The machine is a monster, some forty feet from head to rear, stretching nearly the width of the central open space in the mill. The tracks on which it proceeds go the whole length, in front of all the furnaces. I dodged it, or rather ran from it, toward what appeared open water, but found there more tracks for stumbling. An annoyed whistle lifted itself against the general background of noise. I looked over my shoulder. It relieved me to find a mere locomotive. I knew how to cope with locomotives. It was coming at me leisurely, so I gave it an interested inspection before leaving the track. It dragged a cauldron of exaggerated proportions on a car fitted to hold it easily. A dull glow showed from inside, and a swirl of sparks and smoke shot up and lost themselves among girders. The annoyed whistle recurred. By now the charging affair had lumbered past, was still threatening noisily, but was two furnaces below. I stepped back into the central spaces of the mill. The foreman had told me to see the melter, Peter Grayson. I asked a short Italian, with a blazing face and weeping eyes, where the melter was. He stared hostilely at me. "Pete Grayson," I said. "Oh, Pete," he returned; "there!" I followed his eyes past a pile of coal, along a pipe, up to Pete. He was a Russian, of Atlas build, bent, vast-shouldered, a square head like a box. He was lounging slowly toward me with short steps. Coming into the furnace light, I could see he was an old man with white hair under his cap, and a wooden face which, I was certain, kept a uniform expression in all weathers. "What does a third-helper do?" I asked when he came alongside. Pete spat and turned away, as if the question disgusted him profoundly. But I noticed in a moment that he was giving the matter thought. We waited two minutes. Finally he said, looking at me, "Why a third-helper has got a hell of a lot to do." He seemed to regard this quantitative answer as entirely satisfying. "I know," I said, "but _what_ in hell does he do?" He again looked at the floor, considered, and spat. "He works around the furnace," he said. I saw that I should have to accept this as a prospectus. So I began negotiations. "I want a job," I said. "I come from Mr. Towers. Have you got anything now?" He looked away again and said, "They want a man on the night-shift. Can you come at five?" My heart leaped a bit at "the night-shift." I thought over the hours-schedule the employment manager had rehearsed: "Five to seven, fourteen hours, on the night-week." "Yes," I said. We had just about concluded this verbal contract, when a chorus of "Heows" hit our eardrums. Men make such a sound in a queer, startling, warning way, difficult to describe. I looked around for the charging machine, or locomotive, but neither was in range. "What are they 'Heowing' about?" I thought violently to myself. But Pete had already grabbed my arm with a hand like a crane-hook. "Want to watch y'self," he said; "get hurt."