"Look out for me, I've got the de'il in me," from Jock, Scotch First on Number 8. I looked up, and the crazy fool had a spoon--they weigh over a hundred--between his legs, dragging it like a kid with a broomstick. As it bounced on the broken brick floor, he yelled like a man after a Hun. "Who's the maun amang ye, can lick a Scotchman?" he cried, dropping the spoon to the floor. "Is this the best stuff you can show on Number 8?" said Fred slowly. He dived for Jock's waist, and drew it to him, though the Scotchman tried to break his grip with one of his hands and with the other thrust off his opponent's face. When Fred had him tight, he caught one of Jock's straying arms, bent it slowly behind his back, and contrived a hammerlock. "You're no gentlemen,"--in pain; "you're interruptin' my work." Fred relaxed, and Jock jumped away. "Come over to a good furnace, goddam it, and fight it out!" he yelled, from a distance that protected his words. The charging-machine, in its perpetual machine-tremolo, shook past and stopped. George slid down from his seat, and came over to Number 8's gang. "Well, Fred, how in hell's the world usin' yer?" "Ask me that to-morrow." "Well, guys, good night; I'm dead for forty minutes." He picked up a board some six feet long and about six inches in width. He laid himself carefully on it, and was sleeping inside of a minute. I looked at him enviously for a few minutes. Suddenly it occurred to me that the board lay over a slit in the floor. It was the opening through which the pipes that attach to the gas-valve rise and fall. When gas is shifted from one end of the furnace to the other, the pipes emerge through the slit to a height several feet from the floor. Finally Fred made the same discovery, and a broad smile spread over his face. He continued to watch George, his grin deepening. At last he turned to the second-helper. "Throw her over," he said. Nick threw the switch. Slowly and easily the valve-pipes rose, lifting George and the head of his bed into the air, perilously. An immense and ill-controlled shout swelled up and got ready to burst inside the witnesses. George slept on, and the bed passed forty-five degrees. In another second it rolled off the side of the pipes, and George, scared, half-asleep, and much crumpled, rolled over on the furnace floor. It was several seconds before he recovered profanity. The pure joy of that event spread itself over the entire shift.