men--Mr. Braithwaite and his clerk, Mr. Winterbottom. Mr. Braithwaite
was large, somewhat of the stern patriarch in appearance, having a
rather thin white beard. He was usually muffled in an enormous silk
neckerchief, and right up to the hot summer a huge fire burned in the
open grate. No window was open. Sometimes in winter the air scorched the
throats of the people, coming in from the freshness. Mr. Winterbottom
was rather small and fat, and very bald. He made remarks that were not
witty, whilst his chief launched forth patriarchal admonitions against
the colliers.
The room was crowded with miners in their pit-dirt, men who had been
home and changed, and women, and one or two children, and usually a dog.
Paul was quite small, so it was often his fate to be jammed behind the
legs of the men, near the fire which scorched him. He knew the order of
the names--they went according to stall number.
"Holliday," came the ringing voice of Mr. Braithwaite. Then Mrs.
Holliday stepped silently forward, was paid, drew aside.
"Bower--John Bower."
A boy stepped to the counter. Mr. Braithwaite, large and irascible,
glowered at him over his spectacles.
"John Bower!" he repeated.
"It's me," said the boy.
"Why, you used to 'ave a different nose than that," said glossy Mr.
Winterbottom, peering over the counter. The people tittered, thinking of
John Bower senior.
"How is it your father's not come!" said Mr. Braithwaite, in a large and
magisterial voice.
"He's badly," piped the boy.
"You should tell him to keep off the drink," pronounced the great
cashier.
"An' niver mind if he puts his foot through yer," said a mocking voice
from behind.
All the men laughed. The large and important cashier looked down at his
next sheet.
"Fred Pilkington!" he called, quite indifferent.
Mr. Braithwaite was an important shareholder in the firm.
Paul knew his turn was next but one, and his heart began to beat. He was
pushed against the chimney-piece. His calves were burning. But he did
not hope to get through the wall of men.
"Walter Morel!" came the ringing voice.
"Here!" piped Paul, small and inadequate.
"Morel--Walter Morel!" the cashier repeated, his finger and thumb on the
invoice, ready to pass on.
Paul was suffering convulsions of self-consciousness, and could not
or would not shout. The backs of the men obliterated him. Then Mr.
Winterbottom came to the rescue.
"He's here. Where is he? Morel's lad?"
The fat, red, bald little man peered round with keen eyes. He pointed at
the fireplace. The colliers looked round, moved aside, and disclosed the
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