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Post Haste

<h3>Chapter Eleven.</h3> <h4>The Letter-Carrier Goes His Rounds, Aids a Little Girl, and Overwhelms a Lady Statistically.</h4> 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.” “How curious!” said Miss Lillycrop. “There’s another thing I want to know,” she added, looking with deep interest into the countenance of her host, while that stalwart man continued to stow incredible quantities of sausages and crumpets into his capacious mouth. “Is it really true that people post letters without addresses?” “True, ma’am? why, of course it’s true. Thousands of people do. The average number of letters posted without addresses is about eighty a day.” “How strange! I wonder what causes this?” Miss Lillycrop gazed contemplatively into her teacup, and Solomon became suddenly aware that Grannie’s plate was empty. Having replenished it, he ordered Dollops to bring more crumpets, and then turned to his guest. “I’ll tell you what it is, ma’am, that causes this—it’s forgetfulness, or rather, what we call absence of mind. It’s my solemn belief, ma’am, that if our heads warn’t screwed on pretty tight you’d see some hundreds of people walkin’ about London of a mornin’ with nothin’ whatever on their shoulders. Why, there was one man actually posted a cheque for 9 pounds, 15 shillings loose, in a pillar letter-box in Liverpool, without even an envelope on it. The owner was easily traced through the bank, but was unable to explain how the cheque got out of his possession or into the pillar.—Just listen to this, ma’am,” he added, rising and taking down a pamphlet from a bookshelf, “this is last year’s Report. Hear what it says:— “‘Nearly 28,500 letters were posted this year without addresses. 757 of these letters were found to contain, in the aggregate, about 214 pounds in cash and bank-notes, and about 9088 pounds in bills of exchange, cheques, etcetera.’—Of course,” said the letter-carrier, refreshing himself with a mouthful of tea, “the money and bills were returned to the senders, but it warn’t possible to do the same with 52,856 postage-stamps which were found knocking about loose in the bottom of the mail-bags.” “How many?” cried Miss Lillycrop, in amazement. “Fifty-two thousand eight hundred and fifty-six,” repeated Solomon with deliberation. “No doubt,” he continued, “some of these stamps had bin carelessly stuck on the envelopes, and some of ’em p’r’aps had come out of busted letters which contained stamps sent in payment of small accounts. You’ve no idea, ma’am, what a lot o’ queer things get mixed up in the mail-bags out of bust letters and packages—all along of people puttin’ things into flimsy covers not fit to hold ’em. Last year no fewer than 12,525 miscellaneous articles reached the Returned Letter Office (we used to call it the Dead Letter Office) without covers or addresses, and the number of inquiries dealt with in regard to these things and missing letters by that Office was over 91,000. “We’re very partickler, Miss Lillycrop, in regard to these things,” continued Solomon, with a touch of pride. “We keep books in which every stray article, unaddressed, is entered and described minutely, so that when people come howlin’ at us for our carelessness in non-delivery, we ask ’em to describe their missing property, and in hundreds of cases prove to them their own carelessness in makin’ up parcels by handin’ the wrecks over to ’em!” “But what sort of things are they that break loose?” asked Miss Lillycrop. “Oh, many sorts. Anything may break loose if it’s ill packed, and, as almost every sort of thing passes through the post, it would be difficult to describe ’em all. Here is a list, however, that may give you an idea of what kind of things the public sent through our mail-bags last year. A packet of pudding, a steam-gauge, a tin of cream, a bird’s wing, a musical box, packet of snowdrops, fruit sweets, shrimps, and sample potatoes; a dormouse, four white mice, two goldfinches, a lizard and a blind-worm, all alive; besides cutlery, medicines, varnish, ointments, perfumery, articles of dress; a stoat, a squirrel, fish, leeches, frogs, beetles, caterpillars, and vegetables. Of course, many of these, such as live animals, being prohibited articles, were stopped and sent to the Returned Letter Office, but were restored, on application, to the senders.” Observing Miss Lillycrop’s surprised expression of face, the old woman’s curiosity was roused. “What’s he haverin’ aboot, my dear?” she asked of May. “About the many strange things that are sent through the post, Grannie.” “Ay, ay, likely enough,” returned the old creature, shaking her head and administering an unintentional cuff to the poor cat; “folk write a heap o’ lees noo-a-days, nae doot.” “You’d hardly believe it now,” continued Solomon, turning the leaves of the Report, “but it’s a fact that live snakes have frequently been sent through the post. No later than last year a snake about a yard long managed to get out of his box in one of the night mail sorting carriages on the London and North-Western Railway. After a good deal of confusion and interruption to the work, it was killed. Again, a small box was sent to the Returned Letter Office in Liverpool, which, when opened, was found to contain eight living snakes.” “Come now, Mr Flint,” said May, “you mustn’t bore my cousin with the Post-Office. You know that when you once begin on that theme there is no stopping you.” “Very well, Miss May,” returned the letter-carrier, with a modest smile, “let’s draw round the fire and talk of something else.—Hallo, Dollops! clear away the dishes.” “But he doesn’t bore me,” protested Miss Lillycrop, who had the happy knack of being intensely interested in whatever happened to interest her friends. “I like, of all things, to hear about the Post-Office. I had no idea it was such a wonderful institution.—Do tell me more about it, Mr Flint, and never mind May’s saucy remarks.” Much gratified by this appeal, Solomon wheeled the old woman to her own corner of the fire, placed a stool under her feet, the cat on her knees, and patted her shoulder, all of which attentions she received with a kindly smile, and said that “Sol was a good laddie.” Meanwhile the rotund maid-of-all-work having, as it were, hurled the crockery into her den, and the circle round the fire having been completed, as well as augmented, by the sudden entrance of Phil Maylands, the “good laddie” re-opened fire. “Yes, ma’am, as you well observe, it is a wonderful institution. More than that, it’s a gigantic one, and it takes a big staff to do the duty too. In London alone the staff is 10,665. The entire staff of the kingdom is 13,763 postmasters, 10,000 clerks, and 21,000 letter-carriers, sorters, and messengers,—sum total, a trifle over 45,500. Then, the total number of Post-offices and receptacles for receiving letters throughout the kingdom is 25,000 odd. Before the introduction of the penny postage—in the year 1840—there were only 4500! Then, again—” “O Mr Flint! pray stop!” cried Miss Lillycrop, pressing her hands to her eyes; “I never could take in figures. At least I never could keep them in. They just go in here, and come out there (pointing to her two ears), and leave no impression whatever.” “You’re not the only one that’s troubled with that weakness, ma’am,” said the gallant Solomon, “but if a few thousands puzzle you so much what will you make of this?—The total number of letters, post-cards, newspapers, etcetera, that passed through the Post-Offices of the kingdom last year was fourteen hundred and seventy-seven million eight hundred and twenty-eight thousand two hundred! What d’ye make o’ that, ma’am?” “Mr Flint, I just make nothing of it at all,” returned Miss Lillycrop, with a placid smile. “Come, Phil,” said May, laughing, “can you make nothing of it? You used to be good at arithmetic.” “Well, now,” said Phil, “it don’t take much knowledge of arithmetic to make something of that. George Aspel happened to be talking to me about that very sum not long ago. He said he had been told by a man at the Post-Office that it would take a man about a hundred and seventy years to count it. I tried the calculation, and found he was right. Then I made another calculation:— “I put down the average length of an envelope at four inches, and I found that if you were to lay fourteen hundred and seventy-seven million letters out in a straight line, end to end, the lot would extend to above 93,244 miles, which is more than three times the circumference of the world. Moreover, this number is considerably more than the population of the whole world, which, at the present time, is about 1444 millions, so that if the British Post-Office were to distribute the 1477 millions of letters that pass through it in the year impartially, every man, woman, and child on the globe would receive one letter, post-card, newspaper, or book-packet, and leave thirty-three millions to spare!” “Now, really, you must stop this,” said May; “I see that my cousin’s colour is going with her efforts to understand you. Can’t you give her something more amusing to think of?” “Oh, cer’nly,” said Solomon, again turning with alacrity to the Report. “Would you like to hear what some people think it’s our dooty to attend to? I’ll give you a letter or two received by our various departments.” Here the letter-carrier began to read the following letters, which we give from the same Report, some being addressed to the “Chief of the Dead Office,” others to the Postmaster-General, etcetera. “May 18—. “Dear Sir,—I write to ask you for some information about finding out persons who are missing—I want to find out my mother and sisters who are in Melbourne in Australia i believe—if you would find out for me please let me know by return of post, and also your charge at the lowest, yours,” etcetera. “Nov. 8, 18—. “Sir,—Not having received the live bullfinch mentioned by you as having arrived at the Returned Letter Office two days ago, having been posted as a letter contrary to the regulations of the Postal system, I now write to ask you to have the bird fed and forwarded at once to —, and to apply for all fines and expenses to —. If this is not done, and I do not receive the bird before the end of the week, I shall write to the Postmaster-General, who is a very intimate friend of my father’s, and ask him to see that measures are taken against you for neglect. “This is not an idle threat, so you will oblige by following the above instructions.” “Wales, Nov. 12, 18—. “Dear Sir,—I am taking the liberty of writeing you those few lines as I am given to understand that you do want men in New South Wales, and I am a Smith by Trade; a single man. My age is 24 next birthday. I shood be verry thankful if you would be so kind and send all the particulars by return.” “London, Nov. 5, 18—. “Sir,—i right to you and request of you sinsearly for to help me to find out my husband. I ham quite a stranger in London, only two months left Ireland—i can find know trace of my husband—your the only gentleman that I know that can help me to find him. Thears is letters goes to him to — in his name and thears is letters comes to him to the — Post-Office for him.—Sir you may be sure that i ham low in spirit in a strange contry without a friend. I hope you will be so kind as not to forget me. Sir, I would never find — for I would go astray, besides i have no money.” “So you see, ma’am,” continued Solomon, closing the Report, “much though we do, more is expected of us. But although we can’t exactly comply with such requests as these, we do a pretty stroke of business in other ways besides letter-distributin’. For instance, we are bankers on a considerable scale. Through our money-order agency the sum we transmitted last year was a trifle over 27,870,000 pounds, while the deposits in our Savings-Banks amounted to over 9,166,000 pounds. Then as to telegraphs: there were— But I forgot,” said Solomon, checking himself, “Miss May is the proper authority on that subject.—How many words was it you sent last year?” “I won’t tell you,” said May, with a toss of her little head. “You have already driven my cousin distracted. She won’t be able to walk home.” “My dear, I don’t intend to walk home; I shall take a cab,” said the mild little woman. “Do tell me something about your department.” “No, cousin, I won’t.” “Sure, if ye don’t, I will,” said Phil. “Well then, I will tell you a very little just to save you from Phil, who, if he once begins, will kill you with his calculations. But you can’t appreciate what I say. Let me see. The total number of telegraphic messages forwarded by our offices in the United Kingdom during the last twelve months amounted to a little more than twenty-two millions.” “Dear me!” said Miss Lillycrop, with that look and tone which showed that if May had said twenty-two quintillions it would have had no greater effect. “There, that’s enough,” said May, laughing. “I knew it was useless to tell you.” “Ah, May!” said Phil, “that’s because you don’t know how to tell her.—See here now, cousin Sarah. The average length of a message is thirty words. Well, that gives 660 millions of words. Now, a good average story-book of 400 pages contains about ninety-six thousand words. Divide the one by the other, and that gives you a magnificent library of 6875 volumes as the work done by the Postal Telegraphs every year. All these telegrams are kept for a certain period in case of inquiry, and then destroyed.” “Phil, I must put on my things and go,” exclaimed Miss Lillycrop, rising. “I’ve had quite as much as I can stand.” “Just cap it all with this, ma’am, to keep you steady,” interposed Solomon Flint;—“the total revenue of the Post-Office for the year was six millions and forty-seven thousand pounds; and the expenditure three millions nine hundred and ninety-one thousand. Now, you may consider yourself pretty well up in the affairs of the Post-Office.” The old ’ooman, awaking at this point with a start, hurled the cat under the grate, and May laughingly led Miss Lillycrop into her little boudoir. <hr></div> <div class="bodytext"> <div style="break-after:column;"></div>

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