“The landlady looked at him de haut en bas, rather pitying, and at the same time resenting his clear, fierce morality. Paul went home, glowering. He entered the house silently. Friday was baking day, and there was usually a hot bun. His mother put it before him.
Suddenly he turned on her in a fury, his eyes flashing:
“I’m not going to the office any more,” he said.
“Why, what’s the matter?” his mother asked in surprise. His sudden rages rather amused her.
“I’m not going any more,” he declared.
“Oh, very well, tell your father so.”
He chewed his bun as if he hated it.
“I’m not—I’m not going to fetch the money.”
“Then one of Carlin’s children can go; they’d be glad enough of the sixpence,” said Mrs. Morel.
This sixpence was Paul’s only income. It mostly went in buying birthday presents; but it was an income, and he treasured it. But—
“They can have it, then!” he said. “I don’t want it.”
“Oh, very well,” said his mother. “But you needn’t bully me about it.”
“They’re hateful, and common, and hateful, they are, and I’m not going any more. Mr. Braithwaite drops his ‘h’s,’ an’ Mr. Winterbottom says ‘You was.’ ”
“And is that why you won’t go any more?” smiled Mrs. Morel.
The boy was silent for some time. His face was pale, his eyes dark and furious. His mother moved about at her work, taking no notice of him.
“They always stan’ in front of me, so’s I can’t get out,” he said.
“Well, my lad, you’ve only to ask them,” she replied.
“An’ then Alfred Winterbottom says, ‘What do they teach you at the Board-school?’ ”
“They never taught him much,” said Mrs. Morel, “that is a fact—neither manners nor wit—and his cunning he was born with.”
So, in her own way, she soothed him. His ridiculous hyper-sensitiveness made her heart ache. And sometimes the fury in his eyes roused her, made her sleeping soul lift up its head a moment, surprised.
“What was the cheque?” she asked.
“Seventeen pounds eleven and fivepence, and sixteen and
