“Tain’t easy to say where you’d find him—­at this time of the day you might find either him or his son there, if he’s in town; but his contracts take him away.”

And which is the factory?  Why, he sees those chimneys—­the tallest ones!  Yes, he sees them.  Well!  Let him keep his eye on those chimneys, going on as straight as ever he can, and presently he’ll see ’em down a turning on the left, shut in by a great brick wall which forms one side of the street.  That’s Rouncewell’s.

The trooper thanks his informant and rides slowly on, looking about him.  He does not turn back, but puts up his horse (and is much disposed to groom him too) at a public-house where some of Rouncewell’s hands are dining, as the ostler tells him.  Some of Rouncewell’s hands have just knocked off for dinner-time and seem to be invading the whole town.  They are very sinewy and strong, are Rouncewell’s hands—­a little sooty too.

He comes to a gateway in the brick wall, looks in, and sees a great perplexity of iron lying about in every stage and in a vast variety of shapes—­in bars, in wedges, in sheets; in tanks, in boilers, in axles, in wheels, in cogs, in cranks, in rails; twisted and wrenched into eccentric and perverse forms as separate parts of machinery; mountains of it broken up, and rusty in its age; distant furnaces of it glowing and bubbling in its youth; bright fireworks of it showering about under the blows of the steam-hammer; red-hot iron, white-hot iron, cold-black iron; an iron taste, an iron smell, and a Babel of iron sounds.

“This is a place to make a man’s head ache too!” says the trooper, looking about him for a counting-house.  “Who comes here?  This is very like me before I was set up.  This ought to be my nephew, if likenesses run in families.  Your servant, sir.”

“Yours, sir.  Are you looking for any one?”

“Excuse me.  Young Mr. Rouncewell, I believe?”

“Yes.”

“I was looking for your father, sir.  I wish to have a word with him.”

The young man, telling him he is fortunate in his choice of a time, for his father is there, leads the way to the office where he is to be found.  “Very like me before I was set up—­devilish like me!” thinks the trooper as he follows.  They come to a building in the yard with an office on an upper floor.  At sight of the gentleman in the office, Mr. George turns very red.

“What name shall I say to my father?” asks the young man.

George, full of the idea of iron, in desperation answers “Steel,” and is so presented.  He is left alone with the gentleman in the office, who sits at a table with account-books before him and some sheets of paper blotted with hosts of figures and drawings of cunning shapes.  It is a bare office, with bare windows, looking on the iron view below.  Tumbled together on the table are some pieces of iron, purposely broken to be tested at various periods of their service, in various capacities.  There is iron-dust on everything; and the smoke is seen through the windows rolling heavily out of the tall chimneys to mingle with the smoke from a vaporous Babylon of other chimneys.