less. What was he but a pair of hands, and a rather frail body in a shabby suit of clothes? He thought of his wounds, wounds of the flesh and of the spirit.
He met Kit's smile.
"I say, pater, is there a river at Staunton"
"A small one."
He was realizing that the niche at Mr. Verity's might also be a very small one, but at least it was a niche in the social precipice.
Sorrell and son arrived at Staunton about three in the afternoon.
Amid the clatter of empty milk cans Sorrell addressed himself to the porter who was removing the brown portmanteau from the luggage van, but the porter either did not or would not trouble to hear him.
"Do you mind being careful with that? The straps"
The porter swung the portmanteau out of the van and let it fall with a full flop upon the platform, and like Judas it burst asunder, and extruded a portion of its contents upon the asphalt.
Sorrell looked sad.
"You shouldn't have done that, you know."
It was a bad omen, and he bent down to recover a boot, a clothes brush and a tobacco tin, and to stuff the crumpled nakedness of an unwashed shirt back into the gaping interior. The porter, full of sudden compunction, bent down to help him.
"I'll find you a bit of cord. The stitching of the straps must have been rotten."
Christopher stood and looked on while Sorrell and the porter applied first aid to their piece of luggage. The incident had touched the boy; he had seen that look in his father's eyes, and he felt—somehow—that it was not the portmanteau but his father who had gaped and betrayed a whole clutter of painful and shabby problems. Poor old pater! But his boy's tenderness was touched with pride.
Sorrell was putting the porter's contrition to other uses.
