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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.


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