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.