Post Haste Part 7

"Well, what?"

"Don't you think that you might call without waiting to hear his opinion of your testimonials?"

"No, Phil, I don't," replied the other in a slightly petulant tone; "I don't feel quite sure of the spirit in which he referred to my dear father. Of course it was kind and all that, but it was slightly patronising, and my father was an infinitely superior man to himself."

"Well, I don't know," said Phil; "if you're going to accept a favour of him you had better try to feel and act in a friendly way, but of course it would never do to encourage him in pride."

"Well then, I'll send it," said Aspel, closing the letter; "do you know where I can post it?"

"Not I. Never was here before. I've only a vague idea of how I got here, and mustn't go far with you lest I lose myself."

At that moment Miss Lillycrop's door opened and little Tottie issued forth.

"Ah! she will help us.--D'you know where the Post-Office is, Tottie?"

"Yes, sir, it's at the corner of the street, Miss Lillycrop says."

"Which direction?"

"That one, I think."

"Here, I'm going the other way: will you post this letter for me?"

"Yes, sir," said Tottie.

"That's a good girl; here's a penny for you."

"Please, sir, that's not a penny," said the child, holding out the half-crown which Aspel had put in her hand.

"Never mind; keep it."

Tottie stood bereft of speech at the youth's munificence, as he turned away from her with a laugh.

Now, when Tottie Bones said that she knew where the post was, she did so because her mistress had told her, among other pieces of local information, that the pillar letter-box stood at the corner of the street and was painted red; but as no occasion had occurred since her arrival for the posting of a letter, she had not yet seen the pillar with her own eyes. The corner of the street, however, was so plain a direction that no one except an idiot could fail to find it.

Accordingly Tottie started off to execute her mission.

Unfortunately--or the reverse, as the case may be--streets have usually two corners. The child went, almost as a matter of course, to the wrong one, and there she found no pillar. But she was a faithful messenger, and not to be easily balked. She sought diligently at that corner until she really did find a pillar, in a retired angle. Living, as she did, chiefly in the back slums of London, where literary correspondence is not much in vogue, Tottie had never seen a pillar letter-box, or, if she had, had not realised its nature. Miss Lillycrop had told her it was red, with a slit in it. The pillar she had found was red to some extent with rust, and it unquestionably had a slit in it where, in days gone by, a handle had projected. It also had a spout in front. Tottie had some vague idea that this letter-box must have been made in imitation of a pump, and that the spout was a convenient step to enable small people like herself to reach the slit. Only, she thought it queer that they should not have put the spout in front of the pillar under the slit, instead of behind it. She was still more impressed with this when, after having twice got on the spout, she twice fell off in futile efforts to reach round the pump with her small arms.

Baffled, but not defeated, Tottie waited till some one should pa.s.s who could put the letter in for her, but in that retired angle no one pa.s.sed. Suddenly her sharp eyes espied a brickbat. She set it up on end beside the pump, mounted it, stood on tip-toe, and, stretching her little body to the very uttermost, tipped the letter safely in. The brickbat tipped over at the same instant and sent her headlong to the ground. But this was no novelty to Tottie. Regardless of the fall, she gathered herself up, and, with the light heart of one who has gained a victory in the performance of duty, ran off to her miserable home in the back slums.

CHAPTER SEVEN.

PHIL BEGINS LIFE, AND MAKES A FRIEND.

Some time after the small tea-party described in our last chapter, Philip Maylands was invested with all the dignity, privileges, and emoluments of an "Out-door Boy Telegraph Messenger" in the General Post-Office. He rejoiced in the conscious independence of one who earns his own livelihood, is a burden to n.o.body, and has something to spare.

He enjoyed the privilege of wearing a grey uniform, of sitting in a comfortable room with a huge fire in the bas.e.m.e.nt of the office, and of walking over a portion of London as the bearer of urgent and no doubt all-important news. He also enjoyed a salary of seven s.h.i.+llings sterling a week, and was further buoyed up with the hope of an increase to eight s.h.i.+llings at the end of a year. His duties, as a rule, began at eight each morning, and averaged nine hours.

We have said that out of his vast income he had something to spare.

This, of course, was not much, but owing to the very moderate charge for lodging made by Solomon Flint--with whom and his sister he took up his abode--the sum was sufficient to enable him, after a few months, to send home part of his first year's earnings to his mother. He did this by means of that most valuable inst.i.tution of modern days a Post-Office order, which enables one to send small sums of money, at a moderate charge, and with perfect security, not only all over the kingdom, but over the greater part of the known world.

It would have been interesting, had it been possible, to have entered into Phil's feelings on the occasion of his transacting this first piece of financial business. Being a country-bred boy, he was as bashful about it as if he had been only ten years old. He doubted, first, whether the clerk would believe him in earnest when he should demand the order. Then, when he received the form to fill up, he had considerable hesitation lest he should fill in the blanks erroneously, and when the clerk scanned the slip and frowned, he felt convinced that he had done so.

"You've put only Mrs Maylands," said the clerk.

"_Only_ Mrs Maylands!" thought Phil; "does the man want me to add `widow of the Reverend James Maylands, and mother of all the little Maylands?'" but he only said, "Sure, sir, it's to her I want to send the money."

"Put down her Christian name;" said the clerk; "order can't be drawn without it."

Phil put down the required name, handed over the money, received back the change, inserted the order into a previously prepared letter, posted the same, and walked away from that office as tall as his friend George Aspel--if not taller--in sensation.

Let us now follow our hero to the boy-messengers' room in the bas.e.m.e.nt of St. Martin's-le-Grand.

Entering one morning after the delivery of a telegram which had cost him a pretty long walk, Phil proceeded to the boys' hall, and took his seat at the end of the row of boys who were awaiting their turn to be called for mercurial duty. Observing a very small telegraph-boy in a scullery off the hall, engaged in some mysterious operations with a large saucepan, from which volumes of steam proceeded, he went towards him.

By that time Phil had become pretty well acquainted with the faces of his comrades, but this boy he had not previously met with. The lad was stooping over a sink, and carefully holding in the contents of the pan with its lid, while he strained off the boiling water.

"Sure I've not seen _you_ before?" remarked Phil.

The boy turned up a sharp-featured, but handsome and remarkably intelligent face, and, with a quick glance at Phil, said, "Well, now, any man might know you for an Irishman by your impudence, even if you hadn't the brogue."

"Why, what do you mean?" asked Phil, with an amused smile.

"Mean!" echoed the boy, with the most refined extract of insolence on his pretty little face; "I mean that small though I am, surely I'm big enough to be _seen_."

"Well," returned Phil, with a laugh, "you know what I mean--that I haven't seen you before to-day."

"Then w'y don't you say what you mean? How d'you suppose a man can understand you unless you speak in plain terms? You won't do for the GPO if you can't speak the Queen's English. We want sharp fellows here, we do. So you'd better go back to Owld Ireland, avic cushla mavourneen--there, put that in your pipe and smoke it."

Whether it was the distraction of the boy's mind, or the potent working of his impertinence, we know not, but certain it is that his left hand slipped somehow, and a round ball, with a delicious smell, fell out of the pot. The boy half caught it, and wildly yet cleverly balanced it on the lid, but it would have rolled next moment into the sink, if Phil had not made a dart forward, caught it like a football, and bowled it back into the pot.

"Well done! splendidly done!" cried the boy, setting down his pot.

"Arrah! Pat," he added, mocking Phil's brogue, and holding out his hand, "you're a man after my own heart; give me your flipper, and let us swear eternal friends.h.i.+p over this precious goblet."

Of course Phil cheerfully complied, and the friends.h.i.+p thus auspiciously begun afterwards became strong and lasting. So it is all through the course of life. At every turn we are liable to meet with those who shall thenceforth exercise a powerful influence on our characters, lives, and affections, and on whom our influence shall be strong for good or evil.

"What's your name?" asked Phil; "mine is Philip Maylands."

"Mine's Peter Pax," answered the small boy, returning to his goblet; "but I've no end of _aliases_--such as Mouse, Monkey, Spider, Snipe, Imp, and Little 'un. Call me what you please, it's all one to me, so as you don't call me too late for dinner."

"And what have you got there, Pax?" asked Phil, referring to the pot.

"A plum-pudding."

"Do two or three of you share it?"

"Certainly not," replied the boy.