The Story of Glass

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"But I should think the block would burn when the hot glass is forced
inside it."

"It would if it were not first sprinkled with water. Sometimes hollow
metal blocks are used instead. In that case water passes through to
keep them cool, and they are dusted over with charcoal to keep them
from sticking, and from scratching the glass. After a sufficiently
large mass of glass has been gathered and reheated to a workable
condition the blower begins his task. First he swings the great red-hot
lump about so that it will get longer. His aim is to make a long
cylinder and into it he must blow constantly in order to keep it full
of air. Watch that man now at work. See how deft he is, and how strong.
The even thickness of the glass, and the uniformity of its size, depend
entirely upon his skill. If he finds the cylinder running out too fast,
or in other words getting too long, he shifts it up over his head,
always taking care, however, to keep it upright."

Jean watched.

How rapidly the man worked with the great mass on his blow-pipe! Now he
blew it far down into the pit beneath, where it hung like a mighty,
elongated soap-bubble; now he swung it to and fro; now lifted it above
his head. And all the time he was blowing into it blasts of air from
his powerful lungs.

"The cylinder doesn't seem to get any bigger round," observed Jean at
last.

"No. Its diameter was fixed at the beginning by the wooden block. That
settles its size once and for all; it is the length and thickness of
the cylinder which are governed by the blower. Do you realize how
strong a man has to be to wield such a weight as that lump of metal? It
is no easy matter. Luckily he can suspend it against that wooden rest
if he gets too tired. In England they use a sort of iron frame called
an _Iron Man_ to relieve the blower of the weight of the glass and
the device was also used at one time in Belgium; but the Belgian
workmen gradually did away with it."

For a long time the two children stood there fascinated by the skill of
the blowers.

"Suppose we go on now and see the rest of the process," suggested
Giusippe, a little unwillingly. "I could watch these men all day, but
we have much to do, and if we do not hurry we shall not get through."

The next step in the work was opening out the cylinders, and this was
done in two ways. The end of those made of thinner glass was put into
the furnace while at the same time air was forced inside through the
blow-pipe. As a result the air expanded by the heat of the fire, and
burst open the cylinder at its hottest or weakest end. By placing this
opening downward it was widened to the diameter necessary. The
cylinders of thicker glass were opened by fastening to one end a lump
of hot metal, thereby weakening them at this point. When the air was
forced in by the blower it burst open the mass and the break thus made
was enlarged by cutting it round with the scissors.

"Now come on, Jean, and see them flatten it out," said Giusippe.

Upon a wooden rest or chevalet the cylinder was now laid and detached
from the pipe by placing a bit of cold steel against the part of the
glass that still clung to the blow-pipe. At once the neck of the glass,
which was hot, contracted at the touch of the cold metal and broke away
from the pipe. The small end was then taken off by winding round it a
thread of hot glass, and afterward applying cold iron or steel at any
point the thread had covered.

"The cylinder is now finished at top and bottom and is ready to be
split up the side," said Giusippe. "This they do with a rule and a
diamond point mounted in a long handle. The diamond point is drawn
along the inside of the cylinder and opens it out flat. If there are
any imperfections in the glass the cutter plans to have them come as
near the edge of this opening as possible so there will be little
waste."

Jean nodded.

"Now, as you will see, the glass is ready for the flattener. First he
warms it in the flue of his furnace and then, using his croppie or
iron, he puts it on the flattening-stone; if you look carefully you
will see that the top of this stone is covered with a large sheet of
glass. In the heat of the furnace the cylinder with the split uppermost
soon opens out and falls back in a wavy mass. See?"

Jean watched intently as the great roll of glass unfolded and spread
into billows. The moment it was fairly open the flattener took his
polissoir, a rod of iron with a block of wood at one end, and began
smoothing out the uneven sheet of glass into a flat surface. At times
he had to rub it with all his strength to straighten it. This done the
flattening-stone was moved on wheels to a cooler part of the furnace
and the sheet of glass upon it was transferred to a cooling-stone. When
stiff enough it was taken off and placed either flat or on edge in a
rack with other sheets.

So the process went on.

Cylinder after cylinder was blown, opened up, flattened, and annealed.
So quickly did the single sheets of glass cool that it was not much
more than half an hour from the time they entered the flattening kiln
before they came out thoroughly annealed. They were then carried to the
warehouse for inspection and the especially fine ones were selected to
be polished into patent glass. The sheets were rated as bests, seconds,
thirds, and fourths, and their average size was 48 x 34 or 36 inches,
although the foreman said that sometimes sheets as large as 82 x 42 or
75 x 50 had been made. These, however, were exceedingly difficult to
handle, as they were in constant danger of being broken. The mass of
glass was also very heavy for the blower to wield.

"The great advantage of sheet glass over crown glass is that it can be
made in large pieces. Of course it is not as brilliant as crown, but it
is much more useful," added the workman.

"What is crown glass?" whispered Jean to Giusippe.

"It is a variety of glass manufactured by another process," was the
reply. "We do not make it here. Do you remember the bull's eye glass
windows we saw in England? Well, each of those bull's eyes came from
the center of a sheet of crown glass just where a lump of hot glass was
attached so the blower could whirl or spin it from the middle and make
it into a flat disc. But, as you can readily understand, a sheet of
glass with this mark or defect right in the center will never cut to
advantage, and therefore only comparatively small pieces can be got out
of it; there is much waste. Yet, as the man says, it has a wonderfully
brilliant surface. Now I am not going to let you stay here any longer
or we shall not have time to see the part of the factory where I am
working. I'm in the plate glass department, and I intend to drag you
off to the casting hall this very moment."

Jean laughed.

"Before you go, though, you must understand that plate glass is quite a
different thing from these others. It is not blown at all. Instead the
melt is poured out on an iron table just as molasses candy is turned
out of a pan to cool. You'll see how it is done."

They crossed the yard and entered another part of the works; Giusippe
gave the foreman a word of greeting as they went in.

On each side of the great room were the annealing ovens, and down the
center of the hall on a track moved a casting table which rolled along
on wheels. The pots of molten glass or metal were first taken from the
furnaces and carried on trucks to this casting table. Here they were
lifted by a crane, suspended above the table, and then tilted over, and
the glass poured out.

[Illustration: "THE MELT IS POURED OUT ON AN IRON TABLE"]

"For all the world like a pan of fudge!" declared Jean.

Giusippe laughed.

"I guess you would find it the stickiest, heaviest fudge you ever tried
to manage," said he.

The instant the mass of soft metal was on the table a roller of
cast-iron was passed very swiftly back and forth over it, spreading it
to uniform thickness, and at the same time flattening it.

"The thickness of the glass is gauged by the strips of iron on which
the roller moves," explained Giusippe to Jean. "These can be adjusted
to any thickness. Notice how rapidly the men have to work. The glass
must be finished while it is hot, or there will be flaws in it. It is a
rushing job, I can tell you."

"But--but you don't call this stuff plate glass, do you?" inquired the
girl in dismay. "It does not look like it--at least not like any I ever
saw used as shop windows or for mirrors."

"Oh, it is not done yet. But it is what we call rough plate. That's the
kind that is used where light and not transparency is needed. You often
see it in office doors or in skylights of buildings. To get the
beautiful polished plate glass that you are talking about this rough
plate must be polished over and over again. But before it can be
polished it must first be annealed as rough plate. It goes into the
annealing ovens right from this table and comes out all irregular--full
of pits and imperfections. No matter how flat the casting table is, or
how much care is taken, the surface of the glass after annealing is
always bad. If it is to be made into polished plate it must be ground
down first with sand and water; then ground smoother still with a
coarse kind of emery stone and water; next ground again with water and
powdered emery stone. After that comes the smoothing process done with
a finer sort of emery and water. Last of all the sheet is bedded, as we
call it, and each side is polished with rouge, or red oxide, between
moving pads of felt."

"Goodness!" ejaculated Jean. "Do you mean to say they have to go
through all that with every sheet of plate glass?"

"Every sheet of _polished_ plate," corrected Giusippe. "Rough plate
does not need to be polished or ground down much. It is made merely for
use and not for beauty. Sometimes to add strength, and help support the
weight of large sheets, wire netting is embedded in them. Wired glass
like this was the invention of an American named Schuman and it is used
a great deal; the wire not only relieves the weight of the glass but
serves the double purpose of holding the pieces should any break off
and start to fall. Often, too, insurance companies specify that it
shall be used as a matter of fire protection."

"But I should think if plate glass--I mean polished plate," Jean
hurriedly corrected her error, "has to be ground down so much there
wouldn't be anything left of it. It must come out dreadfully thin."

"The casters have to consider that and allow for it," answered the
Italian. "They expect part of the glass will have to be ground away, so
they cast it thicker in the first place. A large, perfect sheet of
polished plate is quite an achievement. From beginning to end it
requires the greatest care, and if spoiled it is a big loss not only in
actual labor but because of the amount of material required to make it.
Even at the very last it may be injured in the warehouse either by
scratching or breaking. It is there that it is cut in the size pieces
desired."

"How?"

"With a rule and diamond point just such as is used for cutting sheet
glass. The surface is scratched to give the line of fracture and then
it is split evenly."

"I should hate to have the responsibility of cutting or handling it
when it is all done," Jean observed with a little shiver.

"Well you might. Only men of the greatest skill and experience are
allowed to touch the big, heavy sheets. The risk is too great. They
turn only the best workmen into the plate glass department."

"But you work here, don't you, Giusippe?"

"I? Oh, I--I'm just learning," was the boy's modest reply.

"You seem to have learned pretty well," said a voice at his elbow.

Turning the lad was astonished to find Mr. Curtis standing just behind
him.

"I must own up to being an eavesdropper," laughed the older man. "I
couldn't resist knowing whether you were instructing Jean as she should
be instructed, Giusippe. Don't worry. I have no fault to find. I
couldn't have explained it better myself. You shall have your diploma
on plate glass making any time you want it."

Then as the superintendent advanced to speak to him, Mr. Curtis added:

"You had given your pupil a good bringing up, Mr. Hines. He does you
credit."

CHAPTER XI

JEAN'S TELEGRAM AND WHAT IT SAID

The winter in Pittsburgh passed rapidly. For Jean it was a happy year
despite much hard work at school, German lessons with Fraeulein, and
long hours of piano practising. It seemed as if the scales and finger
exercises were endless and sometimes the girl wondered which had the
more miserable fate--she who was forced to drum the same old things
over and over, or poor Uncle Tom who had to listen when she was doing
it. And yet as she looked back over her busy days she realized that she
neither studied nor practised all the time. No, there was many a good
time interspersed in her routine. For example, there was the
Shakespeare play at the school, a performance of "As You Like It," in
which Jean herself took the part of "Rosalind." This was an excitement
indeed! Uncle Tom became so interested that he got out his book and
spent several evenings coaching the leading lady, as he called the
girl; one night he even went so far as to impersonate "Orlando," and he
and Jean gave a dress rehearsal in the library, greatly to Giusippe's
delight and amusement. This set them all to reading Shakespeare aloud,
and going to a number of presentations of the dramas then being given
in the city. To the young people all this was new and wonderful, for up
to the present they had been little to the theater.

In the meantime Giusippe was also having his struggles. It was a
rushing season at the factory, there being many large orders to fill;
the mill hummed night and day and in consequence the scores of
glass-makers looked happy and prosperous. No one was out of employment
or on half pay, and none of the workmen dreaded Christmas because there
was nothing to put in the kiddies' stockings.

With Christmas came Uncle Bob and oh, what a holiday there was then!
Was ever a Christmas tree so beautiful, or a Christmas dinner so
delicious? Giusippe brought his aunt and uncle to the great house, and
in the evening there was a dance for Jean and some of her school
friends. Uncle Bob, who was in the gayest of spirits, danced with all
the girls; introduced everybody to everybody; and brought heaping
plates of salad to the dancers. There seemed to be nothing he could not
do from putting up Christmas greens to playing the piano until the
belated musicians arrived. The party could never had been given without
him, that was certain. It was a Christmas long to be remembered!

And when he left the next morning it was with the understanding that
Jean should return to Boston the first of May. Uncle Tom looked pretty
grave when he was reminded that the days of his niece's stay with him
were numbered; and it was amusing to hear him use the very arguments
that Uncle Bob had voiced when Jean had left Boston for Pittsburgh
months before.

"It isn't as if the child was never coming back," he told Giusippe.
"Her home is here; she is only going to Boston for her vacation. We
should be selfish indeed to grudge her a few weeks at the seashore.
Pittsburgh is rather warm in summer."

Thus Uncle Tom consoled himself, and as the days flew past tried to put
out of his mind the inevitable day of parting.

Then came May and with it a very unexpected happening. Jean's trunk was
packed, and she was all ready to leave for the East, when Uncle Tom was
taken sick.

"I doubt if it is anything but overwork and fatigue," said the doctor.
"Mr. Curtis has, I find, been carrying a great deal of care this
winter. It is good to do a rushing business, of course, but when one
has to rush along with it the wear and tear on the nerves is pretty
severe."

"You don't think he will be ill long, do you?" questioned Jean
anxiously.

"I cannot tell. Such cases are uncertain. He just needs rest--to give
up work for a while and stay at home. Recreation, diversion,
amusement--that's what he wants. Read to him; motor with him; walk with
him; keep him entertained. Things like that will do far more good than
medicine."

"But--but--I'm--I'm going away to-morrow for the rest of the summer,"
stammered Jean.

"Away? Humph! That's unfortunate."

"Why, you don't really think I am any use here, do you? Enough use to
remain, I mean," the girl inquired in surprise. "Uncle Tom doesn't--you
don't mean that he _needs_ me; that I could do good by staying?"

A flush overspread her face. That any one should need her! And most of
all such a big strong man as Uncle Tom. The idea was unbelievable.
Hitherto life had been a matter of what others should do for her. She
had been a child with no obligations save to do as she was told. Her
two uncles whom she loved so much had discussed her fate and decided
between them what her course should be. Now, all at once, there was no
pilot at the wheel. The directing of the ship fell to her guidance. In
the space of those few moments, as if by a miracle, Jean Cabot ceased
to be a child and became a woman.

"Mr. Curtis is very fond of you, isn't he?" asked the physician. "He
will miss you if you are not here, I am afraid. Who else is there in
the house to be a companion for him?"

"No one but Fraeulein, and of course she is getting older and is not
very strong."

"Unfortunate!" repeated the doctor.

"It is not at all necessary for me to go to-morrow," Jean said quickly.
"I can postpone it and stay here just as well as not, and I think it
would be much better if I did." She spoke with deepening conviction.
"I'll telegraph my uncle in Boston and explain to him that I cannot
leave just now."

What a deal of dignity stole into that single word "cannot."

At last there was a duty to fulfil toward some one else--some one who
really needed her. Jean repeated the amazing fact over and over to
herself. She had a place to fill. She and Uncle Tom had reversed their
obligations; he was now the weak one, she the strong.

With a happy heart the girl went back up-stairs.

Uncle Tom was lying very still in bed, his face turned away from the
door; but he heard her light step and put out his hand.

"My little girl," he whispered.

Jean slipped her soft palm into his.

"Did I wake you?"

"No, dear. I was not asleep. I cannot sleep these days. Last night I
heard the clock strike almost every hour. It has been so right along. I
cannot recall when I have had a full night's rest. No sooner do I go to
bed than my mind travels like a whirlwind over everything I've done
through the day. There is no peace, no stopping it."

"We will stop it, dear. Don't worry, Uncle Tom. The doctor says you are
just a little tired, and he is going to give you some medicine that
will help you to feel better. Then you are to stay at home and rest for
a while. To-morrow you shall have your breakfast in bed and later, when
it is sunny and warm, I shall take you for a nice motor ride."

"But--but you forget, girlie, that to-morrow you won't be here."

"Oh, yes I shall. I'm going to stay. There is no law against my
changing my mind and not going to Boston, is there?"

Jean smiled down at him.

"I've wired Uncle Bob that I am going to postpone my visit," she added.

A light came into the man's eyes.

"Did the doctor----?"

"No, he didn't. I decided it myself. Do you suppose for a moment I'd
leave you just when you are going to be here at home and have some time
to entertain me? Indeed, no! Lately you've been so busy that you
couldn't take me anywhere. Now you are to desert the office and be
under my orders for a while. Oh, we'll do lots of nice things. We'll go
off in the motor and see all sorts of places I've wanted to see; and
we'll walk; and we'll read some of those books we have been trying to
get time to read together. We shall have great fun."

Mr. Curtis looked keenly at the girl for a few seconds.

"Perhaps," he remarked at last, "it won't make much difference to Uncle
Bob if you do postpone your visit for a week or two."

"I am sure it won't."

There was a deep sigh of satisfaction from the invalid.

"I'm glad you've decided to stay, little girl. Somehow it would be
about the last straw to have you leave now. I'd miss you in any case,
of course; but if I have got to be home here and round the house it
does not seem as if I could stand it to have you gone."

"I wouldn't think of going and leaving you, dear. Put your mind at
rest. I intend to stay right here until you are quite well again."

She bent down and gently kissed her uncle's forehead.

It seemed as if that kiss smoothed every wrinkle of worry from the
man's brow.

Quietly Jean tiptoed across the room and drew down the shade; then she
dropped into a chair beside the bed and took up a book. For some time
she sat very still, her eyes intent upon the page. Then at last she
glanced up. Uncle Tom's head had fallen back on the pillows and for the
first time in many days he slept.

* * * *

So did Jean Cabot find her summer planned for her. Instead of joining
Uncle Bob and enjoying months of bathing and sailing on the North Shore
she helped nurse Uncle Tom Curtis back to health. For the breakdown
proved to be of much longer duration than any of them had foreseen. The
exhausted system was slow in reacting and it was weeks before the
turning point toward recovery was reached. During those tedious hours
of waiting Jean was the sole person who could bring a smile to the sick
man's face or rouse in him a shadow of interest in what was going on
about him. "Her price was above rubies," the doctor said. She was
better than sunshine or fresh air; she was, in fact, the only hope of
bringing the invalid back to his normal self.

And when those grim days passed and Uncle Tom began to be better, how
he clung to the girl--clung to her with an affection which neither of
them had felt before. It was the realization of his dependence that
made Jean send to Uncle Bob that letter, the last lines of which read:

"I feel more strongly than I can tell you, dear Uncle Bob, that
for the present my place is here. Uncle Tom needs me and cannot do
without me. You have Hannah to help you keep house and you can get
on; but he has nobody but me. When he is quite strong again I will
come to Boston, but until I do I am sure you'll understand that
although I cannot be with you, I love you just the same.

"Jean."

A reply came back by wire.

"Goodness!" exclaimed Jean as she opened the long telegram. "I hope
nothing is the matter. Uncle Bob never sends telegrams. He must have
been reckless to spend his money on such a long message as this."

"You are doing just right. Stay as long as needed, but remember
Boston home waits whenever you wish to come. Hannah has proved
inadequate housekeeper. Have new one. Miss Cartright and I were
married in New York to-day.

"Uncle Bob."

Jean's reading stopped with a jerk. She was speechless. So great was
her joy, her surprise, that not a word would come to her tongue.

Then Uncle Tom remarked dryly:

"I guess your Uncle Bob was a bit reckless about the time he sent that
wire. The only wonder is the telegram wasn't twice as long."

Giusippe was the next to find his voice.

"Well!" he ejaculated. "And we never even dreamed it! At last, Jean,
you've got your wish. Your good fairy has given you an _aunt_!"

"And such an aunt!" Jean added.

CHAPTER XII

JEAN AND GIUSIPPE EACH FIND A NICHE IN LIFE

During Uncle Tom's illness and slow recovery Giusippe became the
messenger between Mr. Curtis's residence and his office. It was,
however, weeks before there was any link connecting the two. But as
health returned there came to the invalid a gradual revival of interest
in affairs at the glass works. Nevertheless the doctor was a cautious
man and at first permitted only the slightest allusions to be made to
business. Later, as strength increased, Mr. Curtis was allowed to look
over at home mail, papers, and specifications and put his signature to
a few important documents, and since Giusippe was almost constantly at
the house what was more natural than that he should become the
go-between? Mr. Curtis dropped into explaining to the boy from time to
time many confidential matters and directing him as to what he wished
done regarding them. The young Italian, as his employer soon found, was
quick to grasp a situation and could be relied upon to fulfil
instructions to the letter and without blundering. Such a person was of
inestimable value during those days of convalescence.

So it came about that Giusippe spent less and less of his time in his
own department in the glass works and more and more in Mr. Curtis's
private office. Before long, boy though he was, he had quite a complete
comprehension of the older man's affairs and proved himself most useful
to the head of the firm who was fighting his way back to health. It was
so easy to say:

"Regarding this letter, I wish, Giusippe, you would see that such and
such a reply is sent. Look it over yourself before it goes out to be
sure that the stenographer has correctly caught my idea."

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