City of Promise by Beverly Swerling Page B

difference. They’re not going to get the same day’s pay for two hours’ less work. Not if every laboring man in the city joins together to demand it. The bosses say the eight-hour-day’s Communism, say it’ll put an end to any kind of economic progress here in America. Mayor’s in thick with the bosses. Says he’s never going to let no eight-hour-day Communism come over here. His Honor’s going to send in the police with their clubs. A man like me, I don’t figure to do very well in that sort of thing.”
    Josh could not argue with that truth and he did not try. “We were discussing steel, Mr. Tickle.”
    “So we were, Mr. Turner. It’s stronger, thinner, a hell’s sight easier to work with. Nothing new in that, like I said. Thing is, it’s never been easy to make steel. Open hearth mostly, though I heard tell of other ways over in Europe. Way we do it here, furnace needs to be a hundred tons at least. Furnace that size eats fuel faster ’n a dog eats his dinner. Takes a huge amount of charcoal. You’d have to cut down every tree between here and China to get as much as you’d need to make any sizeable amount of steel that way. Course,” cocking his oversize head and examining his visitor, “there’s some easier methods nowadays.”
    “And what methods are those, Mr. Tickle?”
    “Depends who you ask. The way it’s mostly told, man named Bessemer over in England invented a process to force out the carbon with a blast of air. You still has to melt the iron and that takes a fair bit of fuel, but you can use coal you dig out of the ground. Don’t need charcoal made from wood. And air’s free, Mr. Turner. Means the whole thing becomes a sight more practical than it was before.”
    Limited land here in New York, but unlimited air. That’s what he’d told Trent Clifford. “Then I don’t see the problem, Mr. Tickle.”
    “Like I said, Bessemer holds the patent. Won’t say how his process is done unless you put your hand in your pocket and pay him for a license. Ain’t too many else as knows how to do it apart from him. A few, but not too many.”
    Josh’s eyes were starting to tear in the smoky atmosphere, but he didn’t wipe them. Narrowed them instead. And sat back and consideredEbenezer Tickle with great attention. “I think you’re going to tell me you know how Bessemer’s process works. Am I correct, Mr. Tickle?”
    “You are, Mr. Turner.” Tickle jumped off his chair and headed for the door in the back wall. He walked with the waddling stride common to men made as he was, but he got where he was going soon enough. The rear door opened on a trash-strewn square of space hardly big enough to turn around in, but it admitted a wave of relatively fresh, warm June air, and that helped some with the tobacco fumes.
    The dwarf returned to his visitor and hoisted himself back into the chair beside the table. The maneuver was performed too quickly for Josh to see exactly how it was done. He’s learned ways to cope with his situation, Josh thought. As have I.
    “Better?” Tickle asked, gesturing toward the open door. And when Josh nodded, “I was talking about Mr. Bessemer over in England and his patent . . . Weren’t his idea to start out with.”
    “It was yours? Is that what you’re saying?”
    “Nope.” Tickle shook his head. “Never said that. Never would. Man named William Kelly. Came from Pittsburgh, Pennsylvania, but did his steelmaking in Eddyville, Kentucky. West part, right where I was born. Kelly’s the one thought up using air to blow the carbon out of iron and figured how to do it. Got himself a patent and everything.”
    “Let me guess. You worked for Kelly when he was in Kentucky.”
    “Him and his brother,” Tickle said. “Right from the first day.”
    “Is this Kelly likely to be less parsimonious with the rights to his kind of steelmaking?”
    “Doesn’t have ’em. Not anymore. Good people, the Kelly brothers, but foolish about business. Went bankrupt. Sold their