"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.
He knew what his news would mean to Potch. He knew the solid flesh of the man would grow radiant. Michael had seen that subtle glow transfuse him when they talked of Sophie. He pulled himself together and determined to speak.
Dropping his pick to take a spell, Michael pulled his pipe from the belt round his trousers, relighted the ashes in its bowl, and sat on the floor of the mine. Potch also stopped work. He leaned his pick against the rock beside him, and threw back his shoulders.
Potch nodded, sweeping the drips from his head and neck.
"Don't know," he said. "He wasn't about when I came away."
Potch wrung his cap, shook it out, and fitted it on his head again.
"He was showin' all right at Newton's last night," he said. "I'd a bit of a business getting him home."
"Go on," Michael replied absent-mindedly. "Potch ..." he he added, and stopped to listen.