He flipped the coin and it fell tails. "Don't count," said he, "two out of three." This flip fell heads. "Hah," he said, "if this comes heads, I'm goin' out to-night ter find a woman." It fell tails. "Hell!" he said, "Don't count, flipped it with the wrong hand." He kept this up all day. Finally at 5.30 the coin came heads. He picked the coin up and put it in his pocket. "Goin' out, to-night," he said. "Boss wants to keep Number 6 lookin' right. Go down below, and clean out all that flue dust." I shoveled between the stone arches of the furnace base, that curved overhead like the culverts of a bridge. Sometimes the flue dust was wet and clotted with mud, and came up in cakes on the shovel; sometimes it was light, and flew in your nose and eyes. I made a pile of it six feet high, and shaped it into a brick-red pyramid with my shovel. I washed the arches white with a hose. "Change 'em before we tap," McLanahan ordered, nodding at the stoves. I went among the rangy hundred-foot shafts with a certain sense of control over great forces. Every set differs in its special crankiness. Number 9's have stiff-working valves, but are powerful heaters; Number 8's are cool stoves, but their valves slide genially into place. I always a little dreaded "blowing her off." Resting my arms on the edge of the wheel, and grabbing the top with my hands, I wrenched it over to the left, and the blast began. The immense volumes of compressed air escaped with a gradually accelerated blare. I gritted my teeth a little, and my ears sang. Then came "putting on the gas." I climbed to a little platform near the combustion chamber, and with a hunk of iron scrap for hammer, knocked out some wedges that held tight a door. By now I knew just the pressure for making the iron slab creep on its rollers. I braced my feet and pulled with back and arms. Through the door, the combustion chamber glowed red. I went down the steps and slowly turned the gas-pipe crank, bringing an eight-inch pipe close to the red opening. I dodged the back flare as it ignited. When the "new" stove was on, and the "old" one lit for reheating, I went to the pyrometer shanty. In a little hut among the furnaces were tell-tale discs, that let you know if you were keeping your heat right. I found my heat curve was smooth with only a tiny hump.... Two Hunkies were inside the shanty. "Nine-thirty," said one. "How do you know?" I asked. He pointed to the end of the curve on the disc, that was opposite the 9.30 mark on the circumference. "Saves me a watch," he said, with a grin.