Potch was at work on a slab of shin-cracker when Michael went down into the mine. He straightened and looked up as Michael came to a standstill near him. His face was dripping, and his little white cap, stained with red earth, was wet with sweat. He had been slogging to get through the belt of hard, white stone near the new colours before Michael appeared.
"Get him?" he asked.
Michael had almost forgotten Paul.
"No," he said, switching his thoughts from Sophie.
"What's up?" Potch asked quickly, perceiving something unusual in Michael's expression.
Michael wanted to tell him—this was a big thing for Potch, he knew—and yet he could not bring his news to expression. It caught him by the throat. He would have to wait until he could say the thing decently, he told himself. He knew what joy it would give Potch.
"Nothing," he said, before he realised what he had said.
But he promised himself that in a few minutes he would tell Potch. He would break the news to him. Michael felt as though he were the guardian of some sacred treasure which he was afraid to give a glimpse of for fear of dazzling the beholder.
The concern went from Potch's face as quickly and vividly as it had come. He knew that Michael had reserves from him, and he was afraid of having trespassed on them by asking for information which Michael did not volunteer. He had been betrayed into the query by the stirred and happy look on Michael's face. Only rarely had he seen Michael look like that. Potch's thought flashed to Sophie—Michael must have some good news of her, he guessed, and knew Michael would pass it on to him in his own time.
He turned to his work again, and Michael took up his pick. Potch's steady slinging at the shin-cracker began again. Michael reproached himself as the minutes went by for what he was keeping from Potch.