Robert Michael Ballantyne
Post Haste
“O yes, I do remember something,” cried Tottie. “I remember when you fell into the horse-pond, and came out dripping, and covered from head to foot with mud and weeds!”
She followed up this remark with a merry laugh, which was suddenly checked by a shrill and terrible cry from the neighbouring field.
In order to account for this cry, we must state that Miss Lillycrop, desirous of acquiring an appetite for dinner by means of a short walk, left Rosebud Cottage and made for the dell, in which she expected to meet May Maylands and her companions. Taking a short cut, she crossed a field. Short cuts are frequently dangerous. It proved so in the present instance. The field she had invaded was the private preserve of an old bull with a sour temper.
Beholding a female, he lowered his horrid head, cocked his tail, and made at her. This it was that drew from poor Miss Lillycrop a yell such as she had not uttered since the days of infancy.
Phil Maylands was swift to act at all times of emergency. He vaulted the fence of the field, and rushed at Miss Lillycrop as if he himself had been a bull of Bashan, and meant to try his hand at tossing her. Not an idea had Phil as to what he meant to do. All he knew was that he had to rush to the rescue! Between Phil and the bull the poor lady seemed to stand a bad chance.
Not a whit less active or prompt was Peter Pax, but Peter had apparently more of method in his madness than Phil, for he wrenched up a stout stake in his passage over the fence.
“Lie down! lie down! O lie down!” shouted Phil in agony, for he saw that the brute was quickly overtaking its victim.
Poor Miss Lillycrop was beyond all power of self-control. She could only fly. Fortunately a hole in the field came to her rescue. She put her foot into it and fell flat down. The bull passed right over her, and came face to face with Phil, as it pulled up, partly in surprise, no doubt, at the sudden disappearance of Miss Lillycrop and at the sudden appearance of a new foe. Before it recovered from its surprise little Pax brought the paling down on its nose with such a whack that it absolutely sneezed—or something like it—then, roaring, rushed at Pax.
As if he had been a trained matador, Pax leaped aside, and brought the paling down again on the bull’s head with a smash that knocked it all to splinters.
“Don’t dodge it,” shouted Phil, “draw it away from her!”
Pax understood at once. Tempting the bull to charge him again, he ran off to the other side of the field like a greyhound, followed by the foaming enemy.
Meanwhile Phil essayed to lift Miss Lillycrop, who had swooned, on his shoulders. Fortunately she was light. Still, it was no easy matter to get her limp form into his arms. With a desperate effort he got her on his knee; with an inelegant hitch he sent her across his shoulder, where she hung like a limp bolster, as he made for the fence. May and Tottie stood there rooted to the earth in horror. To walk on uneven ground with such a burden was bad enough, but Phil had to run. How he did it he never could tell, but he reached the fence at last, and shot Miss Lillycrop over into the arms of her friends, and all three were sent headlong down into a thick bush.
Phil turned at once to run to the aid of Pax, but there was no occasion to do so. That youth had reached and leaped the fence like an acrobat, and was now standing on the other side of it making faces at the bull, calling it names, and insulting it with speeches of the most refined insolence, by way of relieving his feelings and expressing his satisfaction.
Chapter Twenty Seven.
The Greatest Battle of All
Time advanced apace, and wrought many of those innumerable changes in the fortunes of the human race for which Time is famous.
Among other things it brought Sir James Clubley to the bird-shop of Messrs Blurt one Christmas eve.
“My dear sir,” said Sir James to Mr Enoch in the back shop, through the half-closed door of which the owl could be seen gazing solemnly at the pelican of the wilderness, “I have called to ask whether you happen to have heard anything of young Aspel of late?”
“Nothing whatever,” replied Mr Blurt, with a sad shake of his head. “Since Bones died—the man, you know, with whom he lived—he has removed to some new abode, and no one ever hears or sees anything of him, except Mrs Bones. He visits her occasionally (as I believe you are aware), but refuses to give her his address. She says, however, that he has given up drink—that the dying words of her husband had affected him very deeply. God grant it may be so, for I love the youth.”
“I join your prayer, Mr Blurt,” said Sir James, who was slightly, though perhaps unconsciously, pompous in his manner. “My acquaintance with him has been slight—in fact only two letters have passed between us—but I entertained a strong regard for his father, who in schoolboy days saved my life. In after years he acquired that passion for spirits which his son seems to have inherited, and, giving up all his old friends, went to live on a remote farm in the west of Ireland.”
Sir James spoke slowly and low, as if reflectively, with his eyes fixed on the ground.
“In one of the letters to which I have referred,” he continued, looking up, “young Aspel admitted that he had fallen, and expressed regret in a few words, which were evidently sincere, but he firmly, though quite politely, declined assistance, and wound up with brief yet hearty thanks for what he called my kind intentions, and especially for my expressions of regard for his late father, who, he said, had been worthy of my highest esteem.”
“He’s a strange character;—but how did you manage to get a letter conveyed to him?” asked Mr Blurt.
“Through Mrs Bones. You are aware, I think, that a considerable time ago I set a detective to find out his whereabouts—”
“How strange! So did I,” said Mr Blurt.
“Indeed!” exclaimed Sir James. “Well, this man happened by a strange coincidence to be engaged in unravelling a mystery about a lost little dog, which after many failures led him to the discovery of Abel Bones as being a burglar who was wanted. Poor Bones happened at the time of his visit to be called before a higher tribunal. He was dying. Aspel was at his bedside, and the detective easily recognised him as the youth of whom he had been so long in search. I sent my letter by the detective to Mrs Bones, who gave it to Aspel. His reply came, of course, through the ordinary channel—the post.”
“And what do you now propose doing?” asked Mr Blurt.
“I think of going to see Philip Maylands, who, I am given to understand by Miss Lillycrop, was once an intimate friend of Aspel. Do you happen to know his address?”
“Yes, he lives with his mother now, but it’s of no use your going to his home to-night. You are aware that this is Christmas eve, and all the officials of the Post-Office will be unusually busy. They often work night and day at this season.”
“Then I will go direct to the General Post-Office. Perhaps I shall be able to exchange a few words with him there,” said Sir James, rising.
At that moment there burst upon the ears of the visitor a peculiar squall, which seemed to call forth a bland and beaming smile on the glad countenance of Mr Blurt. Sir James looked at him inquiringly.
“My babe, Sir James,” said Mr Blurt, with ill-concealed pride; “since last I had the pleasure of seeing you I have been married. Ah! Sir James, ‘it is not good for man to be alone.’ That is a truth with which I was but feebly impressed until I came to understand the blessedness of the wedded state. Words cannot—”
He was cut short by a sudden crash of something overhead, and a bump, followed by a squall of unwonted vehemence. The squall was simultaneous with the ringing of a handbell, and was followed by the cry of a soft entreating voice roused to excitation.
“Oh! Nockie dear”—thus the former Miss Gentle named her spouse,—“come here, quick—oh! do be quick! Baby’s fallen and Fred’s ringing.”
The truth of this was corroborated by another furious ring by the invalid, which mingled with the recurring squalls, and was increased by the noisy and pertinacious clatter of the cracked bell that announced the opening of the shop-door.
“Zounds! Mrs Murridge, mind the shop!—Good-bye, Sir James. Excuse—. Coming, dear!”
Mr Blurt, glaring as he clutched his scant side locks, dashed up-stairs with the agility of a schoolboy.
Sir James Clubley, who was a bachelor, left the place with a quiet smile, and proceeded, at what we may style a reflective pace, towards the City.
But Sir James might have saved himself the trouble. It was, as we have said, Christmas eve, and he might as well have demanded audience of a soldier in the heat of battle as of a Post-Office official on that trying night of the year.
In modern times the tendency of the human race (the British part of it at least) to indulge in social intercourse by letter and otherwise at the Christmas season has been on the increase, and, since the introduction of cheap postage, it has created a pressure on the Post-Office which has taxed its powers very considerably. The advent of halfpenny post-cards, and especially the invention of Christmas-card and packet correspondence, with the various facilities which have of late years been afforded to the public by the Department, have created such a mass of inter-communication throughout the kingdom, that Christmas has now to be regularly prepared for as a great field-day, or rather a grand campaign extending over several days. Well-planned arrangements have to be made beforehand. Contingencies and possibilities have to be weighed and considered. All the forces of the Department have to be called out, or rather called in. Provisions—actual food, of exceptional kind and quantity—have to be provided, and every man, boy, nerve, muscle, eye, hand, brain, and spirit, has to be taxed to the very uttermost to prevent defeat.
On the particular year of which we write, symptoms of the coming struggle began to be felt before Christmas eve. On the morning of the 23rd, the enemy—if we may so style the letters—began to come in like a flood, and the whole of that day the duty was most pressing, although the reserve forces had been called into action. On the morning of the 24th the strain was so severe that few men could be allowed to leave the Office, though some of them had been at work for eighteen hours. During the whole of the 24th the flood was at its height. Every available man in the other branches whose services could be utilised was pressed into the service of the Circulation Department at St. Martin’s-le-Grand.
The great mouth under the portico was fed with a right royal feast that day—worthy of the Christmas season! The subsidiary mouths elsewhere were fed with similar liberality. Through these, letters, cards, packets, parcels, poured, rushed, leaped, roared into the great sorting-hall. Floods is a feeble word; a Highland spate is but a wishy-washy figure wherewith to represent the deluge. A bee-hive, an ant-hill, were weak comparisons. Nearly two thousand men energised—body, soul, and spirit—in that hall that Christmas-tide, and an aggregate of fifteen thousand eight hundred and seventy-nine hours’ work was accomplished by them. They faced, stamped, sorted, carried, bundled, tied, bagged, and sealed without a moment’s intermission for two days and two nights continuously. It was a great, a tremendous battle! The easy-going public outside knew and cared little or nothing about the conflict which themselves had caused. Letters were heaped on the tables and strewed on the floors. Letters were carried in baskets, in bags, in sacks, and poured out like water. The men and boys absolutely swam in letters. Eager activity—but no blind haste—was characteristic of the gallant two thousand. They felt that the honour of Her Majesty’s mails depended on their devotion, and that was, no doubt, dearer to them than life! So the first day wore on, and the warriors stood their ground and kept the enemy at bay.
As the evening of the 24th drew on apace, and the ordinary pressure of the evening mail began to be added to the extraordinary pressure of the day, the real tug of war began! The demand for extra service throughout the country began to exercise a reflex influence on the great centre. Mails came from the country in some instances with the letters unsorted, thus increasing the difficulties of the situation. The struggle was all the more severe that preparations for the night despatch were begun with a jaded force, some of the men having already been twenty-six and twenty-eight hours at work. Moreover, frost and fog prevailed at the time, and that not only delayed trains and the arrival of mails, but penetrated the building so that the labour was performed in a depressing atmosphere. To meet the emergency, at least in part, the despatch of the usual eight o’clock mail was delayed for that night fifty minutes. As in actual war an hour’s delay may be fraught with tremendous issues for good or ill, so this brief postal delay permitted the despatch of an enormous amount of correspondence that would have otherwise been left over to the following day.
Usually the despatch of the evening mail leaves the vast sorting-hall in serene repose, with clean and empty tables; but on the night of this great battle—which has to be re-fought every Christmas—the embarrassment did not cease with the despatch of the evening mail. Correspondence continued to flow on in as great a volume as before.
Squads of the warriors, however, withdrew at intervals from the fight, to refresh themselves in the various kitchens of the basement.
As we have said elsewhere, the members of the Post-Office provide their own food, and there are caterers on the premises who enable them to do so without leaving the Office while on duty. But on this occasion extra and substantial food—meat, bread, tea, coffee, and cocoa—were provided by the Department at its own cost, besides which the men were liberally and deservedly remunerated for the whole severe and extra duty.
It chanced that Phil Maylands and Peter Pax retired from the battle about the same time; and met in the sorters’ kitchen.
“Well, old fellow,” said Phil, who was calm and steady but looking fagged, to Pax, who was dishevelled about the head and dress and somewhat roused by the exciting as well as fatiguing nature of the work,—“Well, old fellow; tough work, isn’t it?”
“Tough? It’s glorious!” said Pax, seating himself enthusiastically at the table; “I’m proud of my country—proud of the GPO—proud… I say, is that beef that I see before me? Hand me a dagger—no, a knife will do. You cut it, Phil, and help me first, ’cause I’m little.”
While Phil was cutting the meat Pax rested his head on the table, and was asleep almost instantly.
“Hallo, Pax! rouse yourself!” cried Phil, giving his comrade a hearty slap on the shoulder; “up, lad, and eat—the battle still rages; no rest allowed till victory is ours.”
His little friend set to work at once, and the food and coffee soon banished drowsiness. A number of men were similarly engaged around him. But they did not feast long. Like giants refreshed, they returned to the scene of combat, while others took their places.
And what a scene it was! Despite all that had been done, the hall might be described as waist-deep in letters! The fever had not yet abated. It seemed as if the whole world had concentrated its literary produce into one mighty avalanche on St. Martin’s-le-Grand!
The midnight mails worked off some of this, but a large portion of it still remained to be disposed of on Christmas-day, together with what the mails brought in on that morning, but the officers worked so well that between nine and ten on Christmas morning all were allowed to go home, with the exception of twenty-six, who volunteered to remain.
Thus the battle was fought and won; the tables were cleared; the fever was subdued; and the pulse of the Post-Office was reduced to its normal condition.
Think on these things, reader, when next you read the little card that wishes you “a merry Christmas!”
Some of the facts and results connected with this great battle are worth recording. The number of extra bags and sacks received at the chief office altogether on that occasion was 1401. The number of extra bags despatched was 2269; all of them were crammed full to their mouths, and the aggregate weight of these extra mails was 197 tons.
To convey these from the chief office 176 extra vans were used, and 75 extra carts. As nearly as could be estimated, the number of extra letters and packets was not less than four millions. There was a vast increase, also, in the registered correspondence—to the extent of thirty-one thousand in excess of the ordinary numbers.
During these three days some of the men did nearly thirty hours’ extra duty, besides performing their ordinary work. The continuous attendance at the office of some of them varied from forty to forty-eight hours, and the total increase to the revenue on that auspicious but trying occasion was estimated to be about twenty thousand pounds sterling!
Phil Maylands and Peter Pax were among those who had volunteered to remain after the press of work was over; and it was not till the afternoon of Christmas-day that they finally, and simultaneously, plunged into their beds and oblivion.
Chapter Twenty Eight.
The Storming of Rocky Cottage and Other Matters
Years flew by. The daily routine at St. Martin’s-le-Grand went on; the mails departed and came in with unvarying regularity; in the working of the vast machine good men and boys rose to the surface, and bad ones went down. Among the former were Phil Maylands and Peter Pax.
The latter, in course of time, rose to the rank of Inspector, in which condition he gradually developed a pretty pair of brown whiskers and a wonderful capacity for the performance of duty. He also rose to the altitude of five feet six inches, at which point he stuck fast, and continued the process of increase laterally. Pax, however, could not become reconciled to city life. He did his work cheerfully and with all his might, because it was his nature so to do, but he buoyed up his spirits—so he was wont to say—by fixing his eye on the Postmaster-Generalship and a suburban villa on the Thames.
His friend Phil, on the contrary, was quite pleased with city life, and devoted himself with such untiring energy to his work, and to his own education, that he came ere long to be noted as the youth who knew everything. Faults he had, undoubtedly, and his firm, severe way of expressing his opinions raised him a few enemies in the Post-Office, but he attained at last to the condition of being so useful and so trustworthy as to make men feel that he was almost indispensable. They felt as if they could not get on without him.
When man or boy comes to this point, success is inevitable. Phil soon became a favourite with the heads of departments. The Chief of the Post-Office himself at last came to hear of him, and, finding that he was more than capable of passing the requisite examinations, he raised him from the ranks and made him a clerk in the Savings-Bank Department.
Having attained to this position, with a good salary for a single man, and a prospect of a steady rise, Phil set about the accomplishment of the darling wish of his heart. He obtained leave of absence, went over to the west of Ireland, and took Rocky Cottage by storm.
“Mother dear,” he said, almost before he had sat down, “I’m promoted. I’m rich—comparatively. I’ve taken a house—a small house—at Nottinghill, and your room in it is ready for you; so pack up at once, for we leave this to-morrow afternoon.”
“You jest, Phil.”
“I’m in earnest, mother.”
“But it is impossible,” said the good lady, looking anxiously round; “I cannot pack up on so short notice. And the furniture—”
“It’s all arranged, mother,” said Phil, stroking the curls of a strapping boy who no longer went by the name of Baby, but was familiarly known as Jim. “Being aware of your desire to get rid of the furniture, I have arranged with a man in Howlin’ Cove to take it at a valuation. He comes out to value it this evening, so you’ve nothing to do but pack up your trunks. With the aid of Madge and Jim we’ll manage that in no time.”
“Sure we’ll do it in less than no time!” cried Jim, who was a true son of Erin.
“You see, mother,” continued Phil, “my leave extends only to four days. I have therefore ordered a coach—a sort of Noah’s Ark—the biggest thing I could hire at the Cove—to take you and all your belongings to the railway tomorrow evening. We’ll travel all night, and so get to London on Thursday. May expects you. May and I have settled it all, so you needn’t look thunderstruck. If I hadn’t known for certain that you’d be glad to come and live with us I would not have arranged it at all. If I had not known equally well that your fluttering bird of a heart would have been totally upset at the prospect, I would have consulted you beforehand. As it is, the die is cast. Your fate is fixed. Nothing can reverse the decrees that have gone forth, so it’s as well to make your mind easy and go to work.”
Mrs Maylands wisely submitted. Three days afterwards she found herself in London, in a very small but charming cottage in an out-of-the-way corner of Nottinghill.
It was a perfect bijou of a cottage; very small—only two stories—with ceilings that a tall man could touch, and a trellis-work porch at the front door, and a little garden all to itself, and an ivy wall that shut out the curious public, but did not interfere with the sky, a patch of which gleamed through between two great palatial residences hard by, like a benignant eye.
“This is our new home, mother, and we have got it at such a low rent from Sir James Clubley, our landlord, that your income, coupled with May’s salary and mine, will enable us easily to make the two ends meet, if we manage economically.”
As he spoke, Phil seized the poker, and, with an utter disregard of the high price of coal, caused the fire to roar joyously up the chimney.
It was a brilliant winter day. White gems sparkled on the branches of the trees, and Jim was already commencing that course of romping which had, up to that date, strewn his path through life with wreck and ruin. Madge was investigating the capabilities of cupboards and larders, under the care of a small maid-of-all-work.
“May won’t be home till after dark,” said Phil. “She could not get away from duty to meet us. I shall telegraph to her that we have arrived, and that I shall meet her under the portico of the Post-Office and fetch her home this evening.”
“It is an amazing thing that telegraph! To think that one can send messages and make appointments so quickly!” remarked Mrs Maylands.
“Why, mother,” said Phil, with a laugh, “that is nothing to what can be—and is—done with it every day. I have a friend in the City who does a great part of his business with India by telegraph. The charge is four shillings and sixpence a word, and if a word has more than ten letters it is charged as two words. A registered address also costs a guinea, so, you see, telegraphic correspondence with India is expensive. Business men have therefore fallen on the plan of writing out lists of words, each of which means a longish sentence. This plan is so thoroughly carried out that books like thick dictionaries are now printed and regularly used.—What would you think, now, of ‘Obstinate Kangaroo’ for a message?”
“I would think it nonsense, Phil.”
“Nevertheless, mother, it covers sense. A Quebec timber-merchant telegraphed these identical words the other day to a friend of mine, and when the friend turned up the words ‘obstinate kangaroo’ in his corresponding code, he found the translation to be, ‘Demand is improving for Ohio or Michigan white oak (planks), 16 inches and upwards.’”
“You don’t say so!” exclaimed Mrs Maylands, raising both hands and eyebrows.
“Yes I do, mother, and in my City friend’s code the word ‘Blazing’ means ‘Quality is approved,’ while ‘Blissful’ signifies ‘What is the smallest quantity you require?’”
“Do you mean, Phil,” asked the widow, with a perplexed look, “that if I were a man of business, and wanted to ask a customer in India what was the smallest quantity of a thing he required, I should have to telegraph only the word ‘Blissful’?”
“Only that, mother. A blissful state of brevity to have come to, isn’t it? And some of the telegraph clerks fall into queer mistakes, too, owing to their ignorance. One of the rules is that the words sent must be bona fide words—not a mere unmeaning arrangement of letters. My City friend told me that on three different occasions telegrams of his were refused, because the words were not known, yet each of them was taken from the Bible! One of the telegrams was, ‘Blastus unholy.’”
“Oh, Phil, how can you!” exclaimed Mrs Maylands, with a shocked look.
“Well, mother, what’s wrong in that?”
“You know very well, Phil, that ‘Blast us’ is not in the Bible at all, and that it is a very awful species of slang swearing.”
“So the telegraph clerk thought,” returned Phil, “but when my City friend pointed out that Blastus was ‘the king’s chamberlain’ they were obliged to let the telegram go. ‘Blastus’ stands for ‘superior quality,’ and ‘unholy’ for ‘Offer is open for three days from time of despatch of telegram.’ Using the same code, if a merchant wants to ask a Calcutta friend the question—‘How is the coming crop as regards extent and appearance?’ he merely telegraphs the word ‘Hamlet.’ If he wishes to say ‘Bills of lading go forward by this mail, Invoices will follow,’ he has only to telegraph ‘Heretic.’ For the most part, the compilers of these codes seem to have used the words arbitrarily, for the word ‘Ellwood’ has no visible connection with the words ‘Blue Velvet,’ which it represents; neither is there connection between ‘Doves’ and ‘French Brandy,’ nor between ‘Collapse’ and ‘Scotch Coals,’ though there does seem to have been a gleam of significance when they fixed on ‘Downward’ to represent ‘Irish Whisky.’”
“That’s true, Phil, there was a touch of sense there, if not sarcasm,” said the widow heartily, for she was an abhorrer of strong drink!
“Then, mother, think of the saving of time accomplished by the telegraph. In days not long past, if a merchant in India wished to transact business with another in New York he had to write a letter which took months to make the voyage out, and his correspondent had to write a reply which took about the same time to return. Now, not long ago the head of an Indian house wanted a ship-load of something (I forget what) from New York. He telegraphed a few unconnected words to my City friend in London. If there had been no obstruction of any kind the message could have been flashed from Bombay to London in a few seconds; as it was, it made the journey in three hours. My friend, who received it in the forenoon, telegraphed to New York, transacted the business, received a reply from New York, and telegraphed back to Bombay that the order was given and in process of execution before five p.m. on the same day. Thus a commercial transaction between India and America, via England, involving, perhaps, thousands of pounds, was completed at the cost of a few pounds between breakfast and dinner. In other words, Bombay aroused New York to action by means of a flash of electricity within twenty-four hours.”
“Phil,” remarked Mrs Maylands, with a sigh, “don’t you think that man has now made almost all the discoveries that it is possible to make?”
“Why, no, mother, I think he is only on the threshold of discovery yet. The thought has sometimes come into my mind with tremendous power, that as God is infinite, and His knowledge infinite, there is, as it were, a necessity that we shall go on learning something new for ever!—But that is too deep a subject to enter on just now,” said Phil, rising, “for I must go and send off my telegram to May—she will be anxious to hear about you, poor girl. You must not be troubled when you see how the roses have faded from her cheeks. She is in good enough health, but I fear the telegraph service is too heavy for her, and the City air is not so bracing as that of the west of Ireland.”
Mrs Maylands was quite prepared for the change referred to, for she knew, what Phil did not know, that it was neither the telegraph nor the City that had robbed May of the bloom of youth and health.
