Mr.Winterbottom was rather small and fat, and very bald.

He made remarks that were not witty, whilst his chief launched forth patriarchal admonitions against the colliers.
The room was crowded with miners in their pit-dirt, men who had been home and changed, and women, and one or two children, and usually a dog.
Paul was quite small, so it was often his fate to be jammed behind the legs of the men, near the fire which scorched him.

He knew the order of the names--they went according to stall number.
"Holliday," came the ringing voice of Mr.Braithwaite.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.