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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.


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