Later on, when we had got to the point of having Holy Writ retailed to us with expository remarks—our preceptors usually picked out something infernally gruesome—we used to associate that old furnace with the various trials by fire mentioned in the Old Testament. Especially could we see those three brave young Hebrews, who were condemned by old Nebuchadnezzar to be burned to death, standing smilingly on the familiar coals—each with a fire-insurance policy in his pocket, as we presume now. Else why be so cheerful about it?
Even as a boy at grandfather's place we began to form that intimate acquaintance with furnaces which has been the bane of our young life. When the furnace man did not turn up—usually as a sequel to a nocturnal endeavor to make the distilleries enlarge their plants—we had to shovel coal into that grinning old monster until our back and arms ached, and we would cheerfully have thrown in a few sticks of dynamite if there had been any handy.
But, of course, that sort of thing is part of the penalty of being a member of a family. We have no complaints to make. If a fellow will permit himself to be dragged into a family he must pay the price thereof. What we really object to is that since we have attained the dignity of manhood and the responsibility of a vote in provincial and federal affairs, we are still obliged to toil in cellars with a coal-shovel—a black-and-white slave, so to speak.
It would be different if we were married. We would expect to look after a furnace. And, anyway, to a married man what is a little trouble more or less?—he has lots of it. But freedom from worry about the furnace should be one of the most sacred privileges of the bachelor. We have been deprived of our rights. Instead of "the" furnace, we have several to think about. We are one of the busiest little amateur stokers in town.
There must be something in our appearance which suggests that we have a masterful way with furnaces, that we can make them eat right out of our shovel. It has become a habit with our lady friends when we call on them in the evening—naturally we have social duties to perform—to pat the radiator in a reflective sort of way, and then smiling brightly at us to say in a casual but wheedling tone something to the following effect:
"Oh, Mister O'D."—a few of them call us Peter in a sisterly way—"I just hate awfully to bother you, but paw is at the lodge and—well, you are such a good hand with a furnace. It's such a comfort to have a man who is really handy around the house, and—just a shovelful—thanks!"
So we bid a temporary farewell to the company and to all the delights of polite conversation, and retire to the cellar to give first aid to a rusty demon of a furnace whose vital spark is almost extinct. Laying our coat neatly folded on the bottom step of the cellar-stairs, we first seize a long lever which comes out every moment or two on our toe, and we shake enough ashes out of the grate to stifle Pompeii. Then groping our way to the coal-bin—away at the other end of the cellar—we proceed forcibly to feed the furnace with a broken scoop-shovel. About half of each shovelful misses the little opening—why the dickens do they put such small doors on the things?—and by the time we have accomplished the chore we are knee-deep in anthracite. Great stuff for a nice, new serge suit, that!
When we come upstairs again we are coated with a soft covering of powdered ash, our collar is melted, our hands suggest that we have been working on a slag-pile, and the young lady insists on sitting on a little narrow chair instead of on the sofa as usual. Every time we stir she glances nervously at the rug and the upholstery. The social atmosphere grows chillier and chillier, though the water is boiling in the "rads."
About an hour later "paw" comes home from the lodge, disappears into the subterranean depths, and emerges in a moment to ask in a loud belligerent voice who th'ell has been and gone and put all that coal on the furnace, and if people are aware that coal costs fifteen dollars a ton, and if people wouldn't be better advised to mind their own business. Whereupon daughter blushes violently and rushes out to him in the hall. There is a brief dialogue which is brought to a conclusion by "paw" grunting, "Oh, him, is it?" in a manner not altogether flattering.
Even at home in the flat where we lived for two somewhat cramping years—we swept the pictures off the walls every time we put on our shirt—we could not get away from furnace troubles. The thing was an obsession, that's all. Our proprietor, that inaccessible local divinity, was supposed to supply heat, which naturally implies a furnace and a furnace-man. There really was a furnace and also a furnace-man, but the two were seldom found in conjunction.