LITMIR.BIZ

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      “And there's over two pounds—isn't there over two pounds”?

      She tried the basket.

      “Yes,” she answered doubtfully.

      Then Paul fished out a little spray. He always brought her one spray, the best he could find.

      “Pretty!” she said, in a curious tone, of a woman accepting a love-token.

      The boy walked all day, went miles and miles, rather than own himself beaten and come home to her empty-handed. She never realised this, whilst he was young. She was a woman who waited for her children to grow up. And William occupied her chiefly.

      But when William went to Nottingham, and was not so much at home, the mother made a companion of Paul. The latter was unconsciously jealous of his brother, and William was jealous of him. At the same time, they were good friends.

      Mrs. Morel's intimacy with her second son was more subtle and fine, perhaps not so passionate as with her eldest. It was the rule that Paul should fetch the money on Friday afternoons. The colliers of the five pits were paid on Fridays, but not individually. All the earnings of each stall were put down to the chief butty, as contractor, and he divided the wages again, either in the public-house or in his own home. So that the children could fetch the money, school closed early on Friday afternoons. Each of the Morel children—William, then Annie, then Paul—had fetched the money on Friday afternoons, until they went themselves to work. Paul used to set off at half-past three, with a little calico bag in his pocket. Down all the paths, women, girls, children, and men were seen trooping to the offices.

      These offices were quite handsome: a new, red-brick building, almost like a mansion, standing in its own grounds at the end of Greenhill Lane. The waiting-room was the hall, a long, bare room paved with blue brick, and having a seat all round, against the wall. Here sat the colliers in their pit-dirt. They had come up early. The women and children usually loitered about on the red gravel paths. Paul always examined the grass border, and the big grass bank, because in it grew tiny pansies and tiny forget-me-nots. There was a sound of many voices. The women had on their Sunday hats. The girls chattered loudly. Little dogs ran here and there. The green shrubs were silent all around.

      Then from inside came the cry “Spinney Park—Spinney Park.” All the folk for Spinney Park trooped inside. When it was time for Bretty to be paid, Paul went in among the crowd. The pay-room was quite small. A counter went across, dividing it into half. Behind the counter stood two 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 boy.

      “Here he is!” said Mr. Winterbottom.

      Paul went to the counter.

      “Seventeen pounds eleven and fivepence. Why don't you shout up when you're called?” said Mr. Braithwaite. He banged on to the invoice a five-pound bag of silver, then in a delicate and pretty movement, picked up a little ten-pound column of gold, and plumped it beside the silver. The gold slid in a bright stream over the paper. The cashier finished counting off the money; the boy dragged the whole down the counter to Mr. Winterbottom, to whom the stoppages for rent and tools must be paid. Here he suffered again.

      “Sixteen an' six,” said Mr. Winterbottom.

      The lad was too much upset to count. He pushed forward some loose silver and half a sovereign.

      “How much do you think you've given me?” asked Mr. Winterbottom.

      The boy looked at him, but said nothing. He had not the faintest notion.

      “Haven't you got a tongue in your head?”

      Paul bit his lip, and pushed forward some more silver.

      “Don't they teach you to count at the Board-school?” he asked.

      “Nowt but algibbra an' French,” said a collier.

      “An' cheek an' impidence,” said another.

      Paul was keeping someone waiting. With trembling fingers he got his money into the bag and slid out. He suffered the tortures of the damned on these occasions.

      His relief, when he got outside, and was walking along the Mansfield Road, was infinite. On the park wall the mosses were green. There were some gold and some white fowls pecking under the apple trees of an orchard. The colliers were walking home in a stream. The boy went near the wall, self-consciously. He knew many of the men, but could not recognise them in their dirt. And this was a new torture to him.

      When he got down to the New Inn, at Bretty, his father was not yet come. Mrs. Wharmby, the landlady, knew him. His grandmother, Morel's mother, had been Mrs. Wharmby's friend.

      “Your father's not come yet,” said the landlady, in the peculiar half-scornful, half-patronising voice of a woman who talks chiefly to grown men. “Sit you down.”

      Paul sat down on the edge of the bench in the bar. Some colliers were “reckoning”—sharing out their money—in a corner; others came in. They all glanced at the boy without speaking. At last Morel came; brisk, and with something of an air, even in his blackness.

      “Hello!” he said rather tenderly to his son. “Have

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