Page 111 - sons-and-lovers

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 be-
gan 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

110 Sons and Lovers