"The fumes?" Floyd asked wonderingly.
"Yep. Danger of their overpowerin' a man. And a man never knows when he's goin' to be overpowered—not till it drops him. Ain't that so, Bill? Why, look here—"
He rose impressively and led Floyd out behind the furnace. The one next below was being tapped; that is, the liquid steel, or "heat," was being drawn off into the huge bowl set in the cavity just behind. As it flowed in, hissing and leaping up in flame, a man standing a little back from the brink tossed in at intervals fragments of steel and chunks of limestone. Each lump sent up a lashing burst of flame.
"There!" said Floyd's informant. "There was a fellow doing just what that man is. He was a rash sort of fool—always showing off and showing how nothing ever troubled his nerve. He'd stand on the edge of a thing like that—stand on one foot and then wave the other one out over the heat—just to let us know he was n't afraid. If a place was too hot for a man to stand in, he'd go and stand there and let on he liked it. Always lookin' for trouble—that was him. Well, one day he was pitchin' scrap into the heat as it was being drawed off, and nothing would do but he must stand right up on the very brink—step up and take a look."
"It does n't seem possible a man could stand so close as that," said Floyd with due innocence.
"That's because you ain't used to it. I was off just about there, making ready to tap my furnace; I happened to look up and it struck me he was kind of queer. There was a kind of blankness on his face, and he was standing holding a chunk of stone like this,—just hanging in his fingers,—and next thing it slipped right out of 'em, glanced off the edge, and plunked in. And then all of a sudden he slumped together and pitched forward, head first. He never made no sound."
"How awful!" said Floyd.
