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
