Creighton's Mill

Illustrated by Arthur Garratt

HE furnace door slammed down, and Rawnsley, wiping the sweat from his face, waited for a few moments until his dazzled eyes got accustomed to the gloom. A bitter wind swept the big, open-sided building and blew little clouds of iron scale about. After the intense white glare of the furnace, the flickering gas-jets shone a misty orange colour, and the rod that ran through the roll-train glimmered dull red. Blurred figures moved about the mill, and the iron floor throbbed with the rumble of heavy machinery.

The din was rhythmic, and Rawnsley knew the different notes—the crunch the roughing-rolls made as they squeezed the white-hot billet into a lengthening bar, the clang of the steel on the floor-plates, and the hum of the finishing-rolls that threw out shining coils of slender rod. Ned Jardine was driving the mill hard; she was running well, earning good money for the men, and Ned, who was paid on the weight of the rods he rolled, ought to be satisfied. For all that, Rawnsley wondered. The new mill was an experiment, and its success would mean a revision of tonnage prices. Ned did not like new methods, and had some grounds for not liking Sam Creighton, who had patented the appliances now being tested.

Somebody shouted, the throb of the engine slackened, and the rattle of the roll-train died away. Ned had stopped for supper, and Rawnsley damped his furnace, because steel will spoil if kept at white heat long. A Bessemer converter in the neighbouring-steelworks hurled up a column of leaping flame, and while intense light and shadow played about the building, a girl carrying a basket crossed the floor. Rawnsley watched her with half-ironical approval. Her hat and dress were neat and she wore gloves. Jenny was a lady; one would not think she was a daughter of his. At first she had grumbled about bringing his supper to the mill, but Rawnsley liked his meals hot, and was firm. Now Jenny no longer grumbled. She was going to marry Sam Creighton, the roll-turner, and Sam would make her a good husband, although he was not Rawnsley's sort.

When she joined him, Rawnsley took the basket in his big black hand. He was a strongly-made fellow, and his naked arms were corded with muscle, although his short, wet hair was grey.

"You've been to turning-shop with a pasty for Sam, I reckon," he remarked. "Sammy owt to be in good fettle; mill's running weel."

"He's quiet, and looks tired," said Jenny. "I think he's nervous. The trial week's not up."

"He's aw nerves. That's what comes o' teetotalising; Sammy wad be a better man if he drunk beer. But mill's doing good work. What's t' lad boddering aboot?"

Although Jenny's eyes sparkled, she hesitated for a moment. Then she said quietly: "It's Ned Jardine's shift to-night. He's no friend of Sam's."

Rawnsley pondered this. Jenny could have married Black Ned, but she was going to marry Sam, and Ned was a bad man to thwart. Rawnsley knew; they spent convivial Saturday nights together, and when Ned was half drunk he talked. Men had got hurt and steel was spoiled; even Savile, the works manager, let Ned have his way. He could do anything with a mill, but must do it as he liked.

"Dinna bodder, lass," Rawnsley said. "I'm here. Sammy's gan t' have his chance."

Jenny went away, and Rawnsley ate and mused. He drank, too, but from a can, and not from Jenny's thermos flask. Sometimes, by morning, he drained the flask, and, anyhow, her bringing it pleased the lass. She was a good lass, and had looked after him well since her mother died. Now she talked about his living with her and Sam, but Rawnsley wondered, with grim amusement, what Sam thought. Besides, he did not see himself sitting in a red velvet chair on Sundays, listening to Sam's harmonium.

When he had drunk half the liquor in the can, he began to think with an unusual lucidity. It looked as if the landlord of "The Steel workers' Arms" had been generous with the stronger component of the mixture. Rawnsley saw himself as something of a survival from ruder and lustier times, when men fought for their rights with fists and clogs instead of votes, and took their pleasures humanly. He and his kind were being slowly beaten in the struggle between the old school and the new, but the others could not yet do without his inherited strength and skill. Black Ned and Savile, like himself, had not much use for science, and worked by rule of thumb. But Rawnsley claimed their work was good.

Sammy belonged to the new school. He went to evening classes instead of the pub, he borrowed engineering books from the library, and now and then bought some. He drank tea, wore gentleman's clothes at home, and talked at meetings about things the workers must do when they got their proper share in the control of industry. Rawnsley did not want to control industry and subscribe to send his mates to Parliament; he wanted better wages and to do as he liked. Sam read too much; but there was no harm in the lad, and he was going to marry Jenny, who seemed satisfied.

By and by Creighton came up and stopped by the furnace. He was thin and pale, and his eyes w;ere restless. His quick glance wandered up and down the roll-train.

"You're not in varra good fettle, Sam," Rawnsley remarked. "What's wrang?"

Creighton smiled. He had long thought about and laboured at his invention. It had cost him much in health and money, and he had borne bitter disappointments. Now at last it was being tested, and the suspense was keen.

"I haven't slept much," he replied. "I won't sleep much until the trial week is up. The company don't take over my patent until we finish the run."

"They canna tak' it from you, aw t' same."

"That's true; but a patent's no use to a poor man unless he can get somebody to use it and pay him a royalty. All I saved from my pay has gone in experiments, and the directors have spent a thousand pounds on the mill; but they've touched their limit, and if she won't do good work, they'll scrap the plant and stop. A little improvement I added cost me sixty pounds I dursen't charge for. Savile was dead against me from the start."

Rawnsley nodded. "He's not fond of you. I reckon he thowt they ought to have left it to him when Mr. Hilliard put you into turning-shop. Then he likes the tools he knows. A cunning oad fox! But you're gan to get patent takken up. I expect it means a new 'Merican organ, and, mayhappen, a hoose with a garden and two mair rooms!"

"I hope it means a chance for Jenny and me to get something we haven't known yet out of life. It's been all work and going without, so far—smoky mill and shabby streets, with a week, perhaps, at Blackpool and a Bank Holiday. No time for clean, restful pleasure—hardly time to think. There's a different world we've never seen, and, if the trial run leads to nothing, never may see. But I've pinched and puzzled, and know the mill will go."

"Then why are you boddering?"

"I'm afraid of accidents—of something I can't control spoiling the trial," Creighton replied. "If Savile gets an excuse, he'll stop the run. However, I must go back to the shop."

He went off, and presently Rawnsley felt dull. The clarity of mind he had experienced at supper had gone, but he braced himself, for the men and boys were coming back, and in a few minutes he must resume his work. The big engine rumbled, the rolls began to turn, and his helper opened the furnace door. Rawnsley, taking up a long pincers, seized a white-hot lump of steel. He swung his arm, and the shining billet flew across the building, over the heads of the gang, and dropped exactly where he meant. The rolls drew it in and threw it out in a thick red bar. It vanished between another pair, and, emerging longer and thinner, ran in and out in fiery curves, until a rattling drum coiled it up like thread. Much depended on Rawnsley's judgment. The steel must not be overheated, but it must be hot enough to run through the rolls before it lost its ductility.

The next billet dropped on the right spot, but the third and fourth went a foot or two wide, and the man who fed the roughing-rolls was forced to reach out with his pincers. Rawnsley frowned as he noted this; it was long since he had made two bad shots, and, giving the pincers to his helper, he went for his can. He drained it, and for a time felt better, but gradually got dull again, and it cost him an effort to drop the billets where they ought to go. Ned, however, was driving the mill hard, and when for a few moments Rawnsley was not occupied, he watched him move about the train. The roller was a big, clumsy fellow, with a sullen face and red-veined eyes, but he knew his job. The rods ran in and out, like serpents with shining coils, and boys with iron hooks clattered about the plates, holding back the loops. This was important, because the rod must run smoothly and fast enough to leave the train before its thicker end cooled. If the latter hardened and stuck while the front end kept up its speed, it would be drawn up tight against the rolls, and something would go. Now and then a boy had got entangled in the red-hot loop.

By and by Rawnsley thought he noted a slightly different note in the rumble of the mill. Ned was engaged by a pair of rolls. It looked as if he were turning the big control screw; but she was running fast, and would not stand much screwing down. Sparks leaped about the man, a hot bearing smoked, and his bulky figure was for the most part indistinct. The gas-jets flickered and shadows played about the mill. Rawnsley wondered why Ned screwed her down, as he thought he did, but his helper beckoned and he went to the furnace.

For a few minutes afterwards he did not see Ned. The latter knew his job, but the mill was running noisily, and Rawnsley thought Ned ought to ease the screws. It bothered him; he wanted to tell Ned, but could not leave his furnace. Besides, he felt heavy and dull. Then he got suspicious. Ned knew him, and knew that he knew Ned. An excuse that might satisfy the others would not go with him; moreover, he would soon be Sam Creighton's father-in-law. The black rascal meant to play some trick, and had doctored his drink. An extra glass of rum in the mixture might make one sleepy when one had had enough, and there was other stuff. Well, he could not leave his furnace, but he could watch Ned, when the latter came out of the gloom.

The mill was going heavily, at the roughing end where the billets went in; Rawnsley knew by the noise she made, but he could not see Ned. Then a blaze of light leaped up in the works across the yard; they were pouring fluid metal into the ingot moulds. The glare touched the roll-train and went out, but Rawnsley had seen enough. Ned had his hand on the control screw, and if he gave it another turn, the rod would jam at the thick end while the rest would run. Something must break, and Rawnsley wondered whether Ned knew two boys were occupied inside a loop of hot steel that would suddenly tighten.

He pulled himself together. He might shout, but the mill roared, and one's voice would not carry well. A billet would carry better, and Rawnsley meant the lump he threw to reach its mark. He belonged to the old school that had smashed hard masters' engines, and thought force justified. It was justified now by all the rules he knew. Rawnsley balanced himself as he swung the long pincers, and let the billet go. The white-hot lump shot across the building and, grazing Ned's shoulder, threw up a splash of flame as it struck the control screw. Rawnsley leaped across the plates and reached the train as Ned turned, his face wet with sudden sweat and his jacket smouldering. For a moment their tense glances met, and all that was savage in them came on top. This was no time for a dispute; they were rude men of the old school, with strong passions, and nobody knew who struck first.

Rawnsley's head swam, he felt dazed, and could hardly see. The lights wavered, the roar of the mill had got bewildering, but he grappled with Ned. He meant to drag him from the rolls and get him down. Their feet slipped on the hot iron floor, and Rawnsley thought he heard the clang of heavy boots, as if somebody ran past; but this did not matter. He struck hard with the hand he loosed for a moment, and imagined Ned's hold got slack. He gasped and strained as he braced himself for another effort that would be his last. Ned's foot slipped, his body bent back. Rawnsley threw him and came down heavily, uppermost, with his hand on the other's throat.

Somebody pulled him off Jardine, and he sat down on the plates. He was dizzy and breathless, and blood ran down his face: he remembered afterwards that Ned had struck him with a heavy spanner. It was a few moments before he could understand what had happened, and then the mill was lighted by a dazzling blaze from the steelworks. Ned had gone, but Sam, surrounded by a group of men and boys, stood by the rolls. He looked highly strung: his face was set and very white. The mill had stopped, and a roll was tilted up as if it had broken. A steel bar stuck out from under the roll. The rod had cooled to a dull red colour, but the long loops had drawn up close to the train. One of the boys leaned against a pillar, trembling as if he had got a shock.

The flame at the steelworks went out, and the gas-jets blinked feebly in the gloom, but Rawnsley had now grasped the situation. Somebody had thrown the bar between the rolls, which had broken when they seized the hard, cold metal. The man had meant to break them, in order to save the boy, who had obviously been caught in the tightening curve of rod. Ned had been able to turn the screw enough to retard the back end of the rod, and the front end, running fast, had drawn up the slack.

Rawnsley got up awkwardly and shut a damper. His furnace would not be needed now, and the steel must not be spoiled. In fact, he doubted if the mill would run again; Savile would pull out the patented appliances. After a few moments Sam came up, and Rawnsley said: "A bad job! Who put bar in rolls?"

"I did," Creighton answered hoarsely. "Butler's lad was inside the loop; he screamed when he saw he was caught. There was no time to stop the engine. I threw the bar."

"Weel, I reckon you had nea ither plan," said Rawnsley, who paused and looked hard at the other. Sam was white, but strangely quiet. The lad had faced the crisis boldly; he had more pluck than Rawnsley had thought. "Aw t' same," he resumed, "you've brokken mill. Oad Savile will see she. doesn't run again."

Creighton made a sign of agreement and was silent. His hopes and ambitions had vanished; he was back where he was when he began to think out his invention. It looked as if he and Jenny must be satisfied with a life of monotonous toil and his turner's pay. Yet he had not hesitated when he threw the bar.

"But how did you happen in front of mill?" Rawnsley asked, after a moment or two.

"We were putting a new casting in the lathe, and I went to the store for a pulley-chain shackle, and thought I'd see how the mill was running. The noise she made told me something was wrong."

"A bad job!" Rawnsley remarked again. "There's yan thing I'm sorry for—I didn't drop billet plumb on Black Ned."

Creighton returned to his lathe, for, although ambitions vanish, one's work must be done; and presently Rawnsley went home. He told Jenny about the roll's breaking, and saw she understood all it meant: but she was very quiet. He had known the lass had pluck. Jenny, however, was making plans she thought Rawnsley would not approve. He was ready to fight for his rights, particularly against managers and directors, but he was not the man to ask for favours. Although Jenny had inherited some of his prejudices, she had a woman's talent for intrigue, and knew that tact often goes as far as force. Sam already owed her more than he knew, and she resolved he should not lose the chance on which he had built so much.

Jenny belonged to a church choral society, and Mrs. Hilliard, who trained the choir, was kind, and sometimes took the girls to her big house. Moreover, she was the youngest director's wife. Jenny determined to go and see her again, although she did not think she would say anything about this to Sam. Sam was rather stupid now and then; he talked about jobbery, sycophants, and female influence. A man, he declared, ought to be judged on his merits.

Mrs. Hilliard was young, romantic, and sympathetic. She had not been married long, and liked to feel she had some power she could use for good. She thought Jenny's story moving, and Creighton something of a hero, and talked to her husband after the girl had gone.

A few days afterwards Creighton was called to the secretary's office, and found Hilliard and two or three others sitting round a table, while Savile stood at the bottom. Hilliard looked up when Creighton came in.

"We have been talking about your mill," he remarked. "Our stipulation was that it must run satisfactorily for a week. Well, we have had an awkward accident."

"The accident might have been worse had I not been able to stop the rolls," Creighton replied.

"We understood so," another agreed. "It's obvious you acted with promptness and nerve, for which you have our thanks. In fact, it looks as if you had made some sacrifice—unless you knew the rod had stuck because of a defect in your apparatus. This is possible."

"There was no defect," Creighton said quietly. "The rod stuck because the roughing-rolls were set too tight."

"Jardine has been roller for a long time, and Mr. Savile assures us he knows his job."

Creighton was reserved and proud. Moreover, he knew the directors would not approve his telling a romantic story. Besides, Jardine had not returned to the works, and Creighton imagined he had gone for good.

"As you well know, gentlemen, judgment is needed to set the rolls," he said. "Now and then a good roller screws down a pair too tight."

"Then you suggest that Jardine gave the control screw an extra turn?" said Hilliard, looking hard at him. "Is this all?"

"Yes, sir," said Creighton. "I expect he would have eased the rolls in a moment. He had his hand on the screw"

He stopped. The others, no doubt, knew about the billet Rawnsley had thrown, but did not mean to talk about it. The risk the helper's boy had run was, on the surface, explanation enough. But Creighton felt he must speak for himself now.

"There was no trouble until the rod jammed," he went on. "The mill had run for some days, and if Mr. Savile gives you the weighing books, you will see she was turning out an extra quantity of rod a shift. Then I think the engineer will tell you he can drive her with a lower head of steam, and I am persuaded a little experience will prove there is a saving on brasses and lubrication"

The eldest director stopped him. "This is Mr. Savile's business; but I may perhaps state that he agrees." He turned to the others. "The cost of new rolls and couplings is not large. What do you say? Shall we replace the breakages and continue the trial?"

"I imagine it would be worth while; the experiment promises well," Hilliard replied. "If Mr. Savile sees no objection, I think we ought to let the inventor superintend the trial run. Well, suppose we take it for granted we are to make a fresh start?" He paused and, when the others signed agreement, looked at Creighton with a smile. "You can get your plans from the drawing office, and send patterns for the new parts to the forge and foundry."

"Thank you, sir," said Creighton, and went out with some awkwardness. His heart beat triumphantly, but he could not talk; his relief and satisfaction were too keen and went too deep. Still, he was puzzled, for something had counteracted Savile's antagonism. It was not until after their wedding he knew how Jenny had helped.