Post Haste

The Secretary’s urbanity gave the whole of Mr Blurt’s last rags of indignation to the winds. He detailed his case with his usual earnestness and good-nature.

The Secretary listened attentively to the close. “Well, Mr Blurt,” he said, “we will investigate the matter without delay; but from what you have told me I think it probable that the blame does not lie with us. You would be surprised if you knew the number of complaints made to us, which, on investigation, turn out to be groundless. Allow me to cite one or two instances. In one case a missing letter having fallen from the letter-box of the person to whom it was addressed on to the hall-floor, was picked up by a dog and buried in some straw, where it was afterwards found. In another case, the missing letter was discovered sticking against the side of the private letter-box, where it had lain unobserved, and in another the letter had been placed between the leaves of a book as a mark and forgotten. Boys and others sent to post letters are also frequently unfaithful, and sometimes stupid. Many letters have been put into the receptacles for dust in our streets, under the impression that they were pillar letter-boxes, and on one occasion a letter-carrier found two letters forced behind the plate affixed to a pillar letter-box which indicates the hours of collection, obviously placed there by the ignorant sender under the impression that that was the proper way of posting them. Your mention of rats reminds me of several cases in which these animals have been the means of making away with letters. The fact that rats have been seen in your shop, and that your late letters drop on the floor and are left there till morning, inclines me to think that rats are at the bottom of it. I would advise you to make investigation without delay.”

“I will, sir, I will,” exclaimed Mr Blurt, starting up with animation, “and I thank you heartily for the trouble you have taken with my case. Good-morning. I shall see to this at once.”

And Mr Blurt did see to it at once. He went straight back to his brother’s house, and made preparation for a campaign against the rats, for, being a sanguine and impulsive man, he had now become firmly convinced that these animals were somehow at the bottom of the mystery. But he kept his thoughts and intentions to himself.

During the day George Aspel observed that his friend employed himself in making some unaccountable alterations in the arrangements of one part of the shop, and ventured to ask what he was about, but, receiving a vague reply, he said no more.

That night, after the shop was closed and Aspel had gone home, and Mr Fred Blurt had gone to sleep, under the guardianship of the faithful Miss Lillycrop, and Mrs Murridge had retired to the coal-hole—or something like it—which was her dormitory, Mr Enoch Blurt entered the shop with a mysterious air, bearing two green tablecloths. These he hung like curtains at one corner of the room, and placed a chair behind them raised on two empty packing-boxes. Seating himself in this chair he opened the curtains just enough to enable him to peep through, and found that he could see the letter-slit in the door over the counter, but not the floor beneath it. He therefore elevated his throne by means of another packing-box. All being ready, he lowered the gas to something like a dim religious light, and began his watch. It bade fair to be a tedious watch, but Enoch Blurt had made up his mind to go through with it, and whatever Enoch made up his mind to do he did.

Suddenly he heard a scratching sound. This was encouraging. Another moment and a bright pair of miniature stars were seen to glitter behind the pelican of the wilderness. In his eagerness to see, Mr Blurt made a slight noise and the stars went out—suddenly.

This was exceedingly vexatious. He blamed himself bitterly, resettled himself in his chair, rearranged the curtains, and glared intently. But although Mr Blurt could fix his eyes he could not chain his thoughts. These unruly familiars ere long began to play havoc with their owner. They hurried him far away from rats and ornithological specimens, carried him over the Irish Channel, made him look sadly down on the funnels of the Royal Mail steamer, plunged him under the waves, and caused him to gaze in fond regret on his lost treasures. His thoughts carried him even further. They bore him over the sea to Africa, and set him down, once more, in his forsaken hut among the diamond-diggers. From this familiar retreat he was somewhat violently recalled by a scratching sound. He glared at the pelican of the wilderness. The little stars reappeared. They increased in size. They became unbearable suns. They suddenly approached. As suddenly Mr Blurt rose to fight or fly—he could scarce tell which. It did not matter much, because, next instant, he fell headlong to the floor, dragging the curtains down, and forming a miscellaneous avalanche with the chair and packing-boxes.

The unfortunate man had fallen asleep, and the rats, which had in truth ventured out, fled to their homes as a matter of course.

But Mr Blurt had resolved to go through with it. Finding that he was unhurt, and that the household had not been disturbed, he rebuilt his erection and began his watch over again. The shock had thoroughly roused him. He did not sleep again. Fortunately London rats are not nervous. Being born and bred in the midst of war’s alarms they soon get over a panic. The watcher had not sat more than a quarter of an hour when the stars appeared once again. The Pyramid of Cheops is not more immovably solid than was Mr Blurt. A sharp nose advanced; a head came out; a body followed; a tail brought up the rear, and the pelican of the wilderness looked with calm indifference on the scene.

The rat was an old grey one, and very large. It was followed by a brown one, nearly as large. There was an almost theatrical caution in their movements at first, but courage came with immunity from alarm. Six letters, that had been thrust through the slit by the evening postman, lay on the floor. To these the grey rat advanced, seized one in its teeth, and began to back out, dragging the letter after it. The brown rat followed the grey rat’s example. While thus engaged, another brown rat appeared, and followed suit. Nothing could have been more fortunate. Mr Blurt was charmed. He could afford to let the grey rat well out of sight, because the two brown rats, following in succession, would, when he sprang on them, leave a trail of letters to point the direction of their flight.

Just as the third rat dragged its missive behind the pelican of the wilderness the watcher leaped upon them, and in his haste consigned the pelican to all but irretrievable destruction! The rats vanished, but left the tell-tale letters, the last two forming pointers to the first, which was already half dragged through a slit between the skirting and the wall. At the extremity of this slit yawned the gateway to the rats’ palace.

Mr Blurt rubbed his hands, chuckled, crowed internally, and, having rescued the letters, went to bed.

Next morning, he procured a crowbar, and, with the able assistance of George Aspel, tore off the skirting, uprooted a plank, and discovered a den in which were stored thirty-one letters, six post-cards, and three newspapers.

The corners of the letters, bearing the stamps, were nibbled away, showing that gum—not money or curiosity—was the occasion of the theft.

As four of these letters contained cheques and money-orders, their discovery afforded instant relief to the pressure which had been gradually bearing with intolerable weight on the affairs of Messrs Blurt and Company.

Chapter Eleven.

The Letter-Carrier Goes His Rounds, Aids a Little Girl, and Overwhelms a Lady Statistically

Solomon Flint, being a man of letters, was naturally a hard-working man. By night and by day did that faithful servant of his Queen and country tramp through the streets of London with the letters of the lieges in his care. The dim twilight of early morning found him poking about, like a solitary ghoul, disembowelling the pillar posts. The rising sun sent a deflected ray from chimney-pot or steeple to welcome him—when fog and smoke permitted. The noon-tide beams broiled him in summer and cheered him in winter on his benignant path of usefulness. The evening fogs and glimmering lamps beheld him hard at work, and the nightly returning stars winked at him with evident surprise when they found him still fagging along through heat and cold, rain and snow, with the sense of urgent duty ever present in his breast, and part of the recorded hopes, joys, fears, sorrows, loves, hates, business, and humbug of the world in his bag.

Besides being a hard-working man, Solomon Flint was a public man, and a man of note. In the district of London which he frequented, thousands of the public watched for him, wished for him, even longed for him, and received him gladly. Young eyes sometimes sparkled and old eyes sometimes brightened when his well-known uniform appeared. Footmen opened to him with good-will, and servant-girls with smiles. Even in the low neighbourhoods of his district—and he traversed several such—Solomon was regarded with favour. His person was as sacred as that of a detective or a city missionary. Men who scowled on the world at large gave a familiar nod to him, and women who sometimes desired to tear off people’s scalps never displayed the slightest wish to damage a hair of the postman’s head. He moved about, in fact, like a benign influence, distributing favours and doing good wherever he went. May it not be said truly that in the spiritual world we have a good many news-bearers of a similar stamp? Are not the loving, the gentle, the self-sacrificing such?—in a word, the Christ-like, who, if they do not carry letters about, are themselves living epistles “known and read of all men?”

One of the low districts through which Solomon Flint had to pass daily embraced the dirty court in which Abel Bones dwelt. Anticipating a very different fate for it, no doubt, the builder of this region had named it Archangel Court.

As he passed rapidly through it Solomon observed a phenomenon by no means unusual in London and elsewhere, namely, a very small girl taking charge of an uncommonly large baby. Urgent though his duties were, Solomon would have been more than human if he had not stopped to observe the little girl attempt the apparently impossible feat of lifting the frolicsome mass of fat which was obviously in a rebellious state of mind. Solomon had occasionally seen the little girl in his rounds, but never before in possession of a baby. She grasped him round the waist, which her little arms could barely encircle, and, making a mighty effort, got the rebel on his legs. A second heave placed him on her knees, and a third effort, worthy of a gymnast, threw him on her little bosom. She had to lean dangerously far back to keep him there, and being incapable of seeing before her, owing to the bulk of her burden, was compelled to direct her course by faith. She knew the court well, however, and was progressing favourably, when a loose stone tripped her and she fell. Not having far to fall, neither she nor the baby was the worse for it.

“Hallo, little woman!” said Solomon, assisting her to rise, “can’t he walk?”

“Yes, sir; but ’e won’t,” replied the little maid, turning up her pretty face, and shaking back her dishevelled hair.

The baby looked up and crowed gleefully, as though it understood her, and would, if able to speak, have said, “That’s the exact truth,—‘he won’t!’”

“Come, I’ll help you,” said Solomon, carrying the baby to the mouth of the alley pointed out by the little girl. “Is he your brother?”

“O no, sir; I ain’t got no brother. He b’longed to a neighbour who’s just gone dead, an’ mother she was fond o’ the neighbour, an’ promised to take care of the baby. So she gave ’im to me to nuss. An’ oh! you’ve no hidea, sir, what a hobstinate thing ’e is. I’ve ’ad ’im three days now.”

Yes; the child had had him three days, and an amazing experience it had been to her. During that brief period she had become a confirmed staggerer, being utterly incapable of walking with baby in her arms. During the same period she had become unquestionably entitled to the gold medals of the Lifeboat Institution and the Humane Society, having, with reckless courage, at the imminent risk of her life, and on innumerable occasions, saved that baby from death by drowning in washtubs and kennels, from mutilation by hot water, fire, and steam, and from sudden extinction by the wheels of cabs, carriages, and drays, while, at the same time she had established a fair claim to at least the honorary diploma of the Royal College of Surgeons, by her amazing practice in the treatment of bruises and cuts, and the application of sticking-plaster.

“Have you got a father or mother, my dear?” asked the letter-carrier.

“Yes, sir; I’ve got both of ’em. And oh! I’m so miserable. I don’t know what to do.”

“Why, what’s wrong with you?”

The child’s eyes filled with tears as she told how her father had gone off “on the spree;” how her mother had gone out to seek him, promising to be back in time to relieve her of the baby so as to let her keep an appointment she had with a lady; and how the mother had never come back, and didn’t seem to be coming back; and how the time for the engagement was already past, and she feared the lady would think she was an ungrateful little liar, and she had no messenger to send to her.

“Where does the lady live, and what’s her name, little woman?” asked Solomon.

“Her name is Miss Lillycrop, sir, and she lives in Pimlico.”

“Well, make your mind easy, little woman. It’s a curious coincidence that I happen to know Miss Lillycrop. Her house lies rather far from my beat, but I happen to have a messenger who does his work both cheaply and quickly. I do a deal of work for him too, so, no doubt, he’ll do a little for me. His name is Post-Office.—What is your’s, my dear?”

“Tottie Bones,” replied the child, with the air of a full-grown woman. “An’ please, sir, tell ’er I meant to go back to her at the end of three days, as I promised; but I couldn’t leave the ’ouse with baby inside, an’ the fire, an’ the kittle, with nobody to take care on ’em—could I, sir?”

“Cer’nly not, little woman,” returned the letter-carrier, with a solemn look at the overburdened creature who appealed to him. Giving her twopence, and a kindly nod, Solomon Flint walked smartly away—with a reproving conscience—to make up for lost time.

That evening Mrs Bones returned without her husband, but with an additional black eye, and other signs of bad treatment. She found the baby sound asleep, and Tottie in the same condition by his side, on the outside of the poor counterpane, with one arm round her charge, and her hair tumbled in confusion over him. She had evidently been herself overcome while in the act of putting the baby to sleep.

Mrs Bones rushed to the bed, seized Tottie, clasped her tightly to her bosom, sat down on a stool, and began to rock herself to and fro.

The child, nothing loath to receive such treatment, awoke sufficiently to be able to throw her arms round her mother’s neck, fondled her for a moment, and then sank again into slumber.

“Oh! God help me! God save my Abel from drink and bad men!” exclaimed the poor woman, in a voice of suppressed agony.

It seemed as if her prayer had been heard, for at that moment the door opened and a tall thin man entered. He was the man who had accosted George Aspel on his first visit to that region.

“You’ve not found him, I fear?” he said kindly, as he drew a stool near to Mrs Bones and sat down, while Tottie, who had been re-awakened by his entrance, began to bustle about the room with something of the guilty feeling of a sentry who has been found sleeping at his post.

“Yes, Mr Sterling; thank you kindly for the interest you take in ’im. I found ’im at the old place, but ’e knocked me down an’ went out, an’ I’ve not been able to find ’im since.”

“Well, take comfort, Molly,” said the city missionary, for such he was; “I’ve just seen him taken up by the police and carried to the station as drunk and incapable. That, you know, will not bring him to very great trouble, and I have good reason to believe it will be the means of saving him from much worse.”

He glanced at the little girl as he spoke.

“Tottie, dear,” said Mrs Bones, “you go out for a minute or two; I want to speak with Mr Sterling.”

“Yes, mother, and I’ll run round to the bank; I’ve got twopence more to put in,” said Tottie as she went out.

“Your lesson has not been lost, sir,” said the poor woman, with a faint smile; “Tottie has a good bit o’ money in the penny savings-bank now. She draws some of it out every time Abel brings us to the last gasp, but we don’t let ’im know w’ere it comes from. To be sure, ’e don’t much care. She’s a dear child is Tottie.”

“Thank the Lord for that, Molly. He is already answering our prayers,” said Mr Sterling. “Just trust Him, keep up heart, and persevere; we’re sure to win at last.”

When Tottie Bones left the dark and dirty den that was the only home she had ever known, she ran lightly out into the neighbouring street, and, threading her way among people and vehicles, entered an alley, ascended a stair, and found herself in a room which bore some resemblance to an empty schoolroom. At one corner there was a desk, at which stood a young man at work on a business-looking book. Before him were several children of various ages and sizes, but all having one characteristic in common—the aspect of extreme poverty. The young man was a gratuitous servant of the public, and the place was, for the hour at least, a penny savings-bank.

It was one of those admirable institutions, which are now numerous in our land, and which derive their authority from Him who said, “Gather up the fragments that remain, that nothing be lost.” Noble work was being done there, not so much because of the mere pence which were saved from the grog and tobacco shops, as because of the habits of thrift which were being formed, as well as the encouragement of that spirit of thoughtful economy, which, like the spirit of temperance, is one of the hand-maids of religion.

“Please, sir,” said Tottie to the penny banker, “I wants to pay in tuppence.”

She handed over her bank-book with the money. Receiving the former back, she stared at the mysterious figures with rapt attention.

“Please, sir, ’ow much do it come to now?” she asked.

“It’s eight and sevenpence, Tottie,” replied the amiable banker, with a smile.

“Thank you, sir,” said Tottie, and hurried home in a species of heavenly contemplation of the enormous sum she had accumulated.

When Solomon Flint returned home that night he found Miss Lillycrop seated beside old Mrs Flint, shouting into her deafest ear. She desisted when Solomon entered, and rose to greet him.

“I have come to see my niece, Mr Flint; do you expect her soon?”

The letter-carrier consulted his watch.

“It is past her time now, Miss Lillycrop; she can’t be long. Pray, sit down. You’ll stay and ’ave a cup of tea with us? Now, don’t say no. We’re just goin’ to ’ave it, and my old ’ooman delights in company.—There now, sit down, an’ don’t go splittin’ your lungs on that side of her next time you chance to be alone with her. It’s her deaf side. A cannon would make no impression on that side, except you was to fire it straight into her ear.—I’ve got a message for you, Miss Lillycrop.”

“A message for me?”

“Ay, from a beautiful angel with tumbled hair and jagged clothes named Tottie Bones. Ain’t it strange how coincidences happen in this life! I goes an’ speaks to Tottie, which I never did before. Tottie wants very bad to send a message to Miss Lillycrop. I happens to know Miss Lillycrop, an’ takes the message, and on coming home finds Miss Lillycrop here before me—and all on the same night—ain’t it odd?”

“It is very odd, Mr Flint; and pray what was the message?”

The letter-carrier, having first excused himself for making arrangements for the evening meal while he talked, hereupon related the circumstances of his meeting with the child, and had only concluded when May Maylands came in, looking a little fagged, but sunny and bright as usual.

Of course she added her persuasions to those of her landlord, and Miss Lillycrop, being induced to stay to tea, was taken into May’s private boudoir to put off her bonnet.

While there the good lady inquired eagerly about her cousin’s health and work and companions; asked for her mother and brother, and chatted pleasantly about her own work among the poor in the immediate neighbourhood of her dwelling.

“By the way,” said she, “that reminds me that I chanced to meet with that tall, handsome friend of your brother’s in very strange circumstances. Do you know that he has become a shopman in the bird-shop of my dear old friend Mr Blurt, who is very ill—has been ill, I should have said,—were you aware of that?”

“No,” answered May, in a low tone.

“I thought he came to England by the invitation of Sir Somebody Something, who had good prospects for him. Did not you?”

“So I thought,” said May, turning her face away from the light.

“It is very strange,” continued Miss Lillycrop, giving a few hasty touches to her cap and hair; “and do you know, I could not help thinking that there was something queer about his appearance? I can scarce tell what it was. It seemed to me like—like—but it is disagreeable even to think about such things in connection with one who is such a fine, clever, gentlemanly fellow—but—”

Fortunately for poor May, her friend was suddenly stopped by a shout from the outer room.

“Hallo, ladies! how long are you goin’ to be titivatin’ yourselves? There ain’t no company comin’. The sausages are on the table, and the old ’ooman’s gittin’ so impatient that she’s beginnin’ to abuse the cat.”

This last remark was too true and sad to be passed over in silence. Old Mrs Flint’s age had induced a spirit of temporary oblivion as to surroundings, which made her act, especially to her favourite cat, in a manner that seemed unaccountable. It was impossible to conceive that cruelty could actuate one who all her life long had been a very pattern of tenderness to every living creature. When therefore she suddenly changed from stroking and fondling her cat to pulling its tail, tweaking its nose, slapping its face, and tossing it off her lap, it is only fair to suppose that her mind had ceased to be capable of two simultaneous thoughts, and that when it was powerfully fixed on sausages she was not aware of what her hands were doing to the cat.

“You’ll excuse our homely arrangements, Miss Lillycrop,” said Mr Flint, as he helped his guest to the good things on the table. “I never could get over a tendency to a rough-and-ready sort o’ feedin’. But you’ll find the victuals good.”

“Thank you, Mr Flint. I am sure you must be very tired after the long walks you take. I can’t think how postmen escape catching colds when they have such constant walking in all sorts of weather.”

“It’s the constancy as saves us, ma’am, but we don’t escape altogether,” said Flint, heaping large supplies on his grandmother’s plate. “We often kitch colds, but they don’t often do us damage.”

This remark led Miss Lillycrop, who had a very inquiring mind, to induce Solomon Flint to speak about the Post-Office, and as that worthy man was enthusiastic in regard to everything connected with his profession, he willingly gratified his visitor.

“Now, I want to know,” said Miss Lillycrop, after the conversation had run on for some time, and appetites began to abate,—“when you go about the poorer parts of the city in dark nights, if you are ever attacked, or have your letters stolen from you.”

“Well, no, ma’am—never. I can’t, in all my long experience, call to mind sitch a thing happenin’—either to me or to any other letter-carrier. The worst of people receives us kindly, ’cause, you see, we go among ’em to do ’em service. I did indeed once hear of a letter being stolen, but the thief was not a man—he was a tame raven!”

“Oh, Solomon!” said May, with a laugh. “Remember that Grannie hears you.”

“No, she don’t, but it’s all the same if she did. Whatever I say about the Post-Office I can give chapter and verse for. The way of it was this. The letter-carrier was a friend o’ mine. He was goin’ his rounds at Kelvedon, in Essex, when a tame raven seized a money letter he had in his hand and flew away with it. After circlin’ round the town he alighted, and, before he could be prevented, tore the letter to pieces. On puttin’ the bits together the contents o’ the letter was found to be a cheque for thirty pounds, and of course, when the particulars o’ the strange case were made known the cheque was renewed!—There now,” concluded Solomon, “if you don’t believe that story, you’ve only got to turn up the Postmaster-General’s Report for 1862, and you’ll find it there on page 24.”