Out of this twisting-room into a large square yard or court, with the engine-house and its neighbouring boilers on one side; offices on another, and the great wall of the mill on the third. On the fourth, a blank wall and huge gates, at present standing open, and affording a glimpse into the dingy street. The engineer, this warm August afternoon, was standing in the full glow of the furnace: his face was black, and shone as if recently it had been anointed with oil. His arms were bare and sinewy, and they were black too. His shirt, whatever its original hue, was black now, and his other garments, reduced to as scanty a quantity as was compatible with decency, were black also with oil, and grease, and coal-dust. He paused to mop away a swarthy perspiration with a dingy-looking handkerchief, as Myles went by, looking clean and cool, and aggravatingly comfortable. ‘Hey, Miles, lad, what time dost make it? I’m too hot to get my watch.’ ‘Ten to six,’ said Myles, looking at his watch. ‘The Lord be praised!’ responded the engineer piously, ‘and send us a speedy deliverance. It’s as hot as hell here of a summer afternoon, and no jokin’. Hast had thi’ baggin?’[1] ‘I don’t take baggin,’ said Myles, a little contemptuously, as he took his way to the office, where he found a man and a boy behind a desk, on which was a heap of gold, silver, and copper coins, and a number of books and papers. It was Friday afternoon--pay-day. ‘Oh, you’re there, Myles,’ said the man. ‘You may take your wages now, if you like.’ ‘All right!’ said Myles, picking up two sovereigns from the heap of gold, and slipping them into his pocket. Then he twisted himself over the counter and seated himself on a high stool beside the desk. ‘By your leave, I’ll just wait here till my lass comes, and then we’ll go home together.’ Wilson, the head-overlooker and cashier, assented. Myles folded his arms before him, and began to whistle a tune to himself. It was the tune of the song, ‘Life let us cherish!’ and when Myles had nothing else to do, he generally did whistle it--unthinkingly, almost unconsciously. While he whistled he looked through the dingy panes of a small window upon a prospect as dingy as the panes. There was nothing but a short patch of grey-looking street, and over the way the multitudinous windows of a great foundry, from the back premises of which came loud sonorous clangs, as of metal striking against metal--a maddening and a deafening sound to ears unused to it, but which, from long habit, failed to disturb the workers in ‘Mallory’s Factory.’ It had become not exactly inaudible to them, but part of the day’s features--as clouds, or wind, or rain. They would, to use a Hibernicism, only have noticed it if it had left off.