Mrs.
Morel attended to her baking.
"Shut that doo-er!" bawled Morel furiously.
Annie banged it behind her, and was gone.
"If tha oppens it again while I'm weshin' me, I'll ma'e thy jaw rattle," he threatened from the midst of his soap-suds.

Paul and the mother frowned to hear him.
Presently he came running out of the scullery, with the soapy water dripping from him, dithering with cold.
"Oh, my sirs!" he said.

"Wheer's my towel ?" It was hung on a chair to warm before the fire, otherwise he would have bullied and blustered.

He squatted on his heels before the hot baking-fire to dry himself.
"F-ff-f!" he went, pretending to shudder with cold.
"Goodness, man, don't be such a kid!" said Mrs.Morel.

"It's NOT cold." "Thee strip thysen stark nak'd to wesh thy flesh i' that scullery," said the miner, as he rubbed his hair; "nowt b'r a ice-'ouse!" "And I shouldn't make that fuss," replied his wife.
"No, tha'd drop down stiff, as dead as a door-knob, wi' thy nesh sides." "Why is a door-knob deader than anything else ?" asked Paul, curious.
"Eh, I dunno; that's what they say," replied his father.