How the Third Floor Knew the Potteries | Page 5

are, in
fact, large kilns built of brick, with an oven closed in by an iron door in
the centre of each, and a chimney going up through the roof. The
pottery, enclosed in seggars, stands round inside on shelves, and has to
be turned from time to time while the firing is going on. To turn these
seggars, test the heat, and keep the fires up, was my work at the period

of which I am now telling you, Major.
Well! I went through the baking-houses one after the other, and found
all empty alike. Then a strange, vague, uneasy feeling came over me,
and I began to wonder what could have become of George. It was
possible that he might be in one of the workshops; so I ran over to the
counting-house, lighted a lantern, and made a thorough survey of the
yards. I tried the doors; they were all locked as usual. I peeped into the
open sheds; they were all vacant. I called "George! George!" in every
part of the outer premises; but the wind and rain drove back my voice,
and no other voice replied to it. Forced at last to believe that he was
really gone, I took his hat back to the counting-house, put away the
wages-book, extinguished the gas, and prepared for my solitary watch.
The night was mild, and the heat in the baking-rooms intense. I knew,
by experience, that the ovens had been overheated, and that none of the
porcelain must go in at least for the next two hours; so I carried my
stool to the door, settled myself in a sheltered corner where the air
could reach me, but not the rain, and fell to wondering where George
could have gone, and why he should not have waited till the time
appointed. That he had left in haste was clear -- not because his hat
remained behind, for he might have had a cap with him -- but because
he had left the book open, and the gas lighted. <-- doublecheck this
puncutation --> Perhaps one of the workmen had met with some
accident, and he had been summoned away so urgently that he had no
time to think of anything; perhaps he would even now come back
presently to see that all was right before he went home to his lodgings.
Turning these things over in my mind, I grew drowsy, my thoughts
wandered, and I fell asleep.
I cannot tell how long my nap lasted. I had walked a great distance that
day, and I slept heavily but I awoke all in a moment, with a sort of
terror upon me, and, looking up, saw George Barnard sitting on a stool
before the oven door, with the firelight full upon his face.
Ashamed to be found sleeping, I started to my feet. At the same instant,
he rose, turned away without even looking towards me, and went out
into the next room.

"Don't be angry, George!" I cried, following him. "None of the seggars
are in. I knew the fires were too strong, and --"
The words died on my lips. I had followed him from the first room to
the second, from the second to the third, and in the third -- I lost him!
I could not believe my eyes. I opened the end door leading into the yard,
and looked out; but he was nowhere in sight. I went round to the back
of the baking-house, looked behind the furnaces, ran over to the
counting-house, called him by his name over and over again; but all
was dark, silent, lonely, as ever.
Then I remembered how I had bolted the outer gate, and how
impossible it was that he should have come in without ringing. Then,
too, I began again to doubt the evidence of my own senses, and to think
I must have been dreaming.
I went back to my old post by the door of the first baking-house, and
sat down for a moment to collect my thoughts.
"In the first place," said I to myself, "there is but one outer gate. That
outer gate I bolted on the inside, and it is bolted still. In the next place,
I searched the premises, and found all the sheds empty, and the
workshop-doors padlocked as usual on the outside. I proved that
George was nowhere about, when I came, and I know he could not
have come in since, without my knowledge. Therefore it is a dream. It
is certainly a dream, and there's an end of it."
And with this I trimmed my lantern and proceeded to test the
temperature of the furnaces. We used to do this, I should tell you, by
the introduction of little roughly-moulded lumps of common fire-clay.