Within they could see the huge, round furnace with its belt of small
fiery doors, from which glass-blowers, with long blow-pipes were deftly
taking small lumps of moulten glass and blowing them into balls.
"There's Dan!" cried Mrs. Snawdor, and Nance looked eagerly in the
direction indicated.
In the red glare of the furnace, a big, awkward, bare-armed young fellow
was just turning to roll his red-hot ball on a board. There was a steady
look in the gray eyes that scowled slightly under the intense glare, a
sure movement of the hands that dropped the elongated roll into the
mold. When he saw Mrs. Snawdor's beckoning finger, he came to the door.
"This here is Nance Molloy," said Mrs. Snawdor by way of introduction.
"She's about growed up sence you seen her. We come to see about gittin'
her a job."
Nance, looking at the strange, stern face above her, withdrew the hand
she had held out. Dan did not seem to see her hand any more than he saw
her fresh shirt-waist and the hat she had taken so much pains to retrim.
After a casual nod he stood looking at the floor and rubbing the toe of
his heavy boot against his blow-pipe.
"Sure," he said slowly, "but this is no fit place for a girl, Mrs.
Snawdor."
Mrs. Snawdor bristled immediately.
"I ain't astin' yer advice, Dan Lewis. I'm astin' yer help."
Dan looked Nance over in troubled silence.
"Is she sixteen yet?" he asked as impersonally as if she had not
been present.
"Yes, an' past.
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