"Ah," he said, "tall buildings no look good. Budapest good city, no can build over five story." Here was unlooked-for discrimination. I began feeling provincial. He went on to describe the cleanliness of Budapest, and to contrast it with Pennsylvania cities of his acquaintance. He certainly had me hands down. He continued: "No can build stack that t'row smoke into neighbor's house. Look at dis place," he said, pointing to Bouton, "look at Pittsburgh." I said no more, but nodded swift agreement. He was a little more encouraging about the United States when it came to government. "You have a man president; that no good, after four year you kick him out. My country sometime get king, that's all right, sometime get damn bad one. No can kick him out." But he relapsed into censure again when he came to American women. "Women," he said, "in my country do more work than men this country." "They have more time, here," I said, "and don't have to work so hard." "American women, when you meet 'em, always ask: 'How much money in de pock?' What they do? Dress up,--hat, dress, shoe,--walk all time Main Street. Bah!" It was a refreshing shock to receive this outspoken critique of America from a Hunky, a Hungarian stove-gang boss of a blast-furnace. I was amused very much by it, except the phrase "America all right mak' money, old country place live." I coupled it up with some talks I had had with men on the open-hearth. America, steel-America, which was all they knew, was very largely a place of long hours, gas, heat, Sunday work, dirty homes, big pay. There was a connection in that, I thought, with the gigantic turnover figures of laborers in steel, the restless moving from job to job that had been growing in recent years so fast. Too many men were treating America as a good place for taking a fortune out of. The impulse toward learning English, building a home, and becoming American, certainly wasn't strong in steel-America. But I left these questions in the back of my head, and returned to the stove gang at Adolph's command. In a few days I was well in the midst of my gang-novitiate. We got formally introduced by name one day in front of No. 12 stove. The little Italian with the black moustache said: "What's your name?" "Charlie," I said, knowing that first names were the thing. "All right," he said, "that's Jimmy, Tony, Joe. Mike not here. You know Mike? Slavish. John, that's me. That's John too wid de bar.--Hey!" with an arresting yell, that made the others look up, "_Dis is Charlie!_"