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He hated the little man, who made such a clod of him. Mr. Jordan looked
at the pale, stupid, defiant boy, then at the mother, who sat quiet and
with that peculiar shut-off look of the poor who have to depend on the
favour of others.
"And when could he come?" he asked.
"Well," said Mrs. Morel, "as soon as you wish. He has finished school
now."
"He would live in Bestwood?"
"Yes; but he could be in--at the station--at quarter to eight."
"H'm!"
It ended by Paul's being engaged as junior spiral clerk at eight
shillings a week. The boy did not open his mouth to say another word,
after having insisted that "doigts" meant "fingers". He followed his
mother down the stairs. She looked at him with her bright blue eyes full
of love and joy.
"I think you'll like it," she said.
"'Doigts' does mean 'fingers', mother, and it was the writing. I
couldn't read the writing."
"Never mind, my boy. I'm sure he'll be all right, and you won't see much
of him. Wasn't that first young fellow nice? I'm sure you'll like them.


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