troughs molded into the sand. The iron flows into those openings and fills the troughs. When the iron cools and gets hard, it takes the shape of the troughs. Some workers think the troughs look like little piglets suckling on a sow.” The piglets suckling Mr. Fritchman’s sows back home didn’t look anything like these. But at least I knew why the bars were called iron pigs. The heat inside the building was tremendous. There were loud whooshing noises coming from the furnace that I did not like. As we turned to leave, I saw a boy sitting in a corner at the far end of the building. He looked lonely. “Father, how much time is left until the boat is loaded with iron pigs?” I asked. “Five or six hours,” Father said. “And by that time, it will be too late for us to leave Catasauqua tonight. Why do you ask?” I turned my head toward a corner of the building. “Do you see that boy over there?” I asked. “I thought I’d walk over and say hello.” “It’s fine with me if you want to talk,” Father said, “but please don’t leave the building unless you’re coming back to the boat. Once it’s loaded, we have to move it to a basin for the night.” “Thank you, Father,” I said. “I won’t get lost.” Colin and Father walked out of the casting house and I went toward the boy. When I got closer, I could see he was sleeping. His boots were caked with black mud and the legs of his trousers were wet. His jacket rested on him like a blanket; he had his hat pulled down over his eyes. I thought I’d make a little noise. Maybe it would wake him. “Harrumph . . . harrumph.” Nothing, not a movement. “Harrumph!” Not a thing. I bent over and shook his shoulder. “Hello, are you awake?” I said. “I’m Finn Gorman. How are you?” He lifted his chin and tilted his hat so he could see who was talking. He didn’t look too happy that I had interrupted his sleep. “Who are you?” he said. “What are you waking me for? Let me gather my wits.” He yawned and pulled himself up in the corner. I extended my hand.
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