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Show The red-headed Irishman was hunkered down, relaxing with the stem of a corn-cob pipe clamped in his teeth. "Hello, new kid," Big John said. "What's your moniker?" "My name's Karl, Mr. Reilly." With his shirtsleeve, Karl wiped the sweat from his upper lip. "You can call me Big John, but if you don't get them billets over here fast enough, I'll call you all kinds of nasty names in Gaelic that you won't understand." Big John raised himself to a stand, clearin well over six feet. "Ah, just jokin' you, kid." he said. "Me, I ain't so fierce. Baldy Weitz is the mug you got to run your stumps off for." Karl raced back to the billet pile, certain that Baldy Weitz's eyes must be boring into his back, although he wasn't even sure where the foreman was standing. In the half hour before the first rolling began, Karl made six trips to transfer billets to Big John Reilly. After he'd finished unloading the sixth batch, Big John said to him, "Stick around for a minute, kid. Baldy Weitz ain't here -- he's gone up to the shipping department for a while. We're right now ready to roll, so if you hang around, you'll get a chance to see your friend Culley doin' some fancy footwork." While he was speaking, Big John had put on heavy work gloves, and picked up a pair of yard-long tongs. Throwing open the furnace door, he yelled, "Start the rolls!" Big John was wearing a flannel shirt from which the sleeves had been cut at the shoulders; the glow from the furnace gilded his thick biceps. With the tongs, he reached inside the furnace to clamp one |