不过，对于孩子们来说，最高兴的还是 看他做导火索。莫瑞尔从搁楼里找出一捆很结实的长麦秆，用手把它们擦得干干净净、金光闪闪。然后把麦秆切成大约六英寸的小段，每段麦秆底部都留一个槽口。他随身带一把快刀，麦秆切得整整齐齐，毫无损坏。 他在桌子中间倒上一堆火药，擦得明光闪亮的桌面堆起一小堆黑色颗粒。他整好麦秆，保罗和安妮往麦秆里灌火药，再一根根塞住。保罗喜欢看这些黑色的颗粒从自己指缝流进麦秆口，直到灌满为止。然后，他用大拇指指甲刮一点肥皂塞住麦秆口，这样工作就算做完了。

    “看，爸爸。”他说。

    “很对，宝贝。”莫瑞尔回答，他对二儿子尤其亲热。保罗把导火索插到火药罐里，替父亲收拾好，第二天早晨莫瑞尔要拿着它下井炸煤。

    此时，亚瑟也很喜欢父亲，靠在莫瑞尔椅子扶手上说：

    “给我们讲讲井下的事儿，爸爸。”

    这是莫瑞尔最高兴的事。

    “好，有一匹小马——我们叫它邰非，”他开始这么讲，“它很狡猾。”

    莫瑞尔活灵活现地讲着故事，一下就让人感觉到了邰非的狡猾。

    “皮肤是棕色的。”他接着说：“也不太高，嗯，它踢踢踏踏地 来到井下。有人听到它打了个喷嚏。‘嗨，邰非，’有人问，‘为什么又打喷嚏了？又闻 到了什么？’”

    “接着又打了一个喷嚏，就一屁股坐下去，头顶在你身上，这个小坏蛋。”

    “‘邰非，想要什么？’”有人说。

    “ 他想要什么？”亚瑟常常会问。

    “他想要一点烟草，宝贝。”

    邰非的故事可以无穷无尽地讲下去，而且大家都爱听。

    有时候，也会换一个新故事。

    “休息时间，我穿衣服，有个东西从我胳膊上跑过，你们猜猜是啥，宝贝？原来是只老鼠。”

    “‘嗨，站住！’”我大喝一声。

    “ 我一把抓住了老鼠尾巴。”

    “你把它捏死了吗？”

    “是的，它们很讨厌。井下多的是。”

    “它们吃什么？”

    “吃拉煤车的马掉下来的谷子——如果你不收拾它们，它们会钻进你的口袋，吃掉你的点心——不管你把衣服挂在哪儿——这些偷偷摸摸、到处乱咬的讨厌东西都能找到。”

这样愉快的夜晚，只有莫瑞尔干活儿的时候才会出现。通常他总是早早的上床，比孩子们睡得还早。干完了修补的活儿，报纸也浏览了一遍，他无事可干了。

     父亲上床后，孩子们才觉得安心，他们躺下说一阵悄悄话。突然天花板上反射出晃动的亮光，呼 他们一跳。原来是外面矿工们提着灯去上九点的夜班。 他们听着男人们的说话声，想象着他们怎么走进黑漆漆的山谷。有时孩子们还会走到窗前，望着三、四盏灯在黑暗的田野中摇摇晃晃，渐渐消失在黑夜之中。然后赶紧奔回床上，大家暖暖地挤在一起，这真令人感到兴奋。

    保罗是个相当赢弱的孩子，常犯支气管炎。而另外几个孩子却都很强壮，所以母亲格外宠爱他。一天，他在吃午饭时回到家。觉得不舒服。不过莫瑞尔家的人一向不喜欢大惊小怪。

    “你怎么了？”母亲关切地问。

    “没什么。”他回答。

    可是他饭也吃不下去。

    “你不吃饭。就去不成学校。”她说。

    “为什么？”他问。

    “就因为不吃饭。”

    饭后他就躺在沙发的那个孩子们都喜欢的印花垫子上，慢慢打起瞌睡来。那天下午，莫瑞尔太太熨衣服。她干活时，听到孩子喉咙里那微弱丝丝声，心里又涌起先前讨厌他的那种感觉。她当初没希望他能活下来，然而他稚嫩的身躯却具有强大的生命力。如果他刚生下 来就死了，她倒会觉得宽慰些，她对他总有一种又爱又恼的感情。

    他呢，在半睡半醒的朦胧中，迷迷糊糊地听到熨斗贴在熨衣板上的声音，还有轻微的撞击声。一醒过来，看到母亲站在炉边地毯上，把热熨斗靠近脸，好象在用耳朵倾听熨斗有多烫似的。她脸上平静安详，内心却充满痛苦和幻灭。由于自我克制，紧闭着嘴唇。但她玲珑的鼻子，蓝蓝的眼睛看上去多么年轻、敏锐、热情。他不由自主地从心里涌起一种强烈的爱。当她像现在这样平静时，她看上去很勇敢，充满活力，可又似乎被剥夺了某种生活权力。想到母亲的生活从来没有美满过，孩子感到心痛，他想报答却又心有余而力不足，这让他感到自己太无能，内心痛苦的煎熬着。但同时也使孩子念念不忘去报答母亲，这是孩子天真的生活目标。

    她在熨斗上吐了口唾沫，唾沫在黑黑的熨斗面上乱溅起来，转瞬即逝。然后她跪在地上，在炉边地毯的反面用力擦拭熨斗。炉子旺盛的火焰温暖着她。保罗很喜欢母亲蹲下来，脑袋偏向一边的样子。她的一言一行，都完美无缺。屋里暖融融的，弥漫着烫衣服的气味。后来，牧师来了，跟她和风细雨地聊起来了。

    保罗的支气管炎犯了，他自己倒不在乎。已经这样了，充好汉也没用了，他特别喜欢晚上八点钟之后，灯熄了，看着火光在黑暗中的墙壁上、天花板上闪动；看着巨大的影子摇摇摆摆，屋里似乎全是人，在沉默中厮打着。

    在上床前，父亲总会走进这间病房，家里不论谁病了，他是显得温和亲善。但是扰乱了男孩安宁的心境。

    “睡着了吗，宝贝？”莫瑞尔柔和地问。

    “没呢。妈妈来了吗？”

    “她马上就叠完衣服了。你想要点什么吗？”莫瑞尔很少这样对儿子。

    “我什么也不要。妈妈什么时候来？”

    “快了。宝贝。”

    父亲在炉边地毯上犹犹豫豫地站了一会儿。他感觉到儿子不想要他。于是他下楼对他妻子说：

    “孩子急着要你。你什么时候弄好啊？”

    “天啊。等我忙完嘛。告诉他让他睡觉。”

    “她叫你先睡。”父亲温柔地给保罗重复着。

    “嗯。我要她来。”男孩子坚持着。

    莫瑞尔对楼下叫道：“他说你不来他就睡不着。”

    “哦。天哪。我马上就来。别对楼下嚷嚷。还有别的几个孩子呢！”

    莫瑞尔又进来了。蹲在炉火前，他很喜欢烤火。

    “她说她马上就来。”他说。

    他磨蹭着呆在屋里，孩子烦躁得厉害，父亲在身边似乎加重了病人的烦躁。莫瑞尔站在那儿看了一下儿子，温和地说：

    “晚安。宝贝。”

    “晚安。”保罗回答，然后翻了个身，松了一口气，终于可以独自呆一阵了。

    保罗喜欢和妈妈一起睡，不管卫生学家们怎么 说，和自己所爱的人一起睡觉总是一件令人高兴的事。那份温暖、那份心灵的依赖和安宁，以及那种肌肤相亲所引起的令人舒服的感觉，催人入眠，也可以让身心完全康复。保罗挨着她睡，就觉得病好了许多。他平时老睡不踏实，这时候也睡的很深、很熟，似乎重新获得生活的信心。

    康复阶段，保罗坐在床上，望着那些鬃毛蓬松的马在田间饲料槽地吃草。踩成黄色的雪地上撒满干草；望着那些矿工一群一群地走回来——一个个小小的黑影慢慢地穿过银向色的田野。雪地上升起一片晴雾。夜幕降临了。

    身体渐渐复原，一切显得美好而惬意。雪花突然飘到窗户玻璃上，象一只只银色的飞燕栖息在那儿。雪花很快化了，玻璃上只有滴滴雪水往下爬着。有时雪花绕着屋角飞舞，像只鸽子即刻远逝。山谷对面，一列小小的黑色列车迟疑地爬过这一大片白色世界。

    由于家庭生活拮据，孩子们为能在经济方面帮助家里而感到欣慰和自豪。夏天，安妮、保罗和亚瑟一大早就出去采蘑菇，在湿湿的草地上找啊找。偶尔，云雀在草地上飞起，那表面干净、光滑的蘑菇正好就藏在这片绿色中。如果他们能采到半磅，他们就非常高兴了，为能找到食物、为接受自然的恩赐、为能在经济帮助家里而高兴。

    除了拾麦穗 来熬牛奶麦粥以外，最大的收获，就是采黑莓了，莫瑞尔太太每周六总要买些水果和在布丁里，她特别喜欢黑莓。因此每到周末，保罗和亚瑟就找遍草丛、树林和旧矿，任何可能找到黑莓的每一个角落都去。在矿工居住比较集中的这地方，黑莓已经是非常稀罕，但保罗仍到处寻找，他喜欢到乡间田野，在树丛中搜寻。他无法忍受两手空空地去见母亲，他觉得宁愿去死，也不愿让她失望。

    “天哪，”当孩子们很晚才回来，劳累疲乏，饥肠辘辘，她会惊叫到：“你们去了哪？”

     “哦！”保罗回答：“附近没有黑莓，所以我们翻过美斯克山去找。看，妈妈！”

    她朝篮子里看了一下。

    “哟，真大！”她赞叹道。

    “超过了两镑了吧——是有两镑多吧？”

    她掂了掂篮子。

    “没错。”她有点迟疑地说。

    接着，保负又摸出一朵小花，他总是给她摘一支他认为最美的花。

    “真漂亮！”她用惊奇的语调说道，仿佛少女接受一件定情信物似的。

    这个男孩宁可走上一整天，跑很远很远的路，也不愿轻易罢休，两手空空地来见她。当时他还小，她从未意识到这一点。她是那种只盼望自己孩子赶紧 长大的女人。而且那时她最关心的是威廉。

    不过，威廉去了诺丁汉后，很少在家，母亲就把保罗当成了伴儿。保罗下意识地妒嫉威廉，威廉也同样妒嫉着保罗，但他们又是好朋友。

    莫瑞尔太太对二儿子的感情显得微妙、敏感。不像对长子那么热情。保罗每星期五下午去领钱，五个矿井的工人都是在星期五发工资，但不是单独发 给个人，每个巷道的钱都交给那个作为承包人的矿工头，由他分成一份份的工资。不是在小酒店里发，就是在办公室发。学校每星期五下午就会提前放学，为的就是让孩子们去领工钱。莫瑞尔的孩子们在工作前都领过工资，先是威廉，接着是安妮，然后是保罗。保罗一般总是在三点半动身，口袋里装着个花布包，在那个时候，每条路上都有妇女、姑娘、孩子们 和男人，一群群地往发工资的办公室走去。

    这些办公室相当不错，一幢新的红砖楼房，像一座大厦，坐落在青山尽头一片十分清洁的院子里，屋子的大厅就是等着发工资的地方。大厅是一间没什么摆设的长条形房子。地上是青砖，四周靠墙摆着椅子、矿工们就穿着他们下井穿的那身脏衣服坐在那儿，他们来的比较早，妇女和孩子通常在红砂砾路上来回遛跶。保罗总是在很仔细地看着那些花坛和大草坡，因为那里长着小小的米兰和勿忘我。那里一片嘈杂，女人戴上了节日才戴的帽子，姑娘们大声聊着天，小狗到处跑，只有四周绿色的灌木丛沉默着。

    随后里面传来喊声，“斯宾尼公园——斯宾尼公园。”所有为斯宾尼公园的矿井干活的人都进去了。轮到布雷渥矿井的人领工资时，保罗混在人群中走了进去。领工资的房间很小，横放着一条柜台，把房间分成了两部分，两人站在柜台后面——一个是布雷恩韦特先生，一个是帐房先生温特博特姆。布雷恩韦特先生个子很高，外表看起来像个威严的长者，留着小白胡子，他平时常围着一条很大的丝质围巾，即使是夏天，敞口火炉里也烧着很大的火，而且窗户也是关着的。冬天的时候，人们从外面新鲜空气里走到这儿来，似乎喉咙都要烤焦了。温特博特姆先生又矮又胖，是个秃子。他的上司常对矿工们进行家长式教育，而他却常说一些蠢话。

    屋里挤满了浑身脏乎乎的矿工，还有些回家换了衣服的男人，几个女人，一两个孩子。通常还有一条狗。保罗比较矮，因此常被挤到大人腿后靠近炉子的地方，几乎要把他烤焦了。不过，他知道领钱的顺序是根据下井的号码来叫的。

    “赫利德。”传 来布雷恩韦特先生响亮的声音，赫利德太太不作声地走上前去，领上钱，又退 到一边。

    “鲍尔——约翰·鲍尔。”

    一个男孩走到柜台边上，布雷恩韦特先生个子高，脾气大，生气地透过眼镜瞪着他。

    “约翰·鲍尔！”他又叫了一遍。

    “是我。”男孩说。

    “咦。你的鼻子和以前不一样了。”圆滑的温特博特姆先生从柜台里盯着他说。人们想起老约翰·鲍尔，都偷偷地笑了。

    “你爸爸为什么不来！”布雷恩韦特用一种威严的声音大声问。

    “他不舒服。”孩子尖声尖气地说。

    “你应该 告诉他别喝酒了。”，这个叫大掌柜的说。

    “即使他听了会一脚踢破你的肚子也没关系。”一个嘲弄的声音从孩子背后传来。

    所有的男人都大笑起 来，这位傲慢的大掌柜垂着眼睛看着下一张工资单。

    “弗雷德·皮尔金顿！”他毫无感情地叫了一声。

    布雷恩韦特是矿上的一个大股东。

    保罗知道该他了，他的心砰砰急跳着。他被推挤得靠着壁炉架，腿肚子都烫痛了。不过，他也不打算穿过这堵人墙。

    But the best time for the young children was when he made fuses. Morel fetched a sheaf of long sound wheat-straws from the attic. These he cleaned with his hand, till each one gleamed like astalk of gold, after which he cut the straws into lengths ofabout six inches, leaving, if he could, a notch at the bottomof each piece. He always had a beautifully sharp knife that couldcut a straw clean without hurting it. Then he set in the middleof the table a heap of gunpowder, a little pile of black grainsupon the white-scrubbed board. He made and trimmed the strawswhile Paul and Annie rifled and plugged them. Paul loved to seethe black grains trickle down a crack in his palm into the mouthof the straw, peppering jollily downwards till the straw was full. Then he bunged up the mouth with a bit of soap--which he got onhis thumb-nail from a pat in a saucer--and the straw was finished.
　　"Look, dad!" he said.
　　"That's right, my beauty," replied Morel, who was peculiarlylavish of endearments to his second son. Paul popped the fuse intothe powder-tin, ready for the morning, when Morel would take itto the pit, and use it to fire a shot that would blast the coal down.
　　Meantime Arthur, still fond of his father, would leanon the arm of Morel's chair and say:
　　"Tell us about down pit, daddy."
　　This Morel loved to do.
　　"Well, there's one little 'oss--we call 'im Taffy," he would begin. "An' he's a fawce 'un!"
　　Morel had a warm way of telling a story. He made one feelTaffy's cunning.
　　"He's a brown 'un," he would answer, "an' not very high. Well, he comes i' th' stall wi' a rattle, an' then yo' 'ear 'im sneeze.
　　"'Ello, Taff,' you say, 'what art sneezin' for? Bin ta'ein'some snuff?'
　　"An' 'e sneezes again. Then he slives up an' shoves 'is 'eadon yer, that cadin'.
　　"'What's want, Taff?' yo' say."
　　"And what does he?" Arthur always asked.
　　"He wants a bit o' bacca, my duckie."
　　This story of Taffy would go on interminably, and everybodyloved it.
　　Or sometimes it was a new tale.
　　"An' what dost think, my darlin'? When I went to put my coaton at snap-time, what should go runnin' up my arm but a mouse.
　　"'Hey up, theer!' I shouts.
　　"An' I wor just in time ter get 'im by th' tail."
　　"And did you kill it?"
　　"I did, for they're a nuisance. The place is fair snied wi' 'em."
　　"An' what do they live on?"
　　"The corn as the 'osses drops--an' they'll get in your pocket an'eat your snap, if you'll let 'em--no matter where yo' hing your coat--the slivin', nibblin' little nuisances, for they are."
　　These happy evenings could not take place unless Morelhad some job to do. And then he always went to bed very early,often before the children. There was nothing remaining for himto stay up for, when he had finished tinkering, and had skimmedthe headlines of the newspaper.
　　And the children felt secure when their father was in bed. They lay and talked softly a while. Then they started as the lightswent suddenly sprawling over the ceiling from the lamps that swungin the hands of the colliers tramping by outside, going to takethe nine o'clock shift. They listened to the voices of the men,imagined them dipping down into the dark valley. Sometimes theywent to the window and watched the three or four lamps growingtinier and tinier, swaying down the fields in the darkness. Then it was a joy to rush back to bed and cuddle closely inthe warmth.
　　Paul was rather a delicate boy, subject to bronchitis. The others were all quite strong; so this was another reasonfor his mother's difference in feeling for him. One day he camehome at dinner-time feeling ill. But it was not a family to makeany fuss.
　　"What's the matter with YOU?" his mother asked sharply.
　　"Nothing," he replied.
　　But he ate no dinner.
　　"If you eat no dinner, you're not going to school," she said.
　　"Why?" he asked.
　　"That's why."
　　So after dinner he lay down on the sofa, on the warm chintzcushions the children loved. Then he fell into a kind of doze. That afternoon Mrs. Morel was ironing. She listened to the small,restless noise the boy made in his throat as she worked. Again rosein her heart the old, almost weary feeling towards him. She hadnever expected him to live. And yet he had a great vitality in his young body. Perhaps it would have been a little relief to her if he had died. She always felt a mixture of anguish in her love for him.
　　He, in his semi-conscious sleep, was vaguely aware ofthe clatter of the iron on the iron-stand, of the faint thud,thud on the ironing-board. Once roused, he opened his eyes to seehis mother standing on the hearthrug with the hot iron nearher cheek, listening, as it were, to the heat. Her still face,with the mouth closed tight from suffering and disillusion andself-denial, and her nose the smallest bit on one side, and her blueeyes so young, quick, and warm, made his heart contract with love. When she was quiet, so, she looked brave and rich with life, but asif she had been done out of her rights. It hurt the boy keenly,this feeling about her that she had never had her life's fulfilment: and his own incapability to make up to her hurt him with a sense ofimpotence, yet made him patiently dogged inside. It was his childish aim.
　　She spat on the iron, and a little ball of spit bounded,raced off the dark, glossy surface. Then, kneeling, she rubbedthe iron on the sack lining of the hearthrug vigorously. She waswarm in the ruddy firelight. Paul loved the way she crouchedand put her head on one side. Her movements were light and quick. It was always a pleasure to watch her. Nothing she ever did,no movement she ever made, could have been found fault with byher children. The room was warm and full of the scent of hot linen. Later on the clergyman came and talked softly with her.
　　Paul was laid up with an attack of bronchitis. He did notmind much. What happened happened, and it was no good kickingagainst the pricks. He loved the evenings, after eight o'clock,when the light was put out, and he could watch the fire-flames springover the darkness of the walls and ceiling; could watch huge shadowswaving and tossing, till the room seemed full of men who battled silently.
　　On retiring to bed, the father would come into the sickroom. He was always very gentle if anyone were ill. But he disturbed theatmosphere for the boy.
　　"Are ter asleep, my darlin'?" Morel asked softly.
　　"No; is my mother comin'?"
　　"She's just finishin' foldin' the clothes. Do you want anything?" Morel rarely "thee'd" his son.
　　"I don't want nothing. But how long will she be?"
　　"Not long, my duckie."
　　The father waited undecidedly on the hearthrug for a momentor two. He felt his son did not want him. Then he went to the topof the stairs and said to his wife:
　　"This childt's axin' for thee; how long art goin' to be?"
　　"Until I've finished, good gracious! Tell him to go to sleep."
　　"She says you're to go to sleep," the father repeated gentlyto Paul.
　　"Well, I want HER to come," insisted the boy.
　　"He says he can't go off till you come," Morel called downstairs.
　　"Eh, dear! I shan't be long. And do stop shouting downstairs. There's the other children---"
　　Then Morel came again and crouched before the bedroom fire. He loved a fire dearly.
　　"She says she won't be long," he said.
　　He loitered about indefinitely. The boy began to get feverishwith irritation. His father's presence seemed to aggravate allhis sick impatience. At last Morel, after having stood lookingat his son awhile, said softly:
　　"Good-night, my darling."
　　"Good-night," Paul replied, turning round in relief to be alone.
　　Paul loved to sleep with his mother. Sleep is still most perfect,in spite of hygienists, when it is shared with a beloved. The warmth, the security and peace of soul, the utter comfort fromthe touch of the other, knits the sleep, so that it takes the bodyand soul completely in its healing. Paul lay against her and slept,and got better; whilst she, always a bad sleeper, fell later oninto a profound sleep that seemed to give her faith.
　　In convalescence he would sit up in bed, see the fluffyhorses feeding at the troughs in the field, scattering their hayon the trodden yellow snow; watch the miners troop home--small,black figures trailing slowly in gangs across the white field. Then the night came up in dark blue vapour from the snow.
　　In convalescence everything was wonderful. The snowflakes,suddenly arriving on the window-pane, clung there a moment like swallows,then were gone, and a drop of water was crawling down the glass. The snowflakes whirled round the corner of the house,like pigeons dashing by. Away across the valley the little blacktrain crawled doubtfully over the great whiteness.
　　While they were so poor, the children were delighted if theycould do anything to help economically. Annie and Paul and Arthurwent out early in the morning, in summer, looking for mushrooms,hunting through the wet grass, from which the larks were rising,for the white-skinned, wonderful naked bodies crouched secretly inthe green. And if they got half a pound they felt exceedingly happy: there was the joy of finding something, the joy of accepting somethingstraight from the hand of Nature, and the joy of contributing tothe family exchequer.
　　But the most important harvest, after gleaning for frumenty,was the blackberries. Mrs. Morel must buy fruit for puddings onthe Saturdays; also she liked blackberries. So Paul and Arthur scouredthe coppices and woods and old quarries, so long as a blackberrywas to be found, every week-end going on their search. In thatregion of mining villages blackberries became a comparative rarity. But Paul hunted far and wide. He loved being out in the country,among the bushes. But he also could not bear to go home to hismother empty. That, he felt, would disappoint her, and he wouldhave died rather.
　　"Good gracious!" she would exclaim as the lads came in,late, and tired to death, and hungry, "wherever have you been?"
　　"Well," replied Paul, "there wasn't any, so we went overMisk Hills. And look here, our mother!"
　　She peeped into the basket.
　　"Now, those are fine ones!" she exclaimed.
　　"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 herone spray, the best he could find.
　　"Pretty!" she said, in a curious tone, of a woman acceptinga love-token.
　　The boy walked all day, went miles and miles, rather thanown himself beaten and come home to her empty-handed. She neverrealised this, whilst he was young. She was a woman who waitedfor her children to grow up. And William occupied her chiefly.
　　But when William went to Nottingham, and was not so much athome, the mother made a companion of Paul. The latter wasunconsciously 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 rulethat Paul should fetch the money on Friday afternoons. The colliersof 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 thepublic-house or in his own home. So that the children couldfetch the money, school closed early on Friday afternoons. Each of the Morel children--William, then Annie, then Paul--had fetchedthe money on Friday afternoons, until they went themselves to work. Paul used to set off at half-past three, with a little calico bagin his pocket. Down all the paths, women, girls, children, and menwere 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 ofGreenhill Lane. The waiting-room was the hall, a long, bare roompaved 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. Therewas 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 timefor Bretty to be paid, Paul went in among the crowd. The pay-roomwas 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 sternpatriarch in appearance, having a rather thin white beard. He was usually muffled in an enormous silk neckerchief, and rightup to the hot summer a huge fire burned in the open grate. No window was open. Sometimes in winter the air scorched the throatsof the people, coming in from the freshness. Mr. Winterbottomwas rather small and fat, and very bald. He made remarks that werenot witty, whilst his chief launched forth patriarchal admonitionsagainst the colliers.
　　The room was crowded with miners in their pit-dirt, men who hadbeen home and changed, and women, and one or two children, and usuallya dog. Paul was quite small, so it was often his fate to be jammedbehind 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 glossyMr. 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 thegreat cashier.
　　"An' niver mind if he puts his foot through yer," said a mockingvoice from behind.
　　All the men laughed. The large and important cashier lookeddown 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.