Post Haste Part 39

In order to account for this cry, we must state that Miss Lillycrop, desirous of acquiring an appet.i.te 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, c.o.c.ked 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 pa.s.sage 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 pa.s.sed 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. G.o.d 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 pa.s.sed between us--but I entertained a strong regard for his father, who in schoolboy days saved my life. In after years he acquired that pa.s.sion 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 a.s.sistance, 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 b.u.mp, 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 ma.s.s 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 quant.i.ty--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 embarra.s.sment 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 bas.e.m.e.nt.

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 f.a.gged, 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?"