They bend over, looking
neither to right nor left, handling their shovels as if they were
part of their bodies, with a strange, awkward, swinging rhythm.
They use the shovels to throw open the furnace doors. Then from
these fiery round holes in the black a flood of terrific light and
heat pours full upon the men who are outlined in silhouette in the
crouching, inhuman attitudes of chained gorillas. The men shovel
with a rhythmic motion, swinging as on a pivot from the coal which
lies in heaps on the floor behind to hurl it into the flaming
mouths before them. There is a tumult of noise--the brazen clang
of the furnace doors as they are flung open or slammed shut, the
grating, teeth-gritting grind of steel against steel, of crunching
coal. This clash of sounds stuns one's ears with its rending
dissonance. But there is order in it, rhythm, a mechanical
regulated recurrence, a tempo. And rising above all, making the
air hum with the quiver of liberated energy, the roar of leaping
flames in the furnaces, the monotonous throbbing beat of the
engines.
As the curtain rises, the furnace doors are shut. The men are
taking a breathing spell. One or two are arranging the coal behind
them, pulling it into more accessible heaps. The others can be
dimly made out leaning on their shovels in relaxed attitudes of
exhaustion.
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