"Have a cigarette, Pete," I said, offering a Camel to a very fat and
boyish-looking Russian.
"No t'ank."
"What, no smoke?" I asked, incredulous.
"No, no smoke."
"No drink?" I asked, wondering if I had found a Puritan.
"Oh, _drink_" he said with profound emphasis; and continuing, he told me
of other solaces he found in this mortal life.
"Look!" cried some one.
Herb, the craneman, in a fit of extreme playfulness had thrown some wet
green paint forty feet through the air at the pit boss, greening the
whole side of his face. Al was doing a long backward dodge, and slapping
a hand to his painted face, supposing it a draught of hot metal. When he
perceived that he wasn't killed, he picked up cinder-hunks and bombarded
the crane-box. It sounded like hail on tin.
Pete, the Russian melter, came out on the gallery behind the furnaces,
and I could see by the way he looked the pit over, that he was picking a
man for furnace work. Somebody had stayed out and they were short a
helper. He looked at the fat workman beside me, and then grunted.
This was the third time he had picked Russians in preference to the
rest of us, who are Serbian, Austrian, and American.
The next day I went on the floor, and tackled Pete.
"How about a chance on the floor?" I said, standing in front of him to
keep him from lurching away.
"Y' get chance 'nuff, don' worry."
"If I can't get a crack at learning this game in Bouton, I'll go
somewhere I can," I said, boiling up a little.
Dick Reber, the Pennsylvania-Dutch melter, came up.
"I want a chance on the floor," I said.
"All right, boy, go on Number 7 to-day."
I made all speed to Number 7. "Is he doing that," I thought, as I picked
up my shovel, "because I'm an American?"
I looked up and saw the big ladle-bucket pouring hot metal into a spout
in the furnace-door, accompanied by a great swirl of sparks and flame,
spurting upward with a sizzle.
"At last," I said, "I'm going to make steel."
The steel starts in as "scrap" in the mill-yard. Scrap from anywhere in
America; a broken casting, the size of a man's trunk, down to corroded
pipe, or strips the thickness of your nail, salvaged in bales. The
overhead crane gathers them all from arriving flat cars by a magnet as
big as a cart wheel, and the pieces of steel leap to meet it with
apparent joy, stick stoutly for a moment, and fall released into iron
charge-boxes. By trainloads they pass out of the stockyard and into the
mill, where the track runs directly in front of the furnace-doors. There
the charging-machine dumps them quickly into the belly of the furnace.
It does its work with a single iron finger, about ten feet long and
nearly a foot thick, lifting the box by a cleat on the end, and poking
it swiftly into the flaming door. Old furnaces charged by hand hold from
twenty-five to thirty-five tons; new ones, up to two hundred and fifty.
That is the first step in starting to make a "heat," which means cook a
bellyful to the proper temperature for steel, ready to tap into a ladle
for ingot-making. Next comes "making front-wall," which signifies that
no self-respecting brick, clay, or any other substance, can stand a load
of metal up to steel-heat without being temporarily relined right away
for the next draft of flame. We do that relining by shoveling dolomite
into the furnace. The official known as second-helper wields a
Brobdingnag spoon, about two inches larger than a dinner-plate and
fifteen feet long, which a couple of third-helpers, among them myself,
fill with dolomite. By use of the spoon, he carefully spreads the
protection over the front-wall.
But the sporting job on the open-hearth comes a bit later, and consists
in "making back-wall." Then all the men on the furnace and all the men
on your neighbor's furnace form a dolomite line, and marching in file to
the open door, fling their shovelfuls across the flaming void to the
back-wall. It's not a beginner's job. You must swing your weapon
through a wide arc, to give it "wing," and the stuff must hop off just
behind the furnace-door and rise high enough to top the scrap between,
and land high. I say it's not a beginner's job, though it's like
golf--the first shovelful may be a winner. What lends life to the sport
is the fact that everybody's in it--it's the team play of the
open-hearth, like a house-raising in the community.
Another thing giving life is the heat. The mouth of the furnace gapes
its widest, and you must hug close in order to get the stuff across.
Every man has deeply smoked glasses on his nose when he faces the
furnace. He's got to stare down her throat, to watch where the dolomite
lands. It's up to him to place his stuff--the line isn't marching
through the heat to warm its hands. Here's a tip I didn't "savvy" on my
first back-wall. Throw your left arm high at the end of your arc, and in
front of your face; it will cut the heat an instant, and allow you to
see if you have "placed" without flinching. It's really not
brawn,--making back-wall,--but a nimble swing and a good eye, and the
art of not minding heat.
After that is done, she can cook for a while and needs only watching.
The first-helper gives her that, passing up and down every few minutes
to look through the peepholes in her furnace-doors. He puts his glasses
down on his nose, inspects the brew, and notices if her stomach's in
good shape. If the bricks get as red as the gas flame, she's burning the
living lining out of her. But he keeps the gas blowing in her ends, as
hot as she'll stand it without a holler. On either end the gas, and on
top of it the air. The first-helper, who is cook of the furnace, makes a
proper mixture out of them. The hotter he can let the gas through, the
quicker the brew is cooked, and the more "tonnage" he'll make that week.
"Get me thirty thousand pounds," said the first-helper when I was on the
furnace that first night. Fifteen tons of molten metal! I was undecided
whether to bring it in a dipper or in my hat. But it's no more than
running upstairs for a handkerchief in the bureau. You climb to a
platform near the blower, where the stuff is made, and find a man there
with a book. Punch him in the arm and say, "Thirty thou' for Number 7."
He will swear moderately and blow a whistle. You return to the furnace,
and on your heels follows a locomotive dragging a bucket, the ladle, ten
feet high. Out of it arise the fumes of your fifteen tons of hot metal.
The overhead crane picks it up and pours it through a spout into the
furnace. As it goes in, you stand and direct the pouring. The craneman,
as he tilts or raises the bucket, watches you for directions, and you
stand and make gentle motions with one hand, thus easily and simply
controlling the flux of the fifteen tons. That part of the job always
pleased me. It was like modeling Niagara with a wave of the hand.
Sometimes he spills a little, and there is a vortex of sparks, and much
molten metal in front of the door to step on.
She cooks in anywhere from ten hours to twenty-four. The record on this
floor is ten, which was put over by Jock. He has worked on most of the
open-hearths, I learn, from Scotland to Colorado.
When it's time for a test, the first-helper will take a spoon about the
size of your hand and scoop up some of the soup. But not to taste. He
pours it into a mould, and when the little ingot is cool, breaks it with
a sledge. Everyone on the furnace, barring myself, looks at the broken
metal and gives a wise smile. I'm not enough of a cook. They know by the
grain if she has too much carbon or needs more, or is ready to tap, or
isn't. With too much carbon, she'll need a "jigger," which is a few more
tons of hot metal, to thin her out.
That's about the whole game--abbreviated--up to tap-time. It takes, on
an average, eighteen hours, and your shift may be anything from ten to
twenty-four. Of course, there are details, like shoveling in fluor-spar
to thin out the slag. Be sure you clear the breast of the furnace, with
your shovelful, when you put that into her. Spar eats the dolomite as
mice eat cheese.
At intervals the first-helper tilts the whole furnace forward, and she
runs out at the doors, which is to drain off the slag that floats on top
of the brew. But after much weariness it's tap-time and the "big boss"
comes to supervise.
Move aside the shutters covering the round peepholes on her doors, at
this time, and you'll see the brew bubbling away like malt
breakfast-food ready to eat. But there's a lot of testing before
serving. When it is ready, you run to the place where you hid your
little flat manganese shovel and take it to the gallery back of the
furnace, near the tap-spout. There you can look down on the pit strewn
with those giant bucket-ladles and sprinkled with the clean-up men, who
gather painfully all that's spilled or slobbered of hot metal, and save
it for a second melting. The whole is swept by the omnipresent crane.
At a proper and chosen instant, the senior melter shouts, "Heow!" and
the great furnace rolls on its side on a pair of mammoth rockers, and
points a clay spout into the ladle held for it by the crane. Before the
hot soup comes rushing, the second-helper has to "ravel her out." That
function of his almost destroyed my ambition to learn the steel
business. Raveling is poking a pointed rod up the tap-spout, till the
stopping is prodded away. You never know when the desired but terrific
result is accomplished. When it is, he retires as you would from an
exploding oil-well. The brew is loose. It comes out, red and hurling
flame. Into the ladle it falls with a hiss and a terrifying "splunch."
The first and second helpers immediately make matters worse. They
stagger up with bags (containing fine anthracite) and drop them into the
mess. They have a most damning effect. The flames hit the roof of the
pit, and sway and curl angrily along the frail platform on which you
stand. Some occult reasoning tells them how many of these bags to drop
in, whether to make a conflagration or a moderate house-burning.
The melter waits a few minutes and then shouts your cue. You and
another helper run swiftly along the gallery to the side of the spout.
At your feet is a pile of manganese, one of the heaviest substances in
the world, and seeming heavier than that. It's your job and your
helper's to put the pile into the cauldron. And you do it with all
manner of speed. The tap stream--at steel heat--is three feet from your
face, and gas and sparks come up as the stream hits the ladle. You're
expected to get it in fast. You do.
There are almost always two ladles to fill, but you have a "spell"
between. When she's tapped, you pick up a piece of sheet iron and cover
the spout with it. That's another job to warm frost-bitten fingers. Use
gloves and wet burlap--it preserves the hands for future use.
One more step, and the brew is an ingot. There are several tracks
entering the pit, and at proper seasons a train of cars swings in,
bringing the upright ingot moulds. They stand about seven feet high from
their flats. When the ladle is full and slobbering a bit, the craneman
swings her gingerly over the first mould. Level with the ladle's base,
and above the train of moulds, runs the pouring platform, on which the
ingot-men stand.
By means of rods a stopper is released from a small hole in the bottom
of the ladle. In a few seconds the stream fills a mould, and the
attendant shuts off the steel like a boy at a spigot. The ladle swings
gently down the line, and the proper measure of metallic flame squirts
into each mould. A trainload of steel is poured in a few minutes.
But this is when all omens are propitious. It's when the stopper-man
has made no mistakes. But when rods jam and the stopper won't stop,
watch your step, and cover your face. That fierce little stream keeps
coming, and nothing that the desperate men on the pouring platform can
do seems likely to stem it. Soon one mould is full. But the ladle
continues to pour, with twenty tons of steel to go. It can't be allowed
to make a steel floor for the pit. It must get into those moulds.
So the craneman swings her on to the next mould, with the stream aspurt.
It's like taking water from the teakettle to the sink with a punctured
dipper: half goes on the kitchen floor. But the spattering of molten
metal is much more exciting. A few little clots affect the flesh like
hot bullets. So, when the craneman gets ready to swing the little stream
down the line, the workers on the platform behave like frightened fishes
in a mill pond. Then, while the mould fills, they come back, to throw
certain ingredients into the cooling metal.
These ingots, when they come from the moulds virgin steel, are
impressive things--especially on the night turn. Then each stands up
against the night air like a massive monument of hardened fire. Pass
near them, and see what colossal radiators of heat they are. Trainloads
of them pass daily out of the pit to the blooming-mill, to catch their
first transformation. But my spell with them is done.
I stood behind the furnace near the spout, which still spread a wave of
heat about it, and Nick, the second-helper, beside me yelling things in
Anglo-Serbian, into my face. He was a loose-limbed, sallow-faced
Serbian, with black hair under a green-visored cap, always on the back
of his head. His shirt was torn on both sleeves and open nearly to his
waist, and in the uncertain lights of the mill his chest and abdomen
shone with sweat.
"Goddam you, what you think. Get me"--a long blur of Serbian,
here--"spout, quick mak a"--more Serbian with tremendous volume of
voice--"furnace, see? You get that goddam mud!"
When a man says that to you with profound emotion, it seems insulting,
to say, "What" to it. But that was what I did.
"All right, all right," he said; "what the hell, me get myself, all the
work"--blurred here--"son of a--third-helper--wheelbarrow, why don' you
---- _quick now when I say!_"
"All right, all right, I'll do it," I said, and went away. I was never
in my life so much impressed with the necessity of _doing it_. His
language and gesture had been profoundly expressive--of what? I tried to
concentrate on the phrases that seeped through emotion and Serbian into
English. "Wheelbarrow"--hang on to that; "mud"--that's easy: a
wheelbarrow of mud. Good!