"There ain't any ropes here. Throw him over," called a voice jeeringly.

The boys on the girder recognized it as belonging to Kalinski.

"Somebody get a rope, I tell you!" thundered Rush.

One was brought, coiled and tossed up. The first time it went wide of the mark and Steve, holding to Bob's unconscious form, fuming with impatience, nearly lost his balance in trying to catch the rope. The next time he was more successful.

"Grab hold of the end, two or three of you down there," commanded the lad, letting an end of the rope drop to the ground. In the meantime he had made the other end fast around the waist of Bob Jarvis.

"Are you all ready down there?"

"Yes; let him come."

After a keen glance below, to make sure that the men would not let the boy drop, Steve gently pushed Bob over the edge of the beam. Jarvis's body spun around like a top several times as it was being lowered. Rush breathed a sigh of relief when he saw it safely deposited.

"Hold fast to the end of the rope. We're coming down," Rush shouted.

Swinging himself over, he slid down, followed by Ignatz. The surgeon was already at work over Bob.

"Is--is he----"

"The boy is alive," answered the surgeon. "I don't know how long he will be. We must get him to the hospital at once. Here, carry this boy out!"

he commanded. "Have the driver hurry in with him. I will go on the other wagon, as soon as I have dressed the wounds of this other man."

Steve started to follow the men who were carrying Bob out.

Kalinski grabbed Steve by the arm.

"See here, where you going?"

"To the hospital with my friend."

"Nothing of the sort. You're going to get to work, that's what you are going to do. You'll have lots of time to visit the hospital when you take your vacation."

Steve Rush hesitated. He wanted to be with Bob, but he knew he had no right to walk out and leave his work in this manner. It would be sufficient cause for his discharge were he to do so.

"Then I will ask you to let me off for the rest of the day."

"Didn't I tell you to go to work?" shouted Kalinski. "I'll have you fired for this day's work if it's the last thing I ever do."

Rush did not understand the full meaning of the words. He was troubled.

Things were not going with the same smoothness that they had for the last two years. Steve was in an atmosphere different from that of the mines, or even of the lakes. He did not know just how to adjust himself to the conditions. Then, again, there was Bob in the hospital, perhaps dying.

"I must do my duty, and I'm going to do it," muttered the Iron Boy.

"They shan't say that I am not to be depended upon. What do you want me to do, Mr. Kalinski?" he asked, turning to the pit boss.

"Now, what do you suppose I want you to do? What were you doing before you two blew up the mill?"

"In the first place we did not blow up the mill. I was working in pit seven when the other one exploded."

"Then git back in number seven, unless you want me to throw you in--or out of the mill altogether. I'll have you fired if the boss don't do it for me."

"I don't think you will fire me," answered Steve, bristling.

"I won't, eh?"

"No, you won't!"

"I'll either fire you out of the shop or else I'll break your head for you. Take your choice."

Steve surveyed the irate boss for a few seconds, then picking up his shovel walked slowly toward the pit in which he had had such a narrow escape from death.

Watski grinned sardonically.

"That's the time I took the wind out of his sails. I'll comb him down so fine he'll be sorry he ever got in my shift. It ought to be easy now.

I've got both of them dead to rights. You bet I have!"

Rush was throwing out the cinders, raising a fine black dust that sifted over him like mist, except that in this case the mist was black. He toiled on steadily, scarcely taking a second for rest. The perspiration was rolling from his face and body. The temperature was high out doors and many degrees higher in the mill. Just back of Steve, so close that he could hurl a shovel of cinders against it, was a huge open-hearth furnace with a roaring temperature of three thousand degrees Fahrenheit inside of it. Beneath him was the hot bed of cinders and slag. Beyond him was a long row of red hot ingots, running metal and hot steam pipes.

"It isn't any wonder that I feel a little warm," smiled the boy, wiping the perspiration from his brow, at the same time taking quick note of his surroundings.

Traces of the accident were being rapidly removed. In a few moments no evidences of it would be left. The blown-up pit had been partially filled with slag that fell back after the explosion, and already a shoveler was at work throwing the stuff out. The pit must be made ready for the next cast, and the furnace was nearly ready for the cast.

Rush toiled until noon. He sat down to his lunch which he had brought with him, without opportunity to wash. The noon rest was to be for only twenty minutes, so there was no time to waste.

After finishing he walked to the door and gazed off toward the hospital, wondering how Bob was. Rush could see the roof of the hospital from the doorway, but that was scant comfort. He turned back, walking slowly toward his pit to take up the dreary afternoon's shoveling. Just as he reached the pit a light touch on his shoulder caused him to wheel sharply.

There was the boy, Brodsky. He was breathing hard.

"h.e.l.lo, Ignatz, you're all out of breath," exclaimed Steve.

"I been by the hospital."

"You have? Tell me, quickly, how is Bob?" demanded Rush, gripping the arm of the Polish boy.

"Him wake up."

"He is conscious, then? Good, good! Tell me how he is?"

"Him not dead. Him get well, by and by."

Steve's face lighted up happily.

"Ignatz, you are a good boy. Did you go without your lunch for the sake of going over to see how my friend is?"

Ignatz nodded, pleased at the pleasure of his friend.

"Doctor say Bob pretty much hard hit, but him get well."

"Go get your lunch, quick, before the whistle blows," ordered Steve.