# The Casting Pit

Extracted from Windsor magazine, Vol 41 1918-19, pp. 321–325. Accompanying illustrations by Arthur Garratt (UK, d. 1955) omitted.
THE CASTING PIT
By HAROLD BINDLOSS
Illustrated by Arthur Garratt
THE men who filled the ingot moulds declared Number Three was an unlucky pit. The plant was good; in fact, the Bessemer converter, ladle, and blowing gear were the best a famous engineering house could supply, but men got hurt and steel was spoiled. Although men whose business is to handle fluid metal do get hurt now and then, the accidents at Number Three were rather numerous, and Savile, the old works-manager, was bothered. He knew much about converting steel, and could find no defect in the machinery, but he admitted that his knowledge had limits. There were problems nobody had altogether solved, and risks that must be run.
Since some of the hands were superstitious, he changed the blowers who controlled the big pear-shaped vessel that converted the pig-iron into steel. Grey was perhaps the steadiest blower in the mill, and, although he was getting old, Savile sent him to Number Three. In a sense, his choice was good, because Grey was sober and methodical; but human nature, like steel, is unstable and marked by weaknesses. Grey's, as sometimes happens, sprang from his virtues.
Number Three had run well for a time, when one bitter night Grey stood on the high platform above the casting pit. His job was to control the ten-ton converter, in which the alloys were burned out of the melted iron. She was a squat, globular vessel, built of steel and lined with refractory clay, and turned on an axle near the middle. One swung her up, with nozzle to the sky, when the blast was on, and down, to fill the moulds, when the charge was purified. Above her the roof of the long shed was pierced; below was the hollow of the casting pit, where the big ingot moulds stood in a circle. Farther back, behind the soaking-furnaces, lights flickered in the noisy mill where ponderous rolls squeezed the ingots into rails and plates.
After midnight Grey began to feel the cold. A biting wind from the Irish Sea swept the open-sided building. Iron scale and acrid fumes blew about, the gas-jets flared and sank, and when the waves of heat receded before the draughts Grey shivered. He was older than he looked, although nobody but his daughter knew how old he was. Grey meant to keep his job, and Meg did not know he had recently been getting slack. Sometimes he was dizzy, and sometimes his heart beat. He had not gone to a doctor, and did not mean to go until the big order for foreign railway steel was worked off. Then, if he felt no better, he might take a holiday.
Grey had a number of utilitarian virtues; he was sober, industrious, and frugal. His pay was good, and, like some of his fellow-workers in the Northern manufacturing town, he invested all he saved in small houses. He had saved much, and hoped to buy another mortgage that would round off his block of property in a mean smoky street. The little shop and cottages were cheap, and in another few weeks he could make up the needed sum. After this was done he could, if necessary, think about stopping his work at the mill.
A gong clanged, and when Grey looked round, Number Two converter, across the building, turned her muzzle down. A flood of molten steel boiled to the vessel's lip, shimmering and throwing out flashes of dazzling light. The flood boiled over, an incandescent cascade, and a ladle moved along and filled the moulds. Figures, dwarfed by the magnitude of the machines they controlled, flitted about in the strong illumination and faded when the blaze sank. The steel was poured, and faint tongues of flame, that emphasised the sudden gloom, played about the top of the moulds. The waves of heat subsided, and all was quiet about the casting pit, for the ingots must now solidify before they went to the soaking-furnace and the rolls.
Grey leaned on the rails of his platform. His converter and Number Two worked alternately, and the ladle-tank that supplied him would soon arrive. His side hurt, and of late he had only stood when he was forced. While he waited for the tank, Tyson, his son-in-law, came up and looked at him rather hard.
"A co'd night," he said. "What fettle?"
The inquiry is common in the North, but Grey resented Tyson's searching glance. Jack was a canny lad, but he liked to meddle, and Grey wondered whether Meg had given him a hint. Meg had been bothering Grey about his not looking well. Although she had married Jack, she still tried to rule her father. Grey straightened his body, and did not flinch when the jerk he gave his muscles hurt.
"Yes, it's co'd," he agreed. "I'm taking things easy until ladle comes."
Tyson smiled, as if he were willing to indulge the other. "I niver saw you varra easy unless you were asleep, Russell's back from Sheffield and looking for a job; I met him coming up street. He didn't like works-manager, and mill was running slack."
Grey pondered this. Russell was a good converter-man. Savile knew him, and would, no doubt, engage him for a time if Grey asked for leave. But Grey did not mean to ask—anyhow, not yet. When one was getting old, it was prudent to stick to one's job. Besides, if he could hold out a little longer, he would soon be able to stop for good. In the meantime he wanted his son-in-law to go, but Tyson did not.
"Meg reckoned you were after Forsyth's shop and cottages, and, if you have got the money, they might be worth buying," Tyson resumed. "Little, of the Co-Op., told me at club his folks thowt aboot opening a new branch in our street. If they did, Forsyth's shop would suit them."
"Did you tell Little I wanted shop?" Grey asked.
"I did not," Tyson replied, with a smile. "Little talks too much, but I reckon Co-Op. folks hasn't made up their minds. They'll wait until they get out balance-sheet."
He went off, and Grey mused. If the Co-Operative Society opened a new branch, they must buy the shop, and if Grey could buy the mortgage first, he could force them to pay his price. The trouble was, he could not buy the mortgage yet. The holder demanded payment in full, and Grey, who never borrowed, had not all the money. It was plain that he must stick to his work until he could make up the sum, and he frowned when he felt his heart beat. If he bothered about things, it did beat faster than it ought; but he was not going to let a little weakness spoil his plans.
He looked back—to his boyhood, when he worked a twelve-hour shift for six shillings a week, and lived, for the most part, on tea and bread; to his joyless youth, when his sick mother needed all his pay; and the dreary years afterwards, when frugality had become a habit. He married, and Meg brought him a hundred pounds. She was a good wife. Her motto was work and save, and Grey was richer when she died. Still, he sometimes felt that they had missed something. For a time he mourned for Meg, but presently forgot her, and let his plans for adding small house to house absorb him. Now, if he could buy the mortgage—— But his breath came rather hard, and he seized the platform rails.
A few minutes afterwards wheels rattled in the gloom, a whistle shrieked, and a tank brimming with melted pig-iron rolled up to the converter. The pear-shaped vessel swallowed the fiery draught, and when Grey turned her muzzle up and released the blast, all was dazzling bright. A tremendous column of flame leaped through the open roof, and vivid reflections spread far across the mill. The bolts on the pillars and the lines of sweat and dust on the men's faces were harshly distinct. Grey, however, watched the leaping flame. The alloys in the metal were burning off, and one knew by the colour which was going. If he continued the blast a few moments too long, the iron would burn.
He stopped the blast and signalled. The blaze sank, the shadows rolled back, and half-seen men moved like ghosts about the pit. One saw flickering gas-jets twinkle in long lines down the mill. Then a ladle swung out of the dark, dropping fiery splashes. It carried a charge of ferro-manganese that would put back some of the carbon Grey had burned, and toughen the steel.
The ladle poured the white-hot stuff down Number Three's throat, and Grey again swung her muzzle up. Although he had shivered not long since, he sweated while he turned the wheel, and when he felt for the blast control, his hands shook. The air, driven by powerful engines, leaped into the vessel and searched its bubbling load. The pillar of flame reappeared, and casting pit and mill were flooded with light. Grey took a deep breath. Something throbbed in his head, and his body was wet by sweat, but he was hard and stubbornly obstinate. Although he had, perhaps, stuck to his job too long, he was not going to be beaten now. Unless he kept control, the charge would be spoiled, and Savile, finding out why he had spoiled it, might engage Russell in his place. The finishing blow that changed the iron into steel was very short; in a few moments the strain would be over, and he would fill the ingot moulds. Then he could get a drink and sit down. He needed a drink badly; his mouth was parched.
In the meantime Tyson, occupied in the casting pit, glanced anxiously at the lonely figure on the platform. The blower's responsibility is heavy, and Tyson did not like Grey's pose; the man looked highly strung and nervous, and Tyson wondered whether he was rash when he talked about the mortgage. He thought his father-in-law ought to have asked for somebody to relieve him and gone home, but perhaps his knowing the Co-Operative Society might bid against him had hardened his resolve to stop. If he owned that he was ill, Savile would banish him from the mill until the doctor certified that he was better; indeed, it was possible Savile would not take him back. Grey would sooner run some risk than lose his wages.
Yet Tyson doubted if his meddling would be justified. He did not know Grey was ill, and he must see all was ready in the casting pit for pouring the charge. Neglect might cost life, for skill and thought were needed to guide the big ladle that filled the moulds. One must use caution when one directed the giant forces man had chained, because now and then the chains broke, with dreadful consequences. Tyson, pulled two ways, hesitated and looked about. His sweating comrades waited at their posts, some with a tense smile and some with grim black faces. One could not banish all danger when one filled the moulds, and Number Three was an unlucky pit.
Grey signalled and turned off the blast. The converter began to tilt, and as her muzzle travelled downwards, gusts of flame leaped from her throat. Grey fumbled awkwardly with the blast control. His hands were greasy, and slipped on the smooth iron; his muscles were slack, and he had not his proper grip. Something was not working well, and he could not cut off the blast altogether. But it must be cut off before the mouth of the vessel was horizontal, or ten tons of liquid steel would be blown into the casting pit and across the crowded mill. One could, of course, turn up the vessel and then try to find out why the valve did not work, but this might spoil the charge, and the stoppage would bring Savile. Besides, Grey had a vague suspicion that the fault was not in the machinery.
The air was not cut off, and as the mouth of the converter travelled along its arc, the lowered flame touched the roof. Grey heard the slates crack, and felt desperately for the lifting gear. Since he could not stop the blast, he must swing the converter up again. Spoiling the steel did not matter now; he must save the men. Then he got faint with horror. He could not find the wheel. His hands were nerveless; he was all slack and shaking, but he heard fresh cracked slates fall from the roof. In another moment a flood of melted steel would leap from Number Three's flaming throat. He made a last frantic effort, but his hands slipped, and he saw he was turning on the blast.
A man jumped on to the platform and pushed Grey back. He sat down and saw, half-consciously, that the flame had stopped. The ladle had swung across the pit, and Number Three was turning smoothly down. A sparkling stream poured into the ladle, and Grey saw Tyson wipe his face. That was all, and for a minute or two he knew nothing more. In the meantime Tyson turned up the empty converter and examined the blast control. Then he seized a bar and used its pointed end.
When Savile reached the platform, Grey pulled himself together and got up. His face was pinched, and it cost him something of an effort to keep his feet, but the faintness was going and he felt better. There had been no accident, the steel was safely poured, and he wondered whether the men in the casting pit knew the risk they had run. On the whole, he thought they did not. All that was obvious was the stopping of the blast had been a trifle slow. Yet old Savile plainly saw something had gone wrong. He knew much about machines and men, and where a bearing ran hot or a furnace cooled too soon, his short, quietly-moving form appeared. Now, when the works-manager stepped out of the gloom, Grey saw he must be calm. A faint light came down from the shimmering mouth of the converter and touched the men's faces.
Savile glanced at Grey and remarked: "It looks as if you had got a jolt. I noted, across the mill, that Number Three was slow. I see you've let her cut the roof."
A clean-edged gap extended the regular shaft in the roof. The flame had cut the slates like a builder's hammer.
"I got a jolt," Grey said hoarsely, although he had meant his voice to be careless. "Air valve was stiff and didn't close when I began to turn her down."
"It's not long since I tried the control," Savile observed, and asked Tyson: "What were you doing here?"
"I saw something wasn't working right, and reckoned I'd better come up," Tyson replied cautiously
Savile said nothing for a few moments, and his face was inscrutable, but Tyson thought he pondered. Then the manager turned to Grey.
"Nervy?" he remarked. "Well, I'm going to alter the plate mill after breakfast, and don't know if we'll blow Number Three again until they change the rolls. You can get off home. A sleep's the best thing for you."
"If you want another blow, I'll mannish aw right," Grey said doggedly.
Savile looked at him rather hard, and then made a sign of dismissal.
"Get off," he said, and Grey went, but had some trouble to reach the tramcar that took him to his house.
Then Savile looked down into the casting pit and noted the luminous reflection that quivered above the ingot moulds. They were all full, and no steel had been spilled. He was puzzled, but when he was puzzled he generally waited, and when he looked up, his thoughtful glance rested on Tyson for a moment and passed.
"You were very quick about getting to the platform. Do you know what bothered Grey?"
Tyson thought he knew, but he did not mean to enlighten the works-manager.
"For one thing, the air-valve was very stiff."
"We'll try it," said Savile, and, stooping down, moved a light and studied a small, toothed wheel.
He had gone to the right spot, and Tyson hoped he would not see the pointed bar he had forgotten to drop into the pit. Savile's eyes were very keen, and, unless he told you, you never knew what he thought.
"Although there's not much twisting strain, the key's loose," the manager said in his dry voice, "Well, perhaps the pinion slipped on the shaft."
Tyson imagined the other was not satisfied, but he agreed. "We have some trouble now and then. Number Three's an unlucky pit."
"On the whole, I imagine Grey's a lucky man," Savile rejoined. Then he paused significantly, and resumed: "I doubt if he's lost a day or spoiled a ton of steel since he started blowing. Well, I like good time-keepers, but one can stick to one's job too hard. He's your father-in-law, I understand."
Tyson agreed, and waited. One could never calculate the line Savile would take.
"Grey got a shake," the manager resumed. "Tell him to see his doctor and lie off for a day. I expect I can find a substitute if he doesn't come back to-morrow."
He went off, and Tyson returned to the casting pit; but when he went home for breakfast he talked to his wife, and after he got up in the afternoon Meg went with him to Grey's house. Grey's niece took them to the small front parlour, where an American organ nobody played occupied one wall, and a tall glass shade covering artificial flowers the window-table. Grey lay on a horsehair couch, and it was significant that a fire burned in the grate, for when Grey was well he used the kitchen.
"What had Savile to say t' you?" he asked anxiously..
"He did not say much; he niver does," Tyson replied. "Aw t' same, I'm going to talk, and, to begin with, I've sent for club doctor. My job and my mates' is in casting pit, and your dowter's my wife. There's some risks one must run, and some one needn't, and I'm having none o' last kind. In fact, you're gan t' stop and lie off until you're weel enough to mannish converter."
Grey fought hard, but Tyson was resolute, and his wife supported him. If it was necessary, she declared, Grey must let the mortgage go. There were a large number of men in the mill, and though very few owned houses, nearly all had wives and bairns. If an accident happened and lives were lost, Grey would be accountable. If he would not hear reason, she would go to Savile.
They won the battle, and Meg waited until the doctor arrived. He was very frank, and when Tyson returned to the mill he looked for the manager.
"Grey mayn't be back for some time, sir. The doctor has ordered him to lie off," he said.
"Ah," said Savile dryly, "I imagined something like this. Well, you can tell him to take a month; and then, if the doctor's satisfied, we'll talk about his starting again."
This work is in the public domain in the United States because it was published before January 1, 1929.
The longest-living author of this work died in 1945, so this work is in the public domain in countries and areas where the copyright term is the author's life plus 78 years or less. This work may be in the public domain in countries and areas with longer native copyright terms that apply the rule of the shorter term to foreign works.
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