Ignatz, in halting tones, gave the investigator a homely but graphic account of how the disaster had occurred. In the first place, the men had been to blame because they had no business to be so near the small ladle of molten metal when it was being hoisted from the pit. In the second place, Ignatz said, that, after the accident, he had heard some of the men talking about the chain being defective. Steve secured the names of these men from the Polish boy, then hurried on to the others of the injured. The lad had a pleasant, encouraging word for each, making memoranda of things the wounded men wished him to do for them. They knew he would do what he promised, and it was a source of great comfort to them to know that the messages they wished conveyed to their families would have the most careful attention from the Iron Boy. Some of the men were too badly hurt to be able to talk. These Steve did not try to question. He did, however, question others, who had been less severely injured. The boy left the hospital with stern, set face. He drew a long breath as he emerged into the burning sunlight, shook himself and hurried to the office. There he made a verbal report to the head of the department, which very plainly placed a good share of the blame on the foreman of hearth number seven, Bill Foley. While the head of the accident department was closeted with the general superintendent in an adjoining room, giving him the details of the disaster, Steve was busily engaged in making out his report, which he dictated to a stenographer. Bob Jarvis stood on the other side of the stenographer, his eyes fixed on Steve as he made his report. Bob, listening intently, was getting points for his own work. Having completed his report, Rush got up, stretched himself and looked at Bob. "I'm through with this job," announced Steve, with emphasis. "Through with it? Why?" "It's too slow for me." "What's that you say, Rush?" The Iron Boy turned and found himself looking into the face of the general superintendent. CHAPTER II MAKING A NEW START "I beg your pardon, Mr. Keating," apologized Steve, reddening a little. "So this work is too slow for you, eh?" "Yes, sir." "It strikes me that it has been rather the opposite. You certainly have excitement enough, don't you?" "Well, yes, sir, but----" "Step into my office." "Rush's going to get his," mumbled the telephone operator, coming to life for the moment. "I shouldn't care to be in his shoes just at present." "Sit down, Rush. I will confess that I am rather surprised at the remark that I just overheard you make." Mr. Keating was a man well past middle age. His hair was gray, his bristling mustache of the same shade, gray, twinkling eyes adding greatly to the general effect of the face. But it was the square-set jaw and the firm set of the lips that revealed the iron in the make up of the superintendent. All this Steve Rush saw at a glance and understood.