“Thy feyther? Is he down? What’s his name?”
“Mr. Morel.”
“What, Walter? Is owt amiss?”
“He’s got to go to London.”
The man went to the telephone and rang up the bottom office.
“Walter Morel’s wanted. Number 42, Hard. Summat’s amiss; there’s his lad here.”
Then he turned round to Paul.
“He’ll be up in a few minutes,” he said.
Paul wandered out to the pit-top. He watched the chair come up, with its waggon of coal. The great iron cage sank back on its rest, a full carfle was hauled off, an empty tram run on to the chair, a bell ting’ed somewhere, the chair heaved, then dropped like a stone.
Paul did not realize William was dead; it was impossible, with such a bustle going on. The puller-off swung the small truck on to the turn-table, another man ran with it along the bank down the curving lines.
“And William is dead, and my mother’s in London, and what will she be doing?” the boy asked himself, as if it were a conundrum.
He watched chair after chair come up, and still no father. At last, standing beside a waggon, a man’s form! The chair sank on its rests, Morel stepped off. He was slightly lame from an accident.
“Is it thee, Paul? Is ’e worse?”
“You’ve got to go to London.”
The two walked off the pit-bank, where men were watching curiously. As they came out and went along the railway, with the sunny autumn field on one side and a wall of trucks on the other, Morel said in a frightened voice:
“ ’E’s niver gone, child?”
“Yes.”
“When wor’t?”
The miner’s voice was terrified.
“Last night. We had a telegram from my mother.”
Morel walked on a few strides, then leaned up against a truck side, his hand over his eyes. He was not crying. Paul stood looking round, waiting. On the weighing-machine a truck trundled slowly. Paul saw everything, except his father leaning against the truck as if he were tired.
Morel had only once before been to London. He set off, scared and peaked, to help his wife. That was on Tuesday.
