INFERIORITY OF WORK MADE BY THE NIGHT SHIFT — ALTERING THE GAUGES — THE “BLACK LIST” — “DOUBLE STOPPAGE CHARLIE“ — ”JIMMY USELESS” — THE HAUNTED COKEHEAP — THE OLD VALET — THE CHECKER AND STOREKEEPER

The work produced on the night turn is greatly inferior to that made by the men of the day shift. It is impossible to do good work when you are tired and weary. One has not then the keenness of sense, the nerve, nor the energy to take the requisite pains. You are not then the master of your machinery and tools, but are subject to them; even where the work is with dies and performed mechanically, there will be depreciation. Perhaps the stamper’s tools have shifted a little. The keys want removing, the dies re-setting and then to be rammed up tight again. But he is too weary to do much with the sledge, so he keeps dragging along with his dies a-twist and makes that do, whereas, if he were working by day he would rectify them immediately and bang away at top speed.

It is the same with the forger. He, too, tough as he is, cannot maintain the precision he would exercise by day. The pile or ingot on the porter-bar seems to him to have doubled in weight. The flash of the blazing metal half blinds him. He cannot stand the heat so well; it is all against turning out good work. Unless the bloom is kept exactly square under the stroke of the hammer it lops over on one side and obtains an ugly shape, which it will be impossible to rectify; there is nothing more unsightly to the eye of the careful smith or hammerman than a shabby piece of forging. Very often, too, a portion of slag or sand from the bed of the furnace has adhered to the pile and, falling away, has left a hole in the metal. Although, in the uncertain light, the forger may think that he has hammered it quite out, when he views the piece by daylight he finds it rough and untidy and perhaps worthless. It may be too small now; there is not enough metal to clean up under the tools of the slotting- or shaping-machine.

Then there is the smith’s weld or bend to be considered. In the first place, the smith is liable to mistake the heat of his parts by gaslight, for then they appear brighter and hotter than they really are, and when he brings them out to the anvil, the metal, instead of shutting up well, will be hard and glassy under the tools. It will, consequently, go together badly and leave a mark or “scarf,” which is not at all desirable, though the weld may be strong enough inside. In such a case resort will be had to “nobbling”; that is, covering up and concealing the scarf with the small round ball of the hand-hammer. This must be done secretly, for no foreman would tolerate much of it. It is looked upon as a mark of bad workmanship, though the bluff old overseer of the regular smiths’ shed may condone it in a few cases with: “Hello! You be at it agen then! But ther’, you be no good if you can’t do’t. I allus said any fool can be a smith but it takes a good man to nobble.” The smiths, under ordinary circumstances, are not allowed to use a file. They must finish their job manfully with the sledge and tools, otherwise they might fake up a bad forging, with nobbling and filing, and make it look as strong as the best.

There are more cases of ill-health among men of the night than of the day shift, but the reason of this will be obvious to any. It is evident that the unnatural conditions of all-night toil must weaken and wear down the body and render it unfit to bear the strain put upon it, and especially to withstand the cold draughts from the doors and roof, which are the most fruitful source of sickness among the workmen — a large number is always absent with chills and influenza. Small regard for a man’s health is had at any time in the factory. It is nothing to the officials that he is out on the sick list, unless he happens to be drawing compensation for an injury. I remember once, when work was slack in the shed, the day overseer left orders for the night boss to send the men outside in the yard and keep them there for two or three hours shifting scrap iron, in order that they might “catch cold and stop at home, and give the others a chance.”

Accidents, too, are frequent on the night shift; the greater part of the more serious ones happen on that turn. Then the men, by reason of the fatigue and dulness, are unable to take sufficient care of themselves; they lack the quick presentiment of danger common to those of the day shift. There is also the matter of defective light and carelessness in the use of tools, and, very often, the mad hurry to get on in the first part of the night — the wild rush and tear of the piecework system. It was not long ago that “Smamer’s” brother was killed at the drop-stamps with a blow on the head, shortly after starting work. A jagged piece of steel, ten or twelve pounds in weight, flew from the die and struck him between the eye and ear knocking out half his brains. As things go, no one was to blame. The men were all hurrying together to get the work forward, but he was murdered, all the same, done to death by the system that is responsible for the rash haste and frenzy such as is common on the night shift.

Nearly all whitewashing and painting out the interiors of the sheds is done by night, when the machinery is still. This is performed by unskilled hands — youths, for the most part; from one year’s end to another they are employed at it, taking the workshops by turn. The work is very unhealthy and extremely dangerous. The men construct a little scaffolding and work upon single, narrow planks, or crawl like flies along the network of girders in and out among the shafting, with a single gas-jet to afford them light. One false step or overbalancing would bring them down to the ground, thirty feet below, amid the machinery; death would be swift and certain for them if they should miss their footing on the planks. Their wages, considering the risks they take, are very low; 18s. or 19s. a week is the amount they commonly receive. Several of the men, whom I know personally — steady fellows and good time-keepers — had been getting 18s. a week for twenty years till recently; then, after persistent applications for an advance, they were granted the substantial rise of 1s. a week! One sturdy fellow, braver than the rest, on meeting the manager one day, complained to him of the low wages, but was unsuccessful. His overseer, upon hearing of it, promptly told him to clear out, which he afterwards did, and went to Canada and saved £150 in less than a year. When the small boys asked Bill Richards, the old smiths’ foreman, for a rise, he used jokingly to tell them to “Get up a-top o’ the anvul.”

The running expenses of much of the “labour-saving” plant is truly enormous and very often so great as entirely to counteract the much boasted profit-making capacity of the machine, but the managers do not mind that in the least as long as they can show a reduction of hands. If, by any means at all, they can get one man to do what formerly required the services of two or three, they do not trouble about machinery or fuel expenses; the losses incurred by these they make good by speeding up the workman and getting a bigger share out of him. They would rather pay fabulous sums for plant and running expenses than allow the workman to get a few shillings more in wages.

The wholesale waste of material, fuel, and energy, in many of the sheds, is appalling; many thousands of pounds are annually thrown away in this direction. Walk where he will the keen observer will detect waste; no one seems to trouble about the real economy. I have seen it daily for years and have made numerous suggestions, but to no purpose; the overseers are too stupid and ignorant, or too haughty and jealous, to carry out ideas, and the managers are no better. They squander thousands of pounds in experiments and easily cover up their short-comings, but if the machineman happens to break a new tool, or spoil metal of a few pence in value, he is suspended and put on the “black list.”

If a workman sees a way to make improvements in processes and the like, he immediately falls into disfavour with the overseers. Some years ago I, as chief stamper, was anxious to improve the process of making a forging, and also the forging itself, and waited on the overseer with a view to having the alteration made, but I could not obtain his sanction for a long time. At last, as new dies were to be made, I succeeded, after some difficulty, in obtaining his consent for the improvement. Happening to enter the die shed while the job was in the lathe I was told by the machineman that no alteration had been authorised. Grasping the situation, I took a bold course, carried out the suggested alteration myself, and set the dies in the steam-hammer. The improvement was a complete success. I was cursed and abused by the overseer, and he was highly congratulated by the staff in my own presence and hearing. The improvement was not to be permanent, however. Shortly afterwards the dies were re-cut, and made in the old way again. At another time, when I had assisted the overseer with an idea, he would not speak to me for a fortnight.

Many times after that I stood for improvements, and was rewarded with the cutting of my prices and the threat of dismissal, and I had the mortification of being “hooted” by my shop-mates into the bargain. The fact of the matter is, workmen and overseers, too, want to run along in the same old grooves, at any rate, as far as processes are concerned. The foreman and manager think they have done enough if they merely cut a price; they are too blind to see that improvements in the process of manufacture is the first great essential. There are many jobs in the sheds which have been done in the same old way for half a century. It is painful to contemplate the ignorance, stupidity, and prejudice of the staff in charge of operations.

Every shed has an institution called “The Black List.” This list is filed in the foreman’s office and contains the names of those who have been found guilty of any indiscretion, those who may have made a little bad work, indifferent time-keepers, and, naturally, those who have fallen into disfavour with the overseer on any other account, and perhaps the names have been added for no offence at all. When it is intended to include a workman in the list, he is sent for to the office, bullied by the overseer before the clerks and office-boy, and warned as to the future. “I’ve put you on the black list. You know what that means. The next time, mind, and you’re out of it. I give you one more chance.”

Not long ago an apprentice — a fine, smart, intellectual youth — was asked by a junior mate to advise him as to a piece of work in the lathe and went to give the required assistance. While thus engaged he was sent for to the office and charged with idling by the overseer. He tried to explain that he was helping his mate, but the foreman would not listen to it. “Put him on the black list,” he roared to the clerk. The lad’s father, enraged at the treatment meted out to his son, promptly removed him from the works, and sacrificed four or five years of patient and studious toil at his trade. It is useless to continue in the shed when you have been stigmatised with the “black list.” You will never make any satisfactory progress; you had better seek out another place and make a fresh start[3] in life.

A favourite plan of the overseer’s is to catch a man in a weak state and force him to undergo a strict medical test. As a matter of fact, the “medical test” is a farce; it is merely an examination by one of the staff. Even if the workman passes the test satisfactorily it is recorded and tells against him. Quite recently one of the forgers came to work with a black eye, as the result of a private encounter, and the overseer, after jesting with him concerning it, communicated with the examiner and hustled him off to pass the “medical test.”

“What have you been at with the hammer?” said I to little Jim one day, finding the lever working very stiffly.

“I dunno. The luminator’s broke,” answered he.

“The what broke?” I inquired. “That there yu-bricator, the thing what you puts the oil in,” he replied.

Most of the articles stamped seemed to suggest something or other to Jim’s childish mind. One job, made three at a time, looked like “little bridges”; something else resembled great butterflies. This was like an air-gun, and that “just like little pistols.” Jim’s opinion of factory work is interesting — he is a little over fifteen years of age. Coming up to me one day, cap, waistcoat, everything cast aside, his shirt unbuttoned, his face soot black, and with the sweat streaming down his nose and chin, he said naively — “This is what I calls a weary life. This place is more like a prison than anything else.” After that he wished to know if I had any apples in my garden, or, failing that, would I bring him along some crabs in my pocket?

“Double Stoppage Charlie” was well-known at the works. He first of all used to keep his wife short of cash, telling her each pay-day it was “double stoppage this week.” He often figured in a public place, too, and invariably made the same excuse. It was always “double stoppage week“ with him, so he came to be honoured with the nickname of ”Double Stoppage Charlie.” There was also “Southampton Charlie,” who had seen service with the Marines, and who was for ever talking about the “gossoons” and telling monstrous yarns of things — chiefly of bloody fights and shipwrecks. He took pride in informing you that he had been told he would have made a capital speaker of French, by reason of his wonderful powers of “pronounciation.”

Jimmy Eustace — better known as “Jimmy Useless” — was full of poaching adventures and midnight tussles with the gamekeepers and police. He was delighted to tell you of how they dodged the men in blue and waded half a mile, up to their necks in water, along the canal in the dark hours in order to keep out of their clutches. This happened in his young days, in the neighbourhood of Uffington. He was always somewhat of a rake, though he was a very clever constructor of all kinds of iron work. Everyone called him “an old fool,” however, when Queen Victoria’s new Royal Train was made, and the workmen went out in the yard to see it. “He go to see that thing? Not he! He could make a better one than that standing on his head, any day.” His long grey hair hung down as straight as candles and his grey beard had the true lunar curve. He chewed half an ounce of tobacco at a time, and spat great mouthfuls of the juice about everywhere.

A little humour is occasionally in evidence in the life that is lived by the grimy pack of toilers in the factory sheds. There is, for instance, the story of the young man engaged to be married to a smart lass, and who gave himself certain unjustifiable airs, representing himself as holding a position in the drawing office. After the wedding took place, at the end of the first week, he took home 18s. in wages and was severely taken to task by his spouse and mother-in-law. It transpired that he was employed pulling a heavy truck about; that was the only “drawing office” to which he was attached.

One young fellow was subjected to the ridicule of his mates by reason of an accident that befell him on his wedding-day. He lived far out in the country, and, on the morning of the ceremony, just before the appointed hour, happening to give an extra specially good yawn, he dislocated his jaw and had to be driven twelve miles to a doctor. Another artless youth, newly brought into the shed, when he was put to withdraw the white-hot plates from a vast furnace, finding the iron rake much too short, tied a piece of tar-cord on the end in order to lengthen it!

The riveter and his mates occasionally practise the ludicrous. One day, when “Dobbin,” the “holder-up,” who was short-sighted, was sitting underneath the floor of the waggon with his head against the plate, dozing perhaps, the riveter began to beat on the floor with his hand-hammer and severely hurt his mate’s cranium. Shortly afterwards Dobbin unconsciously took his revenge. It is usual to “drift” the holes with a steel tool in order to make them clear to admit the rivet, and on this particular occasion the riveter thrust his finger through instead and Dobbin, seeing it in the dim light and thinking it was the drift, gave it a mighty ram upwards with the dolly and smashed it.

Then there is “Budget,” who works one of the oil furnaces, with only half a shirt to his back and hair six or seven inches long and as straight as gunbarrels; whose face, long before breakfast-time, is as black as a sweep’s; who slaves like a Cyclops at the forge and is frequently quoting some portions of the speeches of Antonio and Shylock in the “Merchant of Venice,” which he learnt at school and has not yet forgotten. He sprang out of bed in a great fright, seized his food and ran at top speed, and only partly dressed, half through the town in the darkness to discover finally that it wanted an hour to midnight: he had only gone to bed at ten o’clock. His father is a platelayer on the railway receiving the magnificent sum of 16s. a week in wages, and his mother, after suffering five operations, was lately sent home from the hospital as incurable; it is a struggle to make both ends meet and to keep the home respectable. It is no wonder that Budget’s shirt is always out of repair and that he himself is racked with colds and influenza. There is romance in every walk of life, and legends of ghosts and spirits that frequent desolate ruins and dark places, but few would think to find such a thing as a haunted forge or coke heap, though they were believed to exist by the credulous among the night-men at the factory. “Sammy,” the cokewheeler, had a mortal dread of the cokeheap at midnight, by reason of strange, weird noises he had heard there in the lone, dark hours, and the men at the fires often had to wait for fuel, or go and get it in for themselves. Accordingly, certain among them determined to frighten the old man still further. For several nights in succession, at about twelve o’clock, someone scaled the big high heap at the back and waited for Samuel’s return from the shed with his wheel-barrow. When he arrived the hidden one set up a loud, moaning noise and started to clamber down the pile. The coke gave way and fell with a crash, and Sammy, stuttering and stammering with a childlike simplicity and in a paroxysm of fear, rushed off and told how the “ghost” had assailed him.

The haunted forge was in the smith’s shed, adjoining the steam-hammer shop. There a simple fellow was by a waggish mate first of all beguiled into the belief that a treasure was hidden beneath the floorplate and anvil, and then induced to go alone during the supper-hour in the hope of obtaining a clue from the “spirit” as to its exact whereabouts. Accordingly he went fearfully in through the darkness and up to the fire, while his mate, concealed in the roof, moaned and spoke to him in a ghostly voice down the chimney, telling how, many years before, he had been murdered on that spot and his body buried there together with the treasure, and promising to discover it to the workman if he would come secretly to the fire a fixed number of nights and not communicate the matter to any outsiders. This went on for some time, until the unhappy dupe was made ill, and driven half out of his mind with crazy fear, and things began to get serious. Suddenly the noises stopped, and the midnight visit to the forge was discontinued.

Cases have occurred in which a man has actually been driven out of his mind by continual and systematic trading on his weakness, and by a downright wicked and criminal prosecution of the unscrupulous game. Teddy, the sweeper-up, who was a young married man, and highly respectable, but who discovered a trifling weakness, was assailed and befooled with disgusting buffoonery and drivelling nonsense to such an extent that he became a perfect mental wreck, to the complete amusement of the clique who had brought it about, and who indulged in hysterical laughter at the unfortunate man’s antics and general condition. To such a point was the foolery carried that Teddy had to be detained, and he fell seriously ill. In a fortnight he died, and those who had been the chief cause of his collapse went jesting to his funeral. It was nothing to them that they had been instrumental in his death; a man’s life and soul are held at a cheap rate by his mates about the factory.

Jim Cole is considerably out of place in the factory crowd; ill-health and other misfortunes were the cause of his migration to the railway town. He is a Londoner by birth, and was first of all a valet in good service; afterwards he bought a cab and plied with it about the streets of the metropolis. As a valet he lived with a sister of John Bright, and was often in attendance upon the famous statesman and orator. John Bright’s faith in the Book of Books is well nigh proverbial; the old valet says whenever he went to his room in the morning he was always sitting up in bed reading the Bible. As a cabman Jim was brought into contact with many celebrities, and it is interesting to learn in what light great men appear to those who are at their service about the thoroughfares. He knew Tennyson well by sight. The famous poet was never a favourite with the “men in the street.” His testiness of manner and severity were well-known to them; to use Jim Cole’s words: “They hated the sight of him.” “There goes the miserable old d — —l,” they would say to each other.

Carlyle was not a favourite with the cabmen either. They said he was “hoggish,” and “too miserable to live.” Everyone was in his way, and everything had to be set aside for him. His brilliant literary fame was no recommendation in the face of his stern personal characteristics.

Oscar Wilde was “a very nice man.” There was not a bit of pride in him; he would talk to anyone. He would not walk a dozen yards if he could help it, but must ride everywhere. He often gave cabby a shilling to post a letter for him. One day Jim Cole was driving him, and they met Mrs. Langtry in her carriage. Thereupon Oscar Wilde stopped the cab, got out, and stood with one foot on the step of the popular actress’s carriage, remaining in conversation with her for nearly an hour. At the end of the journey Oscar stoutly denied the time, declared he was not talking to Mrs Langtry for more than ten minutes, and refused to hand over the fare demanded. Ultimately, however, he admitted he might have been mistaken, and so came to terms and paid the extras.

Once James was engaged to drive the celebrated Whistler and Mrs Whistler to Hammersmith, and came very near meeting with disaster. That night he was driving a young mare of great spirit, and she took fright at something on the way and bolted. Poor Jim was in great suspense, fearing an accident at every crossing. The mare flew along at a terrific speed, but the hour was favourable and the traffic thin; there was a fair, open road all the way. He strained every nerve to subdue the animal and slacken the pace, but for over two miles he had not the slightest control of the vehicle. Whistler was quiet and apparently well content within; he had not the faintest idea that anything was wrong. At last, after a great race up Hammersmith Broadway, the pace began to flag; by the time they reached their destination Jim was able to “pull her up” successfully. Whistler was delighted with the journey and waxed enthusiastic about it. He clapped and patted the animal fondly on the neck, several times exclaiming — “You splendid little mare!” Whistler was a great favourite with the cabmen and he often chatted with them, and made them feel quite at their ease.

Mr Justin M????????‘Carthy and his son were other celebrated fares. They were very quiet and unassuming and earned the great respect of the cabmen. Ill-health dogged the old-time valet. He is now forced to do the work of a menial, lost and swallowed up in the crowd of grimy toilers at the factory.

There is one in every shed who stands at the ticket-box and checks in the workmen at the beginning of each spell; i.e., at six A.M., at nine o’clock, and two in the afternoon. It is his duty also to carry off the box to the time office and bring back the tickets to the men before they leave the shed. At the time office the metal tickets are sorted out and placed on a numbered board; this the checker receives and carries round to all the men and hands them their brasses. It is a favourite plan of the man on the check-box to allow the workmen to drag a little by degrees until they get slightly behind the official moment, and then to close the box sharp and shut out forty or fifty. This causes the men to lose half an hour, or they may possibly be compelled to go home for the rest of the morning or afternoon. For some time afterwards they are very punctual at the box, but by and by they are allowed to drag again and the act of shutting out is repeated. The checker, as well as officiating at the ticket-box, acts as a kind of shop watchman, and supplies the overseer with information upon such points as may have escaped his notice.

Besides the checker, there is the regular shed detective, who locks up the doors and cleans the office windows, and his supernumerary who guards the doors at hooter-time and completes the custody of the place: there is little fear of anything transpiring without its becoming known to the foreman. As those selected to watch the rest are invariably the lazy or the incompetent they are sure to be heartily contemned by the busy toilers; there is nothing the skilful and generous workman detests more than to have a worthless fellow told off to spy upon him.

The storekeeper is another who, by reason of his extreme officiousness and parsimonious manner in dealing out the stores, is not beloved of the toilers in the shed. He treats every applicant for stores with fantastic ceremony, examining the foreman’s slip half-a-dozen times or more, and turning it round and round and over and over until the exasperated workman can stand it no longer, and sets about him with, “Come on, mate! Ya goin’ to mess about all day? We got some work to do, we ’ev. Anybody’d think thee’st got to buy it out o’ thi own pocket!” If the applicant wants a can of oil the vessel is about half-filled; if a hammer is needed the storekeeper searches through the whole stock to find out the worst, if nails, screws, or rivets are required they are counted out with critical exactness, and if the foreman is not at hand to sign the order — no matter how urgent the need is — the workman must wait, perhaps for an hour, till he returns to initial the slip. The time necessary for an order to reach the shed after it has been issued from the general stores, fifty yards away, is usually a week, and the workmen are forbidden to begin a job until they have actually received the official form.

The political views of the men in the shed are known to the overseer and are — in some cases, at any rate — communicated by him to the manager; there is no such thing as individual liberty about the works. He whose opinions are most nearly in agreement with those of the foreman always thrives best, obtains the highest piecework prices and the greatest day wages, too, while the other is certain to be put under the ban. In brief, the average overseer dislikes you if you are a tip-top workman, if you have a good carriage and are well-dressed, if you are clever and cultivated, if you have friends above the average and are well-connected, if you are religious or independent, manly, and courageous; and he tolerates you if you creep about, are rough, ragged, and round-shouldered, a born fool, a toady, a liar, a tale-bearer, an indifferent workman — no matter what you are as long as you say “sir” to him, are servile and abject, see and hear nothing, and hold with him in everything he says and does: that is the way to get on in the factory.