William Glynne-Jones

William Glynne-Jones Squint, the foreman moulder, stood with his arms folded on the wooden planks covering the heavy-castings' pit. He peered at the men as they bustled around in the casting bay, getting the moulds ready. "Get a move on," he rasped. "It's up-ladle at three. You've got ten minutes left. Hey, you - Owen and Ritchie! Close that spindle." He pointed to a mould, its top and bottom half contained in two steel boxes, approximately seven feet long by three wide and three deep. "Make sure the joints match," he muttered. "We don't want any more complaints from the main office." The young moulder named Owen eyed the foreman quizzically. "You don't intend casting that spindle, do you?" Squint frowned. "What d'you mean? What's wrong with it?" "Have a decko* at this." Qwen drew a finger over a deep crack in the box. "This moulding-box isn't safe." "You can't tell me what to damn well do!" Squint shouted. "That spindle's got to be cast today, so get it closed ... Ritchie Bevan!" Ritchie, sandy-haired, with a candid face, looked at the foreman. "Yes?" "Close that mould. The furnace's waiting." "I tell you this box isn't safe," Owen insisted. "Ritchie and I won't be responsible if anything happens. So to hell with you!" The foreman looked wildly around. "Evan! Bill!" Evan-Small-Coal and Bill Tailor hurried across. "Yes, Mr Brewer?" "Get that spindle ready. I want it for the afternoon's cast." The two moulders jumped promptly to obey his orders, and Squint spun around to face Owen once more. "You'll answer for this, both of you." He raised his hand threateningly. Owen pulled Ritchie aside. "Aw, come on. Let's get out of this," he snapped. "I'm fed up to the teeth." They crossed the heavy-castings' pit and stood near a water bosh**. Squint shook his fist at them. "I'll see you'll suffer for this," he shouted. "You know damn well there's not the slightest risk." He swung