Chewing his cigar stub, a grizzled old man paced the engine room like a caged tiger.

Before him dozens of stokers moved in a fluent dance as they threw shovelful after shoveful of coal into the fireboxes. Sweat reflected on skin made leathery from years facing furnace fervor. "Put ye'r backs into it, lads! Feed the fire!"

He turned, retracing his steps. A smile cracked the barest corners of his mouth as he examined steam gauge after steam gauge. "That's it, lads. Keep it up. We can't let 'er flounder--our freight must get through. Lives are depending on ye' lads!"

(Word count: 100. Please let me know what you like/dislike about the post. Thank you in advance for your time and attention. Other works can also be found linked in r/atcroft_wordcraft.)