Post Haste

“No, nor a ’oss—not even a pony,” returned the child.

“An’ no man-servant about the house?”

“No—not as I seed.”

“Not even a gardener, now?”

“No, only women—two of ’em, and very nice they was too. One fat and short, the other tall and thin. I liked the fat one best.”

“Ha! blessin’s on ’em both,” said Mr Bones, with a bland smile. “Come now, Tot, tell me all about the cottage—inside first, the rooms and winders, an’ specially the box of treasure. Then we’ll come to the garden, an’ so we’ll get out by degrees to the fields and flowers. Go ahead, Tot.”

It need scarcely be said that Abel Bones soon possessed himself of all the information he required, after which he sent Tottie home to her mother, and went his way.

Chapter Thirteen.

Miss Lillycrop Gets a Series of Surprises

What a world this is for plots! And there is no escaping them. If we are not the originators of them, we are the victims—more or less. If we don’t originate them designedly we do so accidentally.

We have seen how Abel Bones set himself deliberately to hatch one plot. Let us now turn to old Fred Blurt, and see how that invalid, with the help of his brother Enoch, unwittingly sowed the seeds of another.

“Dear Enoch,” said Fred one day, turning on his pillow, “I should have died but for you.”

“And Miss Lillycrop, Fred. Don’t be ungrateful. If Miss Lillycrop had not come to my assistance, it’s little I could have done for you.”

“Well, yes, I ought to have mentioned her in the same breath with yourself, Enoch, for she has been kind—very kind and patient. Now, I want to know if that snake has come.”

“Are you sure you’ve recovered enough to attend to business?” asked the brother.

“Yes, quite sure. Besides, a snake is not business—it is pleasure. I mean to send it to my old friend Balls, who has been long anxious to get a specimen. I had asked a friend long ago to procure one for me, and now that it has come I want you to pack it to go by post.”

“By post!” echoed the brother.

“Yes, why not?”

“Because I fear that live snakes are prohibited articles.”

“Get the Post-Office Directory and see for yourself,” said the invalid.

The enormous volume, full six inches thick, which records the abodes and places of business of all noteworthy Londoners, was fetched.

“Nothing about snakes here,” said Enoch, running his eye over the paragraph referring to the articles in question,—“‘Glass bottles, leeches, game, fish,’ (but that refers to dead ones, I suppose) ‘flesh, fruit, vegetables, or other perishable substances’ (a snake ain’t perishable, at least not during a brief post-journey)—‘nor any bladder or other vessel containing liquid,’ (ha! that touches him: a snake contains blood, don’t it?)—‘or anything whatsoever which might by pressure or otherwise be rendered injurious to the contents of the mail-bags or to the officers of the Post-Office.’—Well, brother,” continued Enoch, “I’m not quite sure that it comes within the forbidden degrees, so we’ll give it the benefit of the doubt and pack it. How d’you propose doing it up? In a letter?”

“No, I had a box made for it before I was taken ill. You’ll find it in the shop, on the upper shelf, beside the northern diver.”

The little box was brought, and the snake, which had been temporarily consigned to an empty glass aquarium, was put into it.

“You’re sure he don’t bite, Fred, and isn’t poisonous?”

“Quite sure.”

“Then here goes—whew! what a lively fellow he is!”

This was indeed true. The animal, upwards of a yard in length, somewhat resembled the eel in his efforts to elude the grasp of man, but Mr Blurt fixed him, coiled him firmly down on his bed of straw and wadding, pressed a similar bed on the top of him to keep him quiet, and shut the lid.

“There; I’ve got him in all right. Now for the screws. He can’t move easily, and even if he could he wouldn’t make much noise.”

The box was finally secured with a piece of string, a label with the address and the proper number of stamps was affixed, and then it was committed to the care of George Aspel to post, in time for the evening mail.

It was five minutes to six when Aspel ascended the steps of St. Martin’s-le-Grand. The usual rush was in progress. There was a considerable crowd in front of the letter-box. Instead of pushing through, George took advantage of his height, stretched his long arm over the heads of the people, and, with a good aim, pitched the box into the postal jaws.

For a few seconds he stood still, meditating a call on Phil Maylands. But he was not now as eager to meet his friend as he used to be. He had begun a course of dissipation, and, superior though he was in years, physique, and knowledge to his friend, he felt a new and uncomfortable sense of inferiority when in the presence of the straightforward, steady boy.

At seventeen a year adds much to the manhood of a youth. Phil’s powers of perception had been greatly quickened by his residence in London. Although he regarded Aspel with as warm affection as ever, he could not avoid seeing the change for the worse in him, and a new feeling of deep anxiety and profound but respectful pity filled his heart. He prayed for him also, but did not quite believe that his prayers would be heard, for as yet he did not fully realise or comprehend the grand truths of the religion in which his mother had faithfully trained him. He did not at that time understand, as he afterwards came to understand, that the prayer of faith—however weak and fluttering—is surely answered, whether we see the answer or not, and whether the answer be immediate or long delayed.

On one occasion, with feelings of timorous self-abasement, he ventured to remonstrate with his friend, but the effort was repelled. Possibly the thought of another reproof from Phil was the cause of Aspel’s decision not to look him up on the present occasion.

As he descended the steps, a man as tall and powerful as himself met him and stared him in the face. Aspel fired up at once and returned the stare. It was Abel Bones, on his way to post a letter. The glare intensified, and for a moment it seemed as if the two giants were about to fight. A small street boy, observing the pair, was transfixed with ardent hope, but he was doomed to disappointment. Bones had clenched his right hand. If he had advanced another inch the blood of the sea-kings would have declared for war on the spot, regardless of consequences. But Bones was too old a bird thus to come within reach of his great enemy, the law. Besides, a deeper though not immediate plan of revenge flashed into his mind. Relaxing the hand and frown simultaneously, he held out the former.

“Come,” he said, in a hearty tone, “I don’t bear you no ill-will for the crack on the nut you gave me, and you’ve surely no occasion to bear ill-will to a man you floored so neatly. Shake hands.”

The familiarity, not to say insolence, of this proposal, from one so much beneath him, would probably have induced the youth to turn aside with scorn, but the flattering reference to his pugilistic powers from one who was no mean antagonist softened his feelings.

“Well, I’m sure that I bear you no ill-will,” he said, with a smile, extending his hand.

“Bah! chicken-livers,” exclaimed the small boy, turning away in supreme contempt.

“And I assure you,” continued Aspel, “I had no intention of doing you injury. But no doubt a stout fellow like you didn’t let a knock-down blow interfere with his next day’s work.”

“His next day’s work!” repeated Mr Bones, with a chuckle. “It would be a queer blow as would interfere with my work. Why, guv’nor, I hain’t got no work at all” Here he put on a very lugubrious expression. “P’r’aps you won’t believe it, sir, but I do assure you that I haven’t, in them hard times, had a full day’s work for ever so long. And I haven’t earned a rap this day, except the penny I got for postin’ this here letter.”

George Aspel, besides being, as we have said, a kind-hearted man, was unusually ignorant of the ways of the world, especially the world of London. He believed Abel Bones at once, and spoke in quite a softened, friendly tone as he replied—

“I’m sorry to hear that, and would gladly help you if I could, but, to tell you the truth, Mr Bones, I’m not in flourishing circumstances myself. Still, I may perhaps think of some way of helping you. Post your letter, and I’ll walk with you while we talk over it.”

The man ran up the steps, posted his letter, which had missed the mail—though he did not appear to care for that—and returned.

Although we have spoken of this man as a confirmed drunkard, it must not be supposed that he had reached the lowest state of degradation. Like George Aspel, he had descended from a higher level in the social scale. Of course, his language proved that he had never been in the rank of a gentleman, but in manners and appearance he was much above the unhappy outcasts amongst whom he dwelt. Moreover, he had scarcely reached middle life, and was, or had been, a handsome man, so that, when he chose to dress decently and put on a sanctimonious look (which he could do with much facility), he seemed quite a respectable personage.

“Now, guv’nor, I’m at your sarvice,” he said. “This is my way. Is it yours?”

“Yes—any way will do,” continued Aspel. “Now let me hear about you. I owe you some sort of reparation for that blow. Have you dined?—will you eat?”

“Well, no; thank ’ee all the same, but I’ve no objection to drink.”

They chanced to be near a public-house as he spoke. It would be difficult in some thoroughfares of London to stop without chancing to be near a public-house!

They entered, and Aspel, resolving to treat the man handsomely, called for brandy and soda. It need scarcely be said that at that hour the brandy and soda was by no means the first of its kind that either of the men had imbibed that day. Over it they became extremely confidential and chatty. Mr Bones was a lively and sensible fellow. It was noticeable, too, that his language improved and his demeanour became more respectful as the acquaintance progressed. After a time they rose. Aspel paid for the brandy and soda, and they left the place in company.