But this forenoon was the worst he’d faced in the Furnaces, hours clogged with heat, lungs going like bellows, once the foreman Dallas came swearing down, about fires, not Ewan’s, it was drawing fine. He looked at Ewan and gave him a nod Take it a bit easier, Mr Tavendale. Yours is fine. It’s the fires of those other muckers. He’d hardly gone up the steps to Machines when the pimply keelie Alick Watson called out to another of them, Ewan didn’t know his name: D’you know any poetry this morning, Norman?

—Oh, ay, a fine bit. You other lads heard it?—

There once was a gent Tavendale

(Oh-Rahly-the-guff-makes me pale!)

A pimp and a sucker,

A dirty wee mucker—

And his name, as I’ve said, Tavendale.

…. Oh ay, the toff bastard heard it fine, but he didn’t let on, just went on with his work, all the lads laughed, you’d known he’d no guts. Syne Norman Cruickshank sang out another bit, you laughed till you split, a funny sod Norman, about the toff mucker’s mucking mother. He threw down the shovel as he said that, Norman, getting ready for the toff when he louped to bash him, as any body would do when he heard THAT about his mother. And he heard it all right and gave Norman a look, fair damn well maddening, as though Norman were dirt and not very interesting dirt at that: and went on with raking the clinkers, calm. But Alick you could see was warming up to him, you all warmed up, led him hell’s delight, serve him right with his bloody show-off. Wee Geordie Bruce couped his barrow when he wasn’t looking, and Norman nipped back for the urine pan and slung it right slap in the toff Bulgar’s fire, it sent up a guff that near killed you all and the toff had to stoke it up afresh.

He’d only just finished when the hooter went, Alick Watson had nipped up a minute afore bent on some deviltry you could be bound. When the rest of you got up the stairs he was just coming out of the washing-sheds where all the lads left their jackets and pieces. He winked and you knew he’d been up to something, and grinned and waited for Tavendale.

Ewan went in and washed and took down his jacket, and put it on, and put his hand in his pocket…. For a minute, certain, he knew he’d be sick, damned sick, and then swallowed his throat and didn’t think as he washed his hand and wrenched off his jacket. Nuisance—miss most of that section on phosphor bronze now.

The five keelies were waiting for him to come out, they held their noses and capered and laughed, Ewan thought The pimply keelie, I suppose, and walked quietly over to where the five stood. The keelie’s eyes in his thin, dour face didn’t change, scornful of gentry, hands in his pouches, Damn shame, he’s no chance, said Ewan’s mind as he hit him and felt his arm go numb.