before it hit the ground, and one of the wing-nuts jabbed into my knee.
'Now go to it yourself!' Naumenko said, taking a packet of cigarettes out of his pocket. 'And we'll have a smoke.'
Trying not to make a mistake, I repeated the movements he had worked out and tested through long years of practice. Having screwed on the frame, I dipped my hand into the box and without looking, tossed a handful of mixture over the model. Then I started plunging the sharp shovel into the sand. I danced about round the machine, packing the sand with such fury that my arms felt as if they would fly off my body.
It made me sore to think that Naumenko looked upon me as a nuisance. I realized that from his point of view, as an old and experienced moulder, he might be right. Of course, it was a lot nicer for him to get on with his moulding alone than to teach a beginner. As yet I did not know what the foreman had meant when he said, 'You'll get the average for instruction,' but I concluded Naumenko stood to lose by being given a mate like me.
As I packed in the sand, I felt the sweat break out on my forehead. As usual, I was wasting a lot of energy for nothing. There was sand in my boots, and my teeth felt gritty. Now and then I felt Naumenko's eye on me. He was watching me suspiciously, distrustfully, checking every movement.
'Can I lift it now?' I asked.
'Try,' said my teacher evasively.
'Right,' I said and, after tapping the mould with the mallet, pulled the lever.
Before I could clean the mould with the hose and take it off the machine, the men on the other side started laughing.
'What's the bit o' cake you've left on your model, youngster?' the tall, dark fellow shouted.
I glanced under the mould—and felt utterly wretched. A big lump of sand had stuck to the model. Some cake! Naumenko stood behind me laughing.
'Fine job o' work, eh?' Naumenko said to the nimble little man, whose name was Luka, nodding at me. 'Forgot your sprinkle—that's where the cake comes from,' he explained to me.
But I had already realized my mistake. In my hurry I had forgotten to dust the model with dry sprinkle from the bag on the shelf. 'But that old devil's a nice specimen too!' I thought. 'Saw I had made a mistake and didn't say anything, so that he could make a laughing-stock of me!'
When I had knocked the sand out of the mould, Naumenko said: 'Yes, and I expect your model's cold by now. It's some time since I gave it any heat. Take the tongs— behind the box there—and come along to the grate.' Carrying the long forge tongs and not knowing really what I should need them for, I followed Naumenko down the main alley of the foundry.
My teacher strode on with long steady strides. His head was slightly bowed. I trotted behind him like
a guilty schoolboy, guessing that he was not in the best of tempers. 'Giving me a kid to train from Podolia 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
