Though verging on starvation they cannot, even for a short
period, be prevailed upon to abandon the idea of their trade, but still
crowd around the factory doors and hope for a revival of the industry.
A short time ago a party of boilermen, who had been discharged from the
town, made weekly visits to the villages 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 the moulds 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 circumstances Charlie 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.