The Daily Worker Newspaper, January 8, 1927, Page 10

How the Boiler Was Brought (Prem Moscow Isveatia.) The factory was idle. Buildings a thousand feet long stood gloomy, Nfeless, with rows of dark win- dows looking down upon the yard, which wes white ened with piles of birch cord-wood. The machines were silent; no longer did their cheerful clang and whir radiate from the depths of the buildings into the surrounding fields and forests. The slender smoke stacks no longer competed with each other in throwing out the dark, undulating curls of smoke with which the wind so loved to play. Everything was dead; the aunsieeping waterpump alone disturb- bd the stillmess with its sighs. Autumn came. The birch and poplar woods took @n amore and more golden hue. The field work was nearing an end, but the factory stood idle. The workers, maddened with doing nothing, were quar relling among themselves over nothing, were often drunk from homebrew; they brawled, and at brief intervals between card games they abused every- thing and everybody. : The old men sneered maliciously: “Eh! The boas- es, you didn’t like them! ‘We'll get along by our- gelves!’ you said. Well, you see now, do you get along? And what «@ fine life it was before—there ‘Was enough bread, enough of everything. You got, say three rubles—you could buy the whole market out and could besides drop into the saloon or beer house. Well, ‘what’s the use of talking! Now you have tried it without bosses, and still stupidity has wot been driven out of you.” The factory was not working. During the hy- @raulic tests the main steam generating boiler had @xploded. The second boiler was at the end of its days. The third boiler was used mainly for tho Water pump and it could not be used for other pur poses. ie Et} The machines were standing motionless. Hun- @reds of people were doing nothing. All repairs had been made, and the master mechanics were making boiler were lacking. There was nowhere to get them and nowhere to get another suitable boiler. 4é last one was found. Now, of fine proportions, @ steam generating Babcock stood in perfect order in a neighboring factory closed forever. It hid it- self like a ripe strawberry from careless eyes; but the new and energetic chairman of the District Sov- fet of People’s Economy appeared on the scene. He made a trip of inspection thru his district; and as a result the mechanics are already at work detaching the drum. it is, how clean, not even a touch of rust, mo traces of a leak, strongly built, the plates in or- der. Tho it is not large in size, yet according to the mechanics it will] be more powerful than were the two old ones togefher. “Egorka, don’t yawn! Cut straighter! Eh, eh! How tightly bolted! As if welded together..... Machine work. The masters were Englishmen . , .” Clang, clang, clang, clang . . . The bodies strain, the muscles swell. They are scarcely able their fingers in the intervals. There time io do this . . . Clang, clang, - The head of a bolt flies with into a corner. Two hundred and eight bolts saddies, and how much energy one bolt Even to get the bolt itself out is quite a “Stop, Zakhar Petrovich! We didn’t start right. ‘We have to cut off the heads from the inside, Cut- this side it’s hard to get the bolt out. Eh! Pipes in the way everywhere.” crawl into the boiler. It is cold there @nd their shirts are wet with perspiration. It’s hard to breathe; not much room to swing, either. They @re crouching; no place to straighten up. Tho their @ars are filled with cotton, still their heads are ring- img with the noise. Nichevol They must hurry. The children are Bome waiting. Bang, bang, bang, bang, bang. At last the boiler is free. The attached parts are dashed to it, and made ready for the journey. Slowly fhe chains are straightening out, growing taut, and slowly the boiler is rising, higher and higher. Crash! A sharp, short, powerful blow. The rear end has fallen back upon the saddle. The hook of the chain has broken. “See, Zakhar Petrovich! See what good iron the chain is made ef] It glitters with sparks, but here ft is dark.” “The Lord saved us. God pity us if it had broken above us!” The sailor, Nikifor Ivanovich, returned from the Meet, is a skeptic and atheist: “It has nothing to do with God. The hook was simply weak; but I have another in reserve. It will hold.” From the watchman of the factory they secure additional tackle. The reinforced tackle is applied ence more. Again the chain straightens. The heavy drum goes up like a balloon and bangs beneath the eciling. “Turn it, turn it! Go on!” Two men easily give the desired direction to the tremendous weight. In a couple of hours the drum fs on rollers ready to be bei“ pag Now the bat- teries have their turn, Between the smoke pipes are put rollers to prevent any bending. These are supporied on three frames on hewed log runners. Slowly the immense aifair moves toward the door, but it cannot pass thru. The rear part of the sad- dle is too large. To break the wall is dangerous, for over the door are windows and over these are ven- tilators. What is to be done? Nichevo! This has been foreseen. The carpenters are already busy; the lintel ig already propped up on horses. The sides of the: door frame have been taken out and the rest of the boiler is outside. Here there is wait- ing for it a large truck with iron wheels. The whole artel* has arrived to remove the de- sired guest. Soon it is put on the truck, balanced, ‘bolted to it, lashed with ropes. Breast collars are attached in order to help the animals, and supports are fastenéd to the boiler to keep it balanced while in motion; the whole affair is once more looked over. Tomorrow on the road~—home! In the early morning three pairs of steers and two pairs of horses are hitched to the truck. The driv- ers get in line. “With God’s help! Let us pray.” Silant’ich, who, tho old, is lively and energetic, be- gins the boisterous dubinushka**. They bare their heads and make the sign of the cross. “Hi, dubinush- ka, oho! Once, now it goes by itself!” The others join in. “Once, once! Tsobe, tsob! Tsobe, tsob! On, on! A, a, a-a-a! It goes, goes, goes! Oh, yes, it goes! Oh, yes!” Tremblingly and unwillingly the boiler begins to move. Only to reach the pike, to get out to it! Well, there is the first trouble—the gate is too low. They turn around it, but the rear wheels sink into the ground up to the axle. “To the levers, planks un- der the wheels, ahead!” sounds the command. Du- binushka, shouts, sighs, curses, profanity—all blend into a“mighty roar. The rope cuts into the hands, the friction raises blood blisters, the wheels are cracking, the planks are bending, the horses are pulling to the side, the steers are stubbornly strain- ing, and the boiler moves, to sink again at the first moment’s halt. “$i But things are different on the pike. The animals are able to pull it unaided. The horses begin to accustom themselves to the slow pace. The men begin to smoke, now that they are free to do 80. Behind them is a long train of wagons with pro- visions for the men and feed for the animals, with clothes and tools, extra traces, and so forth. “It’s going! But a mulla crossed the road!” (It was a backwoods place and the people were super- stitious. A, mulla—he is the same as a priest— some ap might o¢cur! ; ; There are how worriés ahead of them-—two bridg- es, one new and strong, the other unsafe. A me- chanic orders planks put under the wheels as a safeguard. The first bridge is passed safely; the second begins to crack and rumble as if protesting against this overpowering weight in its old age. But nichevo! the front wheels are already on the ground. Suddenly the rear wheels, jumping off the planks, fall upon the bridge with a crash. The whole bridge creaks and begins to shake. Two beams break; but the artel is ready and does not lose its head. The members hasten to help their future breadwinner off upon the earth. They curse the mulla, The carpenters remain to repair the bridge. Everything moves ahead. They are glad the danger is over. But their joy is pre- mature. The iron axle bends. What to do now? They move on—perhaps it will hold. They go five versts. But things grow worse and worse—the axle bends so much that the wheels begin to scrape the wagon frame. It is lunch time. They unharness the horses and steers and begin to fry potatoes and boil soup. But Silant’ich has no appetite, for he doesn’t know what to do—there can be no thot of going back to the factory, it is too far now; the village black- smith is not able to make the repairs. The me- chanics hold a consultation; they are heard, and the conclusion is to turn the axle and let the weight straighten it. “Nichevo, comrades! Let us spit upon the mul- la! We will reach our destination.” And they have raised the rear of the truck, turn- ed the axle, and started their journey anew. Things go nicely —would that they would continue so. The artel is cheerful. Only when going uphill or after having stopped do they need to be helped. The old sinner Silant’ich is satisfied—he starts the songs with such liveliness that the men grow enthusiastic. (The songs hit everyone—the gentlefolks, the au- thorities, even the factory women.) They laugh aloud, playful like a herd of colts, and at the same thne they also pull like good horses, There, beyond the railway, on the village road it will be harder. Nevertheless they begin te calcu- late the time of their reaching home. They are moving quite rapidly, when suddenly someone no- tices something wrong at the back of the truck. Alas, several spokes are broken at the rim, which is bend- ing. They can go no farther. A stop is made. Seemingly the mulla wag in the clutches of hiecups that day; poor thing, he might really become ill, *An artel is an organization of laborers something like our crew or gang, which makes contracts for Jobs, has Its own elected foreman, and Is paid by the Job, i.e the contractor’s profits In addition to the usual wages. Arte! is a Tartar word meaning ‘friendship.’ This form of labor organization is prevalent In Russia in every gainful occupation, *“A Big Stick’~a workers’ song. 4 An Incident in the Life of Production. By N. FAL’KOVSKII. The wheel is taken home by Silant’ich; they also ask him to bring more bread, as the supply is get ting low. The stop was made in the middle of the road, far from inhabited places. They leave the boiler where it is (who could take it?) and go to the nearest village. The peasants meet them in & rather unfriendly’ way, refusing to let them into their huts. What else can the peasants do? There are in the artel perhaps seventy men and twenty beasts of burden; there is little feed attd no money. So the majority have to sleep, some in the barns, some under wagons, and some in the open. The night is rainy, windy, and cold. But what can they do? Their clothes are poor; their slippers are made of the bark of trees, and the rags wound around their legs are wet thru. They again ask te be let into the huts. Some are let in, not all. To ward morning a number are feverish. They get ™P early, eat what they have—potatoes—warm them selves in the sunshine, and the feverish feeling dis- appears. The old rascal Seniushkin (nicknamed “Mousie”) makes a clever move; squinting his watery, mouse-like eyes he begins to beg: ‘Com rades, I do not feel well; let me go home. For what help can I be to you?” “Stop that. We all are sick. When the artel el der returns, ask him. He might let you go; and should you die, we will bring you home on the boil er, just like a general on a gun.” The critical time comes; the bread is gone, no more potatoes, and what money can toilers have? There is nothing to do. They have to go “to shoot” about the village. They feel ashamed and sorry, but how can they help it? To go.home? Would the artel allow this? Somehow they satisfy their hunger, and Seniughkin even returns with a sackful —he is a master at shedding “mousie” tears. Only. on the fourth day does Silant’ich return. He brings the repaired wheel, an iron bar for the sup- port of the rear axle, bread and money for the folks, He was told at the factory that the boiler was not taken down correctly; it was necessary to cut the uprights and to bring the batteries separately. The load would have been easier, but who could do the welding again, as the mechanic had said? But what is the use of talking about this? Everybody gets to work. Hurry up, hurry up! They reach the railway, and—a stoppage again. The load cannot be moved over the railway track without the permission of the authorities, and, still worse, the boiler cannot pass under the telegraph wires. Silant’ich runs to and fro, but he cannot do anything. They have to leave the boiler and go home. No little cursing and profanity is let loose at the expense of the factory: authorities. They, ai the devils, busy themselves with tea-drinking and . sugar-sucking, and drive us naked into the cold and rain without proper provisions! They don’t deserve anything. They take joy-rides behind a team, in- stead of inspecting and doing something in regard to the telegraph wires, The engineers are called, but there is no help from them. A mechanic leaves and is absent sever ai days. He arranges everything and the people are sent again to the boiler. Now the factory mechanic has to be with the artel all the time. The telegraph wires are raised and the boiler crosses the track easily. But it rains the whole day. The people at the factory will long remember this road and tell their children about it. For is it easy to haul the boiler on a bad road in the autumn mire? It’s slippery, the wheels sink, one can hardly get it uphill or let it downhill. One has to repair bridges and cover road ditches. The people are hungry and in scanty clothing. Oh, how hard it is. But what can be done? Everyone has to help to his utmost. They clench their teeth and grasp the ropes, the levers, put on the breast collars—and forward! Nt- chevo, it will be done! The boiler has to be brot home. We’ll do it! See, the mechanic is scolding: “Loafers, you don’t want to work!” The people feel offended: “How is that, we don’t want to work? Is it easy in mud, in cold here, without eating’ and drinking? Do you need the boiler? Do not the children and women folks wait for us?” The people feel insulted. They become agitated, noisy, and abusive.’ But what’s the use of hammering the teeth with the tongue— the boiler has to be brot home! At.last home is reached! The day is dry and the sun warming. All pipes and saddles are decorated with evergreen. The whole factory comes to meet it. For a moment the difficulties of the bad road are forgotten. Everybody feels easy and gladness is tickling the heart. The steers stop. The man- ager stands by. The leader sets the tune, “We hon- or the engineer.” ‘The latter smiles, as if saying, “Sing—well, why not sing? You have toiled enough, Ei, dubinuska, oho! Once, it goes by itself—” They arrive. There is no end of talk and ques- tions. But they cannot pay much attention to these, They rush to embrace their children, to eat porridge, into the bathhouse (the committee has not forgot- ten them), and finally to rest, for their bodies are creaking and aching. The next day the people are as busy as ants, The old boiler is thrown out and a new foundation t laid, on which the new boiler is placed. But. there are no boiler makers for the bolting work, The blacksmiths have to do it. But the connections for the steam pipes are missing, Where to get them? (Continued on page 6) ons (oem