Rush was throwing out the cinders, raising a fine black dust that sifted over him like mist, except that in this case the mist was black. He toiled on steadily, scarcely taking a second for rest. The perspiration was rolling from his face and body. The temperature was high out doors and many degrees higher in the mill. Just back of Steve, so close that he could hurl a shovel of cinders against it, was a huge open-hearth furnace with a roaring temperature of three thousand degrees Fahrenheit inside of it. Beneath him was the hot bed of cinders and slag. Beyond him was a long row of red hot ingots, running metal and hot steam pipes. "It isn't any wonder that I feel a little warm," smiled the boy, wiping the perspiration from his brow, at the same time taking quick note of his surroundings. Traces of the accident were being rapidly removed. In a few moments no evidences of it would be left. The blown-up pit had been partially filled with slag that fell back after the explosion, and already a shoveler was at work throwing the stuff out. The pit must be made ready for the next cast, and the furnace was nearly ready for the cast. Rush toiled until noon. He sat down to his lunch which he had brought with him, without opportunity to wash. The noon rest was to be for only twenty minutes, so there was no time to waste. After finishing he walked to the door and gazed off toward the hospital, wondering how Bob was. Rush could see the roof of the hospital from the doorway, but that was scant comfort. He turned back, walking slowly toward his pit to take up the dreary afternoon's shoveling. Just as he reached the pit a light touch on his shoulder caused him to wheel sharply. There was the boy, Brodsky. He was breathing hard. "Hello, Ignatz, you're all out of breath," exclaimed Steve. "I been by the hospital." "You have? Tell me, quickly, how is Bob?" demanded Rush, gripping the arm of the Polish boy. "Him wake up." "He is conscious, then? Good, good! Tell me how he is?" "Him not dead. Him get well, by and by." Steve's face lighted up happily. "Ignatz, you are a good boy. Did you go without your lunch for the sake of going over to see how my friend is?" Ignatz nodded, pleased at the pleasure of his friend. "Doctor say Bob pretty much hard hit, but him get well." "Go get your lunch, quick, before the whistle blows," ordered Steve. Ere the words were fairly out of his mouth the shrill blast of the shop whistle sent all hands scurrying for their stations, Brodsky among the number. "Look out! Trouble him come quick!" warned the Pole, whispering in Steve's ear just before he bounded away. "I wonder what he meant by that?" muttered Rush. "We surely have had trouble enough. I guess I'm a failure as a steel worker. But no! I'll beat it yet. I'll win out! They can't down me. I'll go through with it, and some of these fellows shall yet be taking orders from Steve Rush!" CHAPTER VII AN UNJUST SENTENCE