His neighbour seemed to get no further with what
he was doing, though he busily heated and reheated his lump of glass and
again and again swung his blow-pipe round his head, and backward and
forward. The foreman was too much interested in Zorzi to notice what the
others were doing.
Zorzi was putting the last touches to his work. In a moment it would be
finished and ready to go to the annealing oven, though he was even then
reflecting that the workmen would certainly break it up as soon as the
foreman turned his back. The man next to him swung his blow-pipe again,
loaded with red-hot glass.
It slipped from his hand, and the hot mass, with the full weight of the
heavy iron behind it, landed on Zorzi's right foot, three paces away,
with frightful force. He uttered a sharp cry of surprise and pain. The
lovely vessel he had made flew from his hands and broke into a thousand
tiny fragments. In excruciating agony he lifted the injured foot from
the ground and stood upon the other. Not a hand was stretched out to
help him, and he felt that he was growing dizzy. He made a frantic
effort to hop on one leg towards the furnace, so as to lean against the
brickwork. Piero laughed.
"He is a dancer!" he cried. "He is a 'ballarino'!" The others all
laughed, too, and the name remained his as long as he lived--he was
Zorzi Ballarin.
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