按键盘上方向键 ← 或 → 可快速上下翻页，按键盘上的 Enter 键可回到本书目录页，按键盘上方向键 ↑ 可回到本页顶部！
————未阅读完？加入书签已便下次继续阅读！
il up like an ice…cream soda。 The slag overflows。 Redder than strawberry syrup and as hot as the fiery lake in Hades it flows over the rim of the hearth and out through the slag…hole。 My helper has pushed up a buggy there to receive it。 More than an eighth and sometimes a quarter of the weight of the pig…iron flows off in slag and is carted away。
Meanwhile I have got the job of my life on my hands。 I must stir my boiling mess with all the strength in my body。 For now is my chance to defeat nature and wring from the loosening grip of her hand the pure iron she never intended to give us。
CHAPTER XVII
MAN IS IRON TOO
For twenty…five minutes while the boil goes on I stir it constantly with my long iron rabble。 A cook stirring gravy to keep it from scorching in the skillet is done in two minutes and backs off blinking； sweating and choking； having finished the hardest job of getting dinner。 But my hardest job lasts not two minutes but the better part of half an hour。 My spoon weighs twenty…five pounds； my porridge is pasty iron； and the heat of my kitchen is so great that if my body was not hardened to it； the ordeal would drop me in my tracks。
Little spikes of pure iron like frost spars glow white…hot and stick out of the churning slag。 These must be stirred under at once； the long stream of flame from the grate plays over the puddle； and the pure iron if lapped by these gases would be oxidized？burned up。
Pasty masses of iron form at the bottom of the puddle。 There they would stick and become chilled if they were not constantly stirred。 The whole charge must be mixed and mixed as it steadily thickens so that it will be uniform throughout。 I am like some frantic baker in the inferno kneading a batch of iron bread for the devil's breakfast。
〃It's an outrage that men should have to work like this；〃 a reformer told me。
〃They don't have to；〃 I replied。 〃Nobody forced me to do this。 I do it because I would rather live in an Iron Age than live in a world of ox…carts。 Man can take his choice。〃
The French were not compelled to stand in the flame that scorched Verdun。 They could have backed away and let the Germans through。 The Germans would not have killed them。 They would only have saddled them and got on their backs and ridden them till the end of time。
And so men are not compelled to face the scorching furnaces； we do not have to forge the iron that resists the invading cyclone and the leveling earthquake。 We could quit cold and let wild nature kick us about at will。 We could have cities of wood to be wiped out by conflagrations； we could build houses of mud and sticks for the gales to unroof like a Hottentot village。 We could bridge our small rivers with logs and be flood…bound when the rains descended。 We could live by wheelbarrow transit like the Chinaman and leave to some braver race the task of belting the world with railroads and bridging the seas with iron boats。
Nobody compels us to stand shoulder to shoulder and fight off nature's calamities as the French fought off their oppressor at Verdun。 I repeat； we could let nature oppress us as she oppresses the meek Chineselet her whip us with cold； drought； flood； isolation and famine。
We chose to resist as the French resistedbecause we are men。 Nature can chase the measly savage fleeing naked through the bush。 But nature can't run us ragged when all we have to do is put up a hard fight and conquer her。 The iron workers are civilization's shock troops grappling with tyrannous nature on her own ground and conquering new territory in which man can live in safety and peace。 Steel houses with glass windows are born of his efforts。 There is a glory in this fight； man feels a sense of grandeur。 We are robbing no one。 From the harsh bosom of the hills we wring the iron milk that makes us strong。 Nature is no kind mother； she resists with flood and earthquake； drought and cyclone。 Nature is fierce and formidable； but fierce is man's soul to subdue her。 The stubborn earth is iron； but man is iron too。
CHAPTER XVIII
ON BEING A GOOD GUESSER
The charge which I have been kneading in my furnace has now 〃come to nature；〃 the stringy sponge of pure iron is separating from the slag。 The 〃balling〃 of this sponge into three loaves is a task that occupies from ten to fifteen minutes。 The particles of iron glowing in this spongy mass are partly welded together； they are sticky and stringy and as the cooling continues they are rolled up into wads like popcorn balls。 The charge； which lost part of its original weight by the draining off of slag； now weighs five hundred fifty to six hundred pounds。 I am balling it into three parts of equal weight。 If the charge is six hundred pounds； each of my balls must weigh exactly two hundred pounds。
I have always been proud of the 〃batting eye〃 that enables an iron puddler to shape the balls to the exact weight required。 This is a mental act；an act of judgment。 The artist and the sculptor must have this same sense of proportion。 A man of low intelligence could never learn to do it。 We are paid by weight； and in my time； in the Sharon mill； the balls were required to be two hundred pounds。 Every pound above that went to the company and was loss to the men。
I have heard that 〃guessing pigs〃 was an old…time sport among farmers。 To test their skill； each farmer would guess the weight of a grazing pig。 Then they would catch the porker； throw him on the scales； and find out which farmer had guessed nearest the mark。 Sunday clothes used to be badly soiled in this sport。
But the iron worker does not guess his pigs。 He knows exactly how much pig…iron he put into the boil。 His guessing skill comes into play when with a long paddle and hook he separates six hundred pounds of sizzling fireworks into three fire balls each of which will weigh two hundred pounds。
The balls are rolled up into three resting places； one in the fire…bridge corner； one in the flue…bridge corner； and one in the jam； all ready for the puddler to draw them。
My batch of biscuits is now done and I must take them out at once and rush them to the hungry mouth of the squeezing machine。 A bride making biscuits can jerk them out of the oven all in one pan。 But my oven is larger and hotter。 I have to use long…handled tongs； and each of my biscuits weighs twice as much as I weigh。 Suppose you were a cook with a fork six feet long； and had three roasting sheep on the grid at once to be forked off as quickly as possible。 Could you do it？ Even with a helper wouldn't you probably scorch the mutton or else burn yourself to death with the hot grease？ That is where strength and skill must both come into play。
One at a time the balls are drawn out on to a buggy and wheeled swiftly to the squeezer。 This machine squeezes out the slag which flows down like the glowing lava running out of a volcano。 The motion of the squeezer is like the circular motion you use in rolling a bread pill between the palms and squeezing the water out of it。 I must get the three balls； or blooms； out of the furnace and into the squeezer while the slag is still liquid so that it can be squeezed out of the iron。
From cold pig…iron to finished blooms is a process that takes from a