A Shoe Resoled in Tin

Chalked on the lamp-floor door, in the Foundry’s square hand: link 130 of 144, glass poured twice, wicks trimmed at the turn, one stoker’s sole re-nailed with a strip of cold tin. Passage at two drops and three-tenths a span, the cup-boy says, which is more than his mother’s bread allows. Carried, two thousand six hundred and forty-four. Shift changed on the hour. The chalk stays on the board, and the board stays on the wall for the next crew to read.