Page 50 - sons-and-lovers

to go up, talking noisily. Morel gave his answers short and
disagreeable.
‘It’s rainin’, Sorry,’ said old Giles, who had had the news
from the top.
Morel found one comfort. He had his old umbrella,
which he loved, in the lamp cabin. At last he took his stand
on the chair, and was at the top in a moment. Then he hand-
ed in his lamp and got his umbrella, which he had bought
at an auction for one-and-six. He stood on the edge of the
pit-bank for a moment, looking out over the fields; grey rain
was falling. The trucks stood full of wet, bright coal. Water
ran down the sides of the waggons, over the white ‘C.W. and
Co.’. Colliers, walking indifferent to the rain, were stream-
ing down the line and up the field, a grey, dismal host. Morel
put up his umbrella, and took pleasure from the peppering
of the drops thereon.
All along the road to Bestwood the miners tramped, wet
and grey and dirty, but their red mouths talking with ani-
mation. Morel also walked with a gang, but he said nothing.
He frowned peevishly as he went. Many men passed into
the Prince of Wales or into Ellen’s. Morel, feeling sufficient-
ly disagreeable to resist temptation, trudged along under
the dripping trees that overhung the park wall, and down
the mud of Greenhill Lane.
Mrs. Morel lay in bed, listening to the rain, and the feet
of the colliers from Minton, their voices, and the bang, bang
of the gates as they went through the stile up the field.
‘There’s some herb beer behind the pantry door,’ she said.
‘Th’ master’ll want a drink, if he doesn’t stop.’