her head in the air. She was an erect little body of forty.
In that room were two round spiral machines on the bench under the
window. Through the inner doorway was another longer room, with six more
machines. A little group of girls, nicely dressed in white aprons, stood
talking together.
"Have you nothing else to do but talk?" said Mr. Pappleworth.
"Only wait for you," said one handsome girl, laughing.
"Well, get on, get on," he said. "Come on, my lad. You'll know your road
down here again."
And Paul ran upstairs after his chief. He was given some checking
and invoicing to do. He stood at the desk, labouring in his execrable
handwriting. Presently Mr. Jordan came strutting down from the glass
office and stood behind him, to the boy's great discomfort. Suddenly a
red and fat finger was thrust on the form he was filling in.
"MR. J. A. Bates, Esquire!" exclaimed the cross voice just behind his
ear.
Paul looked at "Mr. J. A. Bates, Esquire" in his own vile writing, and
wondered what was the matter now.
"Didn't they teach you any better THAN that while they were at it? If
you put 'Mr.' you don't put Esquire'-a man can't be both at once."
The boy regretted his too-much generosity in disposing of honours,
hesitated, and with trembling fingers, scratched out the "Mr." Then all
at once Mr. Jordan snatched away the invoice.
"Make another! Are you going to send that to a gentleman?" And he tore
up the blue form irritably.
Paul, his ears red with shame, began again. Still Mr. Jordan watched.
"I don't know what they DO teach in schools. You'll have to write better
than that. Lads learn nothing nowadays, but how to recite poetry
and play the fiddle. Have you seen his writing?" he asked of Mr.
Pappleworth.
"Yes; prime, isn't it?" replied Mr. Pappleworth indifferently.
Mr. Jordan gave a little grunt, not unamiable. Paul divined that his
master's bark was worse than his bite. Indeed, the little manufacturer,
although he spoke bad English, was quite gentleman enough to leave his
men alone and to take no notice of trifles. But he knew he did not
look like the boss and owner of the show, so he had to play his role of
proprietor at first, to put things on a right footing.
"Let's see, WHAT'S your name?" asked Mr. Pappleworth of the boy.
"Paul Morel."
It is curious that children suffer so much at having to pronounce their
own names.
"Paul Morel, is it? All right, you Paul-Morel through them things there,
and then--"
Mr. Pappleworth subsided on to a stool, and began writing. A girl came
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