[ Pobierz całość w formacie PDF ]
somewhere!" Naumenko must be thinking. "Now I've got to fiddle about teaching him instead of getting
the work done myself!"
We crossed the long foundry shed.
Now from one side, now from another came the banging of a mallet. Mountains of empty
mould-boxes towered behind the machines. Near them, finished moulds stood ready to receive their
castings.
Powerful ventilators hummed monotonously. They forced air into the cupola furnaces, fanning the
slabs of coke and melting the chunks of iron. The molten metal oozed down over the hot coke in white
streams and gathered at the bottom of the furnaces in a seething mass, ready to pour out as soon as the
furnace man tapped the furnace with his steel bar.
"Look, Naumenko's got a new lap-dog!" someone shouted from the back of the shed.
The shout came from a foundry man with a bronzed surly-looking face. His head was wrapped in a
red handkerchief, like a woman.
"Vasya, old man, how do you like your new assistant?" he shouted even louder, thinking that
Naumenko would stop for a "chin-wag"; but my teacher went on all the faster.
As we passed the next machine, I caught sight of Tiktor. He must have recognized me, but he looked
at me as if I were a stranger.
Tiktor was throwing sand confidently into a mould-box. He was working as mate to the man who
wore the handkerchief on his head.
The "grate" was outside in the yard, a little way from the foundry, lit was a round brazier filled with hot
coke. The ends of metal slabs that were heating in the coke bristled from its grated sides.
"Remember where I put ours!" Naumenko said, and pushed two heavy slabs into the glowing coke.
"Do you have to come out here every time?" I asked.
"Of course!" Naumenko gave me a look of surprise and annoyance.
"But it's so far!"
"If you want a clean mould you'll keep your slab heated. There's no other way!" Naumenko snapped.
He took the tongs and pulled out the slabs which he had put in earlier, and which were now white hot.
I felt sure that if we had not come for them at that moment the slabs would have melted like the iron in the
furnaces.
"Now buzz off and put them under the machine!" Naumenko ordered, handing me the tongs.
Holding the tongs out in front of me, I raced back to our working place.
"It's a big place but the way they manage these slabs isn't much good!" I thought, as I pounded along
through the shop. "Surely they could put that brazier somewhere nearer?" '
The slabs were still a bright red when II pushed them into the slots under the machine. Soon the wet
sand on the babbitt turned grey and dried out. The models got so hot that it was hard to keep your hand
on them for long. Still Naumenko did not appear. So as not to waste time, 'I started packing the bottom
mould on my machine.
Now that I was alone with the machine, I felt more at ease. No one was standing over me. Our
neighbours were busy somewhere behind their machine, and there was no one else about.
"Let the old fellow go for a walk round the shed," I thought, "I know a thing or two without him telling
me!"
The second mould came out nicely. No sand stuck to the model, as it had first time, and I even took
the risk of setting the mould on the moulding floor without waiting for instructions. It slid out of my hands
gently on to the sandy pillow.
Then I shot back to the machine. After cleaning the well-heated model with air from the pipe, I
screwed on the spare frame and started packing another bottom mould. 'I had no hopes of catching up
with my teacher, but I wanted to have a little work in hand.
I became so absorbed in moulding that I did not notice Naumenko's return.
"Who's going to do the cores? Your uncle?"
Naumenko's stern voice at my elbow made me start. The heavy tamper missed its aim and came
down hard on my left thumb.
It was an awful wallop. Tears started to my eyes. "Good-bye to my thumb-nail!" I thought.
I wanted to shout and hop about and writhe with the pain, I wanted to hurl that darned iron tamper as
far away as I could, I wanted to turn the air blue with curses! But I realized that if I did so I should only
call forth fresh jeers, and to smother the pain I bit my lip until it bled. Keeping my face averted so that
Naumenko should hot see my tear-filled eyes, I said quietly, through clenched teeth:
"I'll just finish this bottom one, then I'll do the cores."
By dinner-time my thumb had swollen and turned blue. The bone felt as if it was broken.
"Who thought of making tampers heavy as that?" I thought to myself. "It might crock a chap up for
good... But if it's too light, it won't pack the sand in properly. I'll have to be more careful next time."
When II had to take a mould-box off the machine, I tried desperately to smother the pain. Hiding my
feelings from Naumenko, I undid the screws somehow, grabbed the frame and dashed back, trying to
save every minute I could. There wasn't even time to shake the sand out of my shoes.
"You're wearing the lad to a frazzle, Naumenko!" Luka shouted to my teacher.
"Why don't you knock off for a bit!" advised Gladyshev, Luka's mate, the moulder who looked like a
Mongol.
Although their words stung me, I tried not to show it. You can joke! I thought...
The signal was given to knock off for dinner. Since the works hooter could not be heard amid the din
of the foundry shed, when dinner-time came round, the furnace men banged on the iron bar that hung
near the furnaces.
Ignoring the signal, I kept working at my moulds.
One after the other the mallets fell silent. Only the furnaces by the wall kept up their ceaseless roar.
"Right. Pack in. Let's go for dinner!" Naumenko said sternly. "Come and wash your hands."
Cold water from the tap splashed on my dusty hands and the pain immediately relaxed a little. Seeing
my teacher take a handful of coarse sand from a tin, I did the same. The coarse sand mixed with clay
cleaned the dirt off well. Soon I saw my red, work-scarred palms, with the beginnings of fresh corns on
them.
In silence I followed Naumenko back to the machine, picked up the lunch that our landlady had
prepared for me, and sat down near my teacher.
With slow dignity Naumenko unwrapped his lunch three eggs, a slice of smoked chebak,
curly-topped radishes, a hunk of home-baked bread with butter on it, and a bottle of strong tea.
"Never mind, lad!" Naumenko said suddenly in a kindly tone. "You and I'll earn our bread
today that's a fact. And tomorrow we'll get enough for borshch, and after that, before you know where
you are, you'll be having cutlets. . . It's always hard to start with... I've got a boy too, just a bit older than
you. Used to work here, in the foundry. Now he's in Yekaterinoslav, studying at the mining institute. At
first his letters were all moans and groans. 'I'll never stick it! I'm coming home!' he says. 'It's much easier
[ Pobierz całość w formacie PDF ]