A lantern made a reddish blur in the
cast-house; it was warm in there when a blast was in progress, and he
determined to sleep at once.
Thomas Gilkan, with a fitful light, was testing the sealing clay on the
face of the Furnace hearth; two men were rolling out the sand for the
cast over the floor of the single, high interior, and another was
hammering on a wood form used for stamping the pig moulds. The interior
was soothing; the lights, blurred voices, the hammering, seemed to
retreat, to mingle with the subdued, smooth clatter of the turning wheel
without, the rhythmic collapse of the bellows. Howat Penny was losing
consciousness when an apparently endless, stuttering blast arose close
by. He cursed splenetically. It was the horn, calling the Furnace hands
for the day; and he knew that it would continue for five minutes.
Others had entered; a little group gathered about Thomas Gilkan's waning
lantern. Far above them a window glimmered against the sooty wall. Howat
saw that Dan Hesa was talking to Gilkan, driving in his words by a fist
smiting a broad, hard palm. The group shifted, and the countenance of
the man who had recognized Howat Penny in the woods swam into the pale
radiance. His lassitude swiftly deserted him, receding before the
instant resentment always lying at the back of his sullen
intolerance--they were discussing him, mouthing some foul imputation
about the past night.
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