You have seen a housewife sweating over her oven to get it hot enough to bake a batch of biscuits.

Her face gets pink and a drop of sweat dampens her curls.

Quite a horrid job she finds it.

But I had iron biscuits to bake; my forge fire must be hot as a volcano.
There were five bakings every day and this meant the shoveling in of nearly two tons of coal.

In summer I was stripped to the waist and panting while the sweat poured down across my heaving muscles.