Читать книгу Life in a Railway Factory - Alfred Williams - Страница 9

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THE OLD CANAL—THE ASH-WHEELERS—THE BRICK-LAYERS—RIVAL FOREMEN—THE ROAD-WAGGON BUILDERS—THE WHEEL SHED—BOY TURNERS—THE RUBBISH HEAP.

West of the workshop the yard is bounded by a canal that formerly connected the railway town with the ancient borough town of Cricklade, eight miles distant. But things are different now from what they were at the time the cutting was made, for great changes have taken place during the last half century in all matters pertaining to transport. Then the long barges, drawn by horses, mules, and donkeys, and laden with corn, stone, coal, timber, gravel, and other materials, proceeded regularly by day and night, up and down the canal to their destinations—north to Gloucester, west to Bristol, east to Abingdon, and thence to far-off London. At that time, instead of being filled with mud, weeds, and refuse, and overgrown with masses of rank vegetation—grasses, flags, water-parsnip, and a score of other aquatic plants—the channel was broad and free, and full of clear, limpid water. The cattle came to drink in the meadows; there the clouds were mirrored, floating in fields of azure. The fish leapt and played in the sunshine, making innumerable rings on the surface, and the swallows skimmed swiftly along, dipping now and then to snatch up a sweet mouthful to carry home to their young in the nest under the eaves of the neighbouring cottage or shed.

Occasionally, too, a steamboat passed through the locks out beyond the town and proceeded on its way to the Thames or Avon. The dredger plied up and down to prevent the accumulation of mud and refuse, and the towpaths and bridges were kept in good repair. The railway had not everything its own way then. The fever of haste had not taken hold of every part of the community, and a few, at least, could await the arrival of the barges and so save a considerable sum in the conveyance of their goods. But now all that is changed. Goods must be loaded, whirled rapidly away and delivered in a few hours, for no one can wait. The pace of the freight trains has been increased almost to express speed. Every possible means that could be thought of have been devised to facilitate transport, and the barges have disappeared from this neighbourhood. Here and there at the wharves may still be seen a few rotten old hulks, falling to pieces and embedded in the mud; the bridges are shattered and dilapidated and the lock gates are broken. The towpaths are overgrown with bushes and become almost impassable, and the channel is blocked up.

The only person who benefits by the change is the botanist. He, from time to time, may be seen busily engaged in grappling for rare specimens of weeds and grasses, or the less learned student of wild flowers comes to gather what treasures he may from the wilderness: the beautiful flowering rush, golden iris, graceful water plantain, arrowhead, water violet, figwort, skull-cap, gipsy wort, and celery-leaved crowfoot. Formerly, too, the works derived a considerable quantity of water through the canal, but that has long ceased to be. There is no water at hand now, and supplies have had to be sought for among the Cotswold Hills, at a great distance from the town. The engines at the old pumping station, near the canal path, once so familiar a feature to travellers that way, are silent now and will be heard there no more. They, too, have become a thing of the past.

The factory premises extend along both banks of the canal and are protected on the far side by a high wall, while that part nearest the workshop is open to the water’s edge. On this side, first of all, is a high platform, called the stage, which is used to load the ashes and refuse, slag and clinkers from the furnaces and forges. This refuse is wheeled out twice daily—at six in the morning and again in the evening after the furnaces have been clinkered—by labourers, upon whom the duty devolves. To remove the clinker properly and economically from the grate of the furnace the fire must have been damped for a short while. This allows the whitehot coals to cling together underneath, and they form a kind of arch above the bars. When this has been accomplished the furnaceman inserts a strong steel bar at the bottom, resting it upon the “bridge,” and, with a heavy sledge, breaks the clinker, working along from side to side. That is in a compact layer or mass, often six or eight inches deep, considerably thicker in the corners, and it is very tough while it is hot. After it has been thoroughly broken up, several of the fire bars are removed together, beginning at one side, and the heavy clinker drops through, spluttering and hissing, into the deep boshes of water disposed underneath. If the fire has not been sufficiently damped it is loose and hollow, and as soon as the bars are removed the white-hot coals rush through into the water, raising clouds of hot, blinding dust and dense volumes of steam.

Immediately the furnaceman, warned of the fall, springs backwards and escapes from the pit, or, if he is tardy in his movements, he is caught in the hot vapour and scalded severely. Sometimes the fall is very sudden and he has no time to escape. Then his face and arms take the full force of the rushing steam and he is certain to receive painful injuries. When the operation of clinkering is over the men bring their wheel-barrows and, with the aid of long-handled shovels, remove the refuse from the pits and run it outside and upon the stage. This is hot work, whenever it is performed; the men are always sure of a wet shirt at the task. Whatever the weather may be, wet or fine, frost or snow, they come to it stripped to the waist and quickly run their wheel-barrows to and fro. If the rain should pelt in torrents it makes little or no difference to them, they still go on with their work, half-naked and bare-headed. Hardy and strong as they may be, this is bound to affect their health, sooner or later. It is not an uncommon thing to find one or other of them breaking down at an early age, a physical wreck, unfit for further service.

The ash-wheelers belong to the same class as the coalies and are sometimes identical with them. They are usually some of the strongest men in the shed, new hands, perhaps, who have not yet earned for themselves an installation into the ranks of the regular machine staff. Sometimes, however, they have proved themselves smart with the shovel and wheel-barrow and have been considered too serviceable to shift to other employment, for, as it is well known that “the willing horse must draw double,” so the workman who is willing to perform a hard duty without murmuring and complaint is always imposed upon and forced to do extra. The natural fool or the systematic skulker is pitied and respected. Once his general conduct is understood he is taken for what he is worth, and no more is expected of him. In time he is rewarded. He may come to be a checker, a clerk, or an inspector; while the sterling fellow, the hard worker, the “sticker,” as he is called, may stop and work himself to death like a slave. Thus, deserving men, because they have proved themselves adepts at the work, have been kept on the ash-barrows for ten or twelve years, sweating their lives away for the sum of eighteen shillings a week. Several, however, disgusted with the business, have left the shed and gone back to work on the farms, in the pure surroundings of the fields and villages. This branch of work has recently been overhauled and estimated at the piece rate, and the wages somewhat improved, though the amount of work to each man has been almost doubled. The refuse and clinker from the furnaces are transported to various parts and used for filling up hollows, and for the making of banks and beds of yards and sidings.

Beyond the stage, lodged on the ground, are two old iron vans that were formerly used in the goods traffic. They have no windows or lights of any kind, merely a double door opening outwardly. These are the cabins and stores of the bricklayers, and they contain cement, fireclay, and firebricks for the furnaces and forges. A permanent staff of bricklayers is kept in each department at the works to carry out whatever repairs are necessary from time to time and to see to the construction and renovation of the furnaces. If there is any building on a large scale required, such as a new shed, stores, or offices, extra hands are put on from the town and afterwards discharged when the work is done. This procedure gives the officials an opportunity of selecting the best men, so that it often happens that new hands, temporarily engaged, become fixtures if they have shown exceptional skill at their trade and are otherwise suitable. In that case some of the old hands must go, and it needs not to be said that such an opportunity is welcomed by the foreman, as it provides him with an excuse for removing undesirables without being too much blamed himself.

The bricklayers are a distinct class and do not mingle well with the other men at the works. Their having to do with bricks and mortar, instead of with iron and steel, seems to exclude them from the general hive, and the fact of their being dressed in canvas suits and overalls, and smeared with cement and fireclay, instead of being blackened with soot and oil, tends to emphasise the distinction. As with the rest of the staff, they are recruited from all parts of the country, and some of them have served a rural apprenticeship. In shrewdness and intelligence they do not rank with the machinists; that is to say, they may be smart at their trade, but they do not discover extraordinary faculties beyond that. Perhaps the nature of their toil has something to do with it, for that is at best a dull and uninspiring vocation. There is no magic required in the setting together of bricks and mortar, and little exertion of the intellect is needed in patching up old walls and buildings. They are nevertheless very jealous of their craft, such as it is, and deeply resent any intrusion into their ranks other than by the gates of the usual apprenticeship. Occasionally it happens that a bricklayer’s labourer, who has been for many years in attendance on his mate, shows an aptitude for the work, so that the foreman, in a busy period, is induced to equip him with the trowel. In that case he at once becomes the subject of sneering criticism; whatever work he does is condemned, and he is hated and shunned by his old mates and companions. The foreman, too, takes advantage of his position and pays him less than the trade rate of wages, so that, after all, he is really made to feel that he is not a journeyman.

Very often, when there is no building to be done, the bricklayers must turn their hands to other work, such as navvying, whitewashing, painting, and so on, all which falls under their particular department. Armed with pick and shovel, or pot and brush, they must dig foundations and drains, or scale the walls and roof and cleanse or decorate the shed. This is always productive of much grumbling and sarcastic comment, but it is better than being suspended. On the whole the bricklayers have a fairly comfortable billet at the works and they are not subject to frequent loss of time through wet weather and other accidents, as are their fellows of the town, though they do not receive as much in wages.

It is astonishing what a prodigious amount of work the labourers will get through in a short time, and apparently with little exertion, when they are digging out drains and foundations for new furnaces, steam-hammers, or other machinery. These foundations are generally huge pits, twelve or fifteen feet deep and double the size square. Stripped to the waist in the heat of the workshop, and armed with the heavy graft tool, with a stout iron plate fixed underneath their right foot, they will dig for hours without resting and yet seem to be always fresh and vigorous. Occasionally, as they throw up the solid clay, some workman of the shed will steal along to examine the fossil remains, pebbles, and flints, that were embedded in the earth, and slip back to his place at the steam-hammer, preserving some relic or other for future examination. The sturdy labourer, however, keeps digging out the clay and hurling it up to the light. He knows nothing of geological data, theories and opinions, and cares not to inquire. He is there to dig the pit and not to trouble himself about the nature of soils and deposits, and though you should talk to him ever so learnedly of old time submersions, accretions, and formations, he only answers you with a blank stare or an unsympathetic grin. His private opinion is that you are something of a lunatic.

There is one among the bricklayers’ labourers that is remarkable. This is the silent man, generally known as Herbert. The story goes that Herbert was once in love and thought to take a wife. But the course of true love did not run smooth in his case, and, in the end, the young lady jilted Herbert. That is according to the story. It may or may not have been true; perhaps Herbert could tell, but he is not at all communicative. Whatever the circumstances were, they made a profound impression upon Herbert’s mind and he has never been the same man since. Now he does not speak to any except his near workmate, and only then to answer the most necessary questions. It is useless for an outsider to attempt to make him speak; he ignores all your attentions. To cause him to smile would be akin to working a miracle. The set features never relax. The eyes are vacant and expressionless, the mouth is firm and stern, and the whole countenance rigid.

Yet Herbert is a fine-looking man. His features are regular—almost classic—his face is bronzed with working out of doors, and he is a picture of health. In height he is medium. His shoulders are broad and square, his arms strong and muscular, and he has the endurance of an ox. Would you tire Herbert? That is impossible. Whatever labour you set him to do he performs it without a murmur. He does the work of three ordinary men. Must he dig? He will dig, dig, dig, and throw up the huge spits of heavy clay as high as his head, one might say for ever. Must he wheel away the debris? He will pile up the wheel-barrow till it is ready to break down under the weight, and trundle it off and up to the stage without the slightest exertion and be back again in a breath. He will lift enormous weights and strike tremendous blows with the sledge. He is tireless in his use of the pick and shovel; in fact, whatever you set Herbert to do he accomplishes it all in about a fifth of the time ordinarily required for the purpose. He is the butt of his masters and of his work-mates. Whatever uncommonly laborious task there is to be done Herbert is the man to do it, and the more he does the more he must do, though he does not know it, or if he does, he shows no indication of the knowledge. Now and again the foreman stands by and watches him approvingly, and this stimulates him to fresh efforts. He revels in the work and, whatever he thinks about it all, he is still silent and inexplicable.

This sort of thing is all right from the point of view of the foreman, but it is very inconvenient and unfair to the other labourers who are sane in their minds and mortal in their bodies, for everything they do is adjudged according to the standard of this indefatigable Hercules. The overseer, used to seeing him slaving endlessly, thinks light of the others’ efforts, and imagines that they are not doing their share of the toil, so uneven is the comparison of their labours. In reality, such a man as Herbert is a danger and an enemy of his kind, though as he is quite unconscious of his conduct and does it all with the best intentions he must be forgiven. Such a one is more to be pitied than blamed.

The foremen of the bricklayers are not bricklayers themselves, and never have been, but were selected apparently without any consideration of their specific abilities. This one was a shunter, another was a carpenter, a third was a waggon-builder, and so on. Perhaps So-and-so and So-and-so went to school together, or worked formerly in the same shed; or consanguinity is the cause, for blood is thicker than water in the factory, as elsewhere. Accordingly, it often comes about that the most fitting person to take the responsible position is thrust aside at the last moment for an utter stranger, one who has no knowledge whatever of the work he is to supervise. With a certain amount of “pushfulness,” however, and an extraordinary confidence in himself and his abilities, the new man is able to make a pretence of knowledge and, somehow or other, the work proceeds. Very often it would go on for months just as well without the foreman to interfere, and in many cases even better, for it is the chargemen and gangers who have the actual control of operations and who possess the real and intimate knowledge of the work.

Should an aspirant to the post of foreman through his own merits be set aside for a stranger—as is sometimes the case—there is bound to be jealousy existing between the two for ever afterwards, which now and again breaks out into heated scenes and may result in brawls and dismissals. Of the workmen, some will take the one side, and some the other; they are mutually distrustful, and have recourse to whispering and tale-telling. If it has been proved that one workman is guilty of getting another his discharge by any unfair means he is not forgiven by his mates. The dismissed man, in such a case, will frequently wait for his informer outside the gates, and will not be satisfied until he has given him a good thrashing. Perhaps he will walk boldly in through the entrance with the other men and take him unaware at his work and punish him on the spot. It is superfluous to say that this is not tolerated by the officials, and anyone who is so bold as to do it must be prepared to stand the consequences and appear at the Borough Police Court.

Now and again a foreman, who has been guilty of some underhanded action, is taken to task by the exasperated victim and treated to a little surprise combat of fisticuffs. Perhaps the foreman is a sneak or a bully, or both, and has carried his tyrannical behaviour too far for human endurance; or private jealousy may have impelled him to some cowardly turn or other, and the workman, driven to desperation, takes the law into his own hands and gives him a thrashing. This—provided the reprisal was merited—will be a source of huge delight to the other men in the shed, and everyone will rejoice to see the offender “taken down a notch,” as they say; but if it was merely an exhibition of unwarrantable temper on the workman’s part, the overseer will be commiserated with and defended. Whether right or wrong the pugnacious one is dismissed. His services are no longer required at the shed; he must seek occupation elsewhere.

Running along for some distance near the canal is a shed in which the road-waggons are made—trollies, vans, and cars for use in the goods yards and stations about the line—and inside this, and parallel with it, is the wheel shop, where the wheels, tyres, and axles are turned and fitted up for the waggons and carriages. Besides the making of new work in the first-named of these sheds, there is always a considerable amount of repairs to be carried out. A great part of this is done outside, in fine weather, in order to give increased room within doors.

The road-waggon builders are of a sturdy type. Many of them are inclined to be old-fashioned and primitive in their methods, and they are solid in character. This is accounted for by the fact that the greater part of the older hands received their initial training in small yards, in little country towns and villages, where they worked among farmers and rustics. The work they did there was necessarily very solid and strong—such as heavy carts and waggons for the farms—and everything had to be done by hand, slowly and laboriously perhaps, but efficiently and well. This taught them the practical side of their trade, as how to be self-sufficing and independent of machinery, which are the most valuable features of a good apprenticeship and are of great service to the workman in after years. By and by, when the time came for them to leave the scene of their apprentice days—for few masters will pay the journeyman’s rate of wages to any who, at the end of their term, have not gone further afield for new experience—they shifted out for themselves. Some went one way and some another. This one went to London, that one to Bristol, and others came to the railway town. Whatever peculiarities of workmanship they acquired in their youth they brought with them and practised in their new sphere, and so the individual style is maintained in spite of totally different methods and processes.

At the present time—in large factories, at any rate—there is machinery for everything, and this is highly destructive of the purely personal faculty in manufacture. But in the case of the road-waggon builder, though a great many, or perhaps all, of the parts have been shaped for him by steam power, there yet remains the fitting up and building of the vehicle, which is reasonably a task requiring considerable care and skill. The iron frame of the locomotive or railway waggon may be clapped together quite easily, for there is no very elaborate fitting or joining to be done. Good strong rivets are the chief things required there. The wooden bodies of the vans and cars, however, must be fitted and built with the nicest precision and finish, or the materials would shrink away and the parts would gape open, or fall to pieces. Thus, the road-waggon builder, as well as the carriage body-maker, must be a craftsman of the first order, and while some journeymen may be at liberty to sacrifice their dearly gained experience and individual characteristics in the face of newer methods and improved mechanical processes, it is well for him to hold fast to what he has found useful and good in the past.

The workmen of every shed have their own particular tone and style collectively as well as individually; different trades and atmospheres apparently producing different characteristics and temperaments. Accordingly, the men of one shed are well-known for one quality, while those of another are noted for something quite different. These are famed for steadiness, civility, and correct behaviour; those for noise, rudeness, horseplay, and even ruffianism. The men of some sheds are remarkable for their extreme docility and their almost childish obedience to the slightest and most insignificant rules of the factory, counting every official as a thing superhuman and nearly to be worshipped. Others are notorious for ideas quite the reverse of this, for riotous conduct within and without the shed, an utter contempt of the laws of the factory, for thieving, fighting, and other propensities. These characteristics are determined as much by the kind of work done in the sheds and the quality of the overseer, as by the men’s own nature and temperament. Most foremen are excessively autocratic and severe with their men, denying them the slightest privilege or relaxation of the iron laws of the factory. Others are of a wheedling, pseudo-fatherly type, who, by a combination of professed paternal regard and a cunning manipulation of the reins, contrive to make everything they do appear just and reasonable and so hold their men in complete subjection. Some foremen, again, are of the ceremonious order, who, from pure vanity, will insist upon the complete observance of the most trivial detail and drive their workmen half-way to distraction. A few, on the other hand, are generous and humane. They hold the reins slack, and, without the knowledge of their chiefs, grant a few small privileges and are rewarded with the confidence of the workmen and a willingness to labour on their part amounting to enthusiasm. For, as the horse that is tightly breeched draws none too well, neither do those men work best who are rigidly kept down under the iron rod of the overseer. Discipline there is bound to be, as everyone knows, but there is no excuse for treating a man as though he were a wild beast, or an infant just out of the cradle. Whatever dissatisfaction exists about the works is chiefly owing to the behaviour of the officials, for they force the workmen into rebellion. If the directors of the company are anxious for the welfare of their staff—as they profess to be—let them instruct their managers and foremen to show themselves a little more tolerant and kindly disposed to the men in the sheds. Actions speak louder than words, and kindness shown to workmen is never forgotten.

The wheel shop is a large building, containing many rows of lathes for the wheels, tyres, and axles, which are nearly all tended by boys. The lines of shafting stretch in the roof, up and down from end to end of the place, and the pulleys whirl round almost noiselessly overhead. Everything is spotlessly clean, for there are no furnaces belching out their smoke, dust, and flames. The temperature is low and the shed, even in the hottest part of the summer, is cool in comparison with the other premises round about. In the winter it is heated with steam from the boilers and the exhaust from the shop engines. This prevents the boys from catching cold. The heavy steel axles and tyres are exceedingly chill in the winter, especially in frosty weather.

The boys come from all parts, from town and country alike, immediately after leaving school, and go straight to the lathes. There are labourers to fix the wheels and tyres in the machines, and the boys attend to the tools, working carefully to the gauges provided. Coming to the work at a time when their minds are in a receptive state, they soon master the principal parts of the business and before long become highly skilled and proficient. Their wages are no more than five or six shillings a week for a start, with yearly rises of one or two shillings until they reach a pound or twenty-two shillings. Upon arriving at this stage—unless work is plentiful—they are usually removed from the lathe and set labouring, or otherwise transferred or discharged as too expensive for the work. Sometimes, after this, they migrate to other towns and earn double or treble the wages they received before, for good wheel- and axle-turners are in constant demand and a clever workman may be sure of securing a high rate of remuneration.

The boys are an interesting group, and one that is well worthy of consideration. They are of all sorts and sizes, of many grades and walks in life. There is the country labourer’s lad, who formerly worked on the land amid the horses and cattle; the town labourer’s lad, who has been errand-boy or who sold newspapers on the street corner; the small shopkeeper’s lad, the fitter’s lad, tall and pale, in clean blue overalls, and the enginedriver’s lad, fresh from school, whose one ambition is to emulate his father and, like him, drive an engine, only one that is two or three times as big and powerful. There are tall and short boys, boys fat and lean, pale and robust-looking, ragged and well-kept, with sad and merry faces. And what pranks they play with one another, and would play, if they were not curbed and checked with the ever watchful eye of the shop foreman! They are always ready for some game or other—football, hide-and-seek, or “ierky”—at any time of the day, and whatever they do, it does not seem to tire them down; they are still fresh and active, cheerful and vivacious.

Many of them begin the day well with running regularly to work, perhaps for two or three miles. At five minutes past six in the morning they commence at the lathe, and when breakfast-time comes they scamper off, food in hand, and play about the yard, or in the recreation field beyond. From nine till one their labour is continuous; there they stand, bound as with chains to the machines they serve, for ever watchful, so as not to spoil the cut and waste the axle, which would mean an enforced holiday for them. When one o’clock comes, smothered with oil and with faces like those of sweeps—often blackened purposely to give themselves the appearance of having perspired much—they race off as before, and play recklessly until it is time to return to the shed. And after the day’s work is finished and they go home in the evening, they wash away the grime and oil and play about the streets and lanes till bed-time, utterly indifferent to the wearisome occupation awaiting them on the morrow. Their sleep is sound and sweet, for their hearts are happy and light. Of the cares of life they know nothing; the future is full of hope for them; all the world is before them. Their chief concern is for the holidays. All these are anticipated and awaited with great joy and eagerness; it is by this alone that they discover the extreme tedium of the daily drudgery of the workshop.

The boys’ foreman is an experienced official, shrewd, keen, and very severe; a good judge of character, cautious, and careful, civil enough, but unbending in a decision, a very good formative agent, one who will exercise a healthy restraint upon the intractables and encourage the timid, but who exploits them all for the good of the firm. His keen eyes and sound judgment enable him to at once sum up a lad’s capabilities. He takes the youth and sets him where he will show to the best advantage, instructs him on many of the crucial points, advises him as to the best means of getting on, and very often furnishes him with hints of a personal nature which—whatever the lad may think of them at the time—bear fruit in after life. If the youngster is inclined to be wild and incorrigible he tries his best to reform him, and gives him sound advice. He has also been known to administer a corrective cuff in the ear and a vigorous boot in the posterior, but he usually succeeds in bringing out the good points and suppressing, if not entirely eradicating, the bad.

Whenever he walks up or down the shed the boys fix their attention more firmly upon their machines, for they feel his keen, penetrating eyes upon them, and they know that nothing ever escapes his notice. If there is a slackness at any point the word is passed rapidly on—“Look out, here’s J——y coming,” and the overseer is sometimes amused with the various expedients resorted to in order to deceive him and cover up the juvenile shortcomings. As to wages, prices, and systems, they are not altogether his fault. It he could suit himself he might possibly be willing to pay more, but he is always being pressed by the staff to reduce prices and expenses, and, like the other foremen, he is not prepared to offer effective resistance. Being an official of long standing, however, he is secure in his place, and has no occasion to betray his hands to the firm, as is too often the case with young foremen, who wish to secure personal notice and advantage. That is one of the most damning features of all, and is becoming more and more a practice at the works. One young “under-strapper” I knew is in the habit of standing over the boys at the lathe, watch in hand, for four hours without once moving, and, by his manner and language, compelling them to run at an excessive rate so as to cut their prices. Without doubt he is deserving of the birch rod, though the managers, who allow it, are the more to blame.

A short way from the canal, north of the road-waggon shed, is the rubbish heap, at which most of the old wood refuse and lumber, with hundreds of tons of sawdust, are brought to be burned. At one time all this was consumed in the boiler furnaces, but since the amount of refuse has enormously increased it has been found expedient to transport some part of it there and so do away with it. One small furnace is used for the purpose, and by far the greater part of it, especially the sawdust, is burned in big heaps upon the ground. This is a slovenly, as well as a dangerous method, and the inconvenience resulting to the men in the sheds is considerable. If the wind is in the west the dense clouds of smoke sweep along the ground and are blown straight in through the open doors upon the stampers, and are a source of extreme discomfort and disgust. There is always plenty of smother in the shed, arising from the oil furnaces, without receiving any addition from outside. Once the workshop is filled with the bluish vapour it takes hours to disperse, for, though there are doors all round and hundreds of ventilators on the roof, they do not carry off the nuisance. Very often the smoke will travel from end to end of the shed, like a current of water, but just as it reaches the doorway and you think it is going to pass outside, it suddenly whirls round like a wheel and traverses the whole length of the place, and so on, over and over again.

If the wind is in the north, then the road-waggon builders must suffer the persecuting clouds of smoke and be tormented with smarting and burning eyes at work; and if it should blow from over the town, across the rolling downs from the south, the smother is carried high over the fence and sweeps along the recreation field to the discomfort of small boys and lovers, or of whoever happens to be passing that way. If the nuisance arose from any other quarter complaints might be made and steps taken towards the mitigation of it. As it is, no one, not even a member of the local bodies and the Corporation, summons up the courage to make a protest, for everyone bows down before the company’s officials and representatives in the railway town and fears to raise objections to anything that may be done by the people at the works.