Post Haste

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 fagged, 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?”

“Tough? It’s glorious!” said Pax, seating himself enthusiastically at the table; “I’m proud of my country—proud of the GPO—proud… I say, is that beef that I see before me? Hand me a dagger—no, a knife will do. You cut it, Phil, and help me first, ’cause I’m little.”

While Phil was cutting the meat Pax rested his head on the table, and was asleep almost instantly.

“Hallo, Pax! rouse yourself!” cried Phil, giving his comrade a hearty slap on the shoulder; “up, lad, and eat—the battle still rages; no rest allowed till victory is ours.”

His little friend set to work at once, and the food and coffee soon banished drowsiness. A number of men were similarly engaged around him. But they did not feast long. Like giants refreshed, they returned to the scene of combat, while others took their places.

And what a scene it was! Despite all that had been done, the hall might be described as waist-deep in letters! The fever had not yet abated. It seemed as if the whole world had concentrated its literary produce into one mighty avalanche on St. Martin’s-le-Grand!

The midnight mails worked off some of this, but a large portion of it still remained to be disposed of on Christmas-day, together with what the mails brought in on that morning, but the officers worked so well that between nine and ten on Christmas morning all were allowed to go home, with the exception of twenty-six, who volunteered to remain.

Thus the battle was fought and won; the tables were cleared; the fever was subdued; and the pulse of the Post-Office was reduced to its normal condition.

Think on these things, reader, when next you read the little card that wishes you “a merry Christmas!”

Some of the facts and results connected with this great battle are worth recording. The number of extra bags and sacks received at the chief office altogether on that occasion was 1401. The number of extra bags despatched was 2269; all of them were crammed full to their mouths, and the aggregate weight of these extra mails was 197 tons.

To convey these from the chief office 176 extra vans were used, and 75 extra carts. As nearly as could be estimated, the number of extra letters and packets was not less than four millions. There was a vast increase, also, in the registered correspondence—to the extent of thirty-one thousand in excess of the ordinary numbers.

During these three days some of the men did nearly thirty hours’ extra duty, besides performing their ordinary work. The continuous attendance at the office of some of them varied from forty to forty-eight hours, and the total increase to the revenue on that auspicious but trying occasion was estimated to be about twenty thousand pounds sterling!

Phil Maylands and Peter Pax were among those who had volunteered to remain after the press of work was over; and it was not till the afternoon of Christmas-day that they finally, and simultaneously, plunged into their beds and oblivion.

Chapter Twenty Eight.

The Storming of Rocky Cottage and Other Matters

Years flew by. The daily routine at St. Martin’s-le-Grand went on; the mails departed and came in with unvarying regularity; in the working of the vast machine good men and boys rose to the surface, and bad ones went down. Among the former were Phil Maylands and Peter Pax.

The latter, in course of time, rose to the rank of Inspector, in which condition he gradually developed a pretty pair of brown whiskers and a wonderful capacity for the performance of duty. He also rose to the altitude of five feet six inches, at which point he stuck fast, and continued the process of increase laterally. Pax, however, could not become reconciled to city life. He did his work cheerfully and with all his might, because it was his nature so to do, but he buoyed up his spirits—so he was wont to say—by fixing his eye on the Postmaster-Generalship and a suburban villa on the Thames.

His friend Phil, on the contrary, was quite pleased with city life, and devoted himself with such untiring energy to his work, and to his own education, that he came ere long to be noted as the youth who knew everything. Faults he had, undoubtedly, and his firm, severe way of expressing his opinions raised him a few enemies in the Post-Office, but he attained at last to the condition of being so useful and so trustworthy as to make men feel that he was almost indispensable. They felt as if they could not get on without him.

When man or boy comes to this point, success is inevitable. Phil soon became a favourite with the heads of departments. The Chief of the Post-Office himself at last came to hear of him, and, finding that he was more than capable of passing the requisite examinations, he raised him from the ranks and made him a clerk in the Savings-Bank Department.

Having attained to this position, with a good salary for a single man, and a prospect of a steady rise, Phil set about the accomplishment of the darling wish of his heart. He obtained leave of absence, went over to the west of Ireland, and took Rocky Cottage by storm.

“Mother dear,” he said, almost before he had sat down, “I’m promoted. I’m rich—comparatively. I’ve taken a house—a small house—at Nottinghill, and your room in it is ready for you; so pack up at once, for we leave this to-morrow afternoon.”

“You jest, Phil.”

“I’m in earnest, mother.”

“But it is impossible,” said the good lady, looking anxiously round; “I cannot pack up on so short notice. And the furniture—”

“It’s all arranged, mother,” said Phil, stroking the curls of a strapping boy who no longer went by the name of Baby, but was familiarly known as Jim. “Being aware of your desire to get rid of the furniture, I have arranged with a man in Howlin’ Cove to take it at a valuation. He comes out to value it this evening, so you’ve nothing to do but pack up your trunks. With the aid of Madge and Jim we’ll manage that in no time.”

“Sure we’ll do it in less than no time!” cried Jim, who was a true son of Erin.

“You see, mother,” continued Phil, “my leave extends only to four days. I have therefore ordered a coach—a sort of Noah’s Ark—the biggest thing I could hire at the Cove—to take you and all your belongings to the railway tomorrow evening. We’ll travel all night, and so get to London on Thursday. May expects you. May and I have settled it all, so you needn’t look thunderstruck. If I hadn’t known for certain that you’d be glad to come and live with us I would not have arranged it at all. If I had not known equally well that your fluttering bird of a heart would have been totally upset at the prospect, I would have consulted you beforehand. As it is, the die is cast. Your fate is fixed. Nothing can reverse the decrees that have gone forth, so it’s as well to make your mind easy and go to work.”

Mrs Maylands wisely submitted. Three days afterwards she found herself in London, in a very small but charming cottage in an out-of-the-way corner of Nottinghill.

It was a perfect bijou of a cottage; very small—only two stories—with ceilings that a tall man could touch, and a trellis-work porch at the front door, and a little garden all to itself, and an ivy wall that shut out the curious public, but did not interfere with the sky, a patch of which gleamed through between two great palatial residences hard by, like a benignant eye.

“This is our new home, mother, and we have got it at such a low rent from Sir James Clubley, our landlord, that your income, coupled with May’s salary and mine, will enable us easily to make the two ends meet, if we manage economically.”

As he spoke, Phil seized the poker, and, with an utter disregard of the high price of coal, caused the fire to roar joyously up the chimney.

It was a brilliant winter day. White gems sparkled on the branches of the trees, and Jim was already commencing that course of romping which had, up to that date, strewn his path through life with wreck and ruin. Madge was investigating the capabilities of cupboards and larders, under the care of a small maid-of-all-work.

“May won’t be home till after dark,” said Phil. “She could not get away from duty to meet us. I shall telegraph to her that we have arrived, and that I shall meet her under the portico of the Post-Office and fetch her home this evening.”

“It is an amazing thing that telegraph! To think that one can send messages and make appointments so quickly!” remarked Mrs Maylands.

“Why, mother,” said Phil, with a laugh, “that is nothing to what can be—and is—done with it every day. I have a friend in the City who does a great part of his business with India by telegraph. The charge is four shillings and sixpence a word, and if a word has more than ten letters it is charged as two words. A registered address also costs a guinea, so, you see, telegraphic correspondence with India is expensive. Business men have therefore fallen on the plan of writing out lists of words, each of which means a longish sentence. This plan is so thoroughly carried out that books like thick dictionaries are now printed and regularly used.—What would you think, now, of ‘Obstinate Kangaroo’ for a message?”

“I would think it nonsense, Phil.”

“Nevertheless, mother, it covers sense. A Quebec timber-merchant telegraphed these identical words the other day to a friend of mine, and when the friend turned up the words ‘obstinate kangaroo’ in his corresponding code, he found the translation to be, ‘Demand is improving for Ohio or Michigan white oak (planks), 16 inches and upwards.’”

“You don’t say so!” exclaimed Mrs Maylands, raising both hands and eyebrows.

“Yes I do, mother, and in my City friend’s code the word ‘Blazing’ means ‘Quality is approved,’ while ‘Blissful’ signifies ‘What is the smallest quantity you require?’”

“Do you mean, Phil,” asked the widow, with a perplexed look, “that if I were a man of business, and wanted to ask a customer in India what was the smallest quantity of a thing he required, I should have to telegraph only the word ‘Blissful’?”

“Only that, mother. A blissful state of brevity to have come to, isn’t it? And some of the telegraph clerks fall into queer mistakes, too, owing to their ignorance. One of the rules is that the words sent must be bona fide words—not a mere unmeaning arrangement of letters. My City friend told me that on three different occasions telegrams of his were refused, because the words were not known, yet each of them was taken from the Bible! One of the telegrams was, ‘Blastus unholy.’”

“Oh, Phil, how can you!” exclaimed Mrs Maylands, with a shocked look.

“Well, mother, what’s wrong in that?”

“You know very well, Phil, that ‘Blast us’ is not in the Bible at all, and that it is a very awful species of slang swearing.”

“So the telegraph clerk thought,” returned Phil, “but when my City friend pointed out that Blastus was ‘the king’s chamberlain’ they were obliged to let the telegram go. ‘Blastus’ stands for ‘superior quality,’ and ‘unholy’ for ‘Offer is open for three days from time of despatch of telegram.’ Using the same code, if a merchant wants to ask a Calcutta friend the question—‘How is the coming crop as regards extent and appearance?’ he merely telegraphs the word ‘Hamlet.’ If he wishes to say ‘Bills of lading go forward by this mail, Invoices will follow,’ he has only to telegraph ‘Heretic.’ For the most part, the compilers of these codes seem to have used the words arbitrarily, for the word ‘Ellwood’ has no visible connection with the words ‘Blue Velvet,’ which it represents; neither is there connection between ‘Doves’ and ‘French Brandy,’ nor between ‘Collapse’ and ‘Scotch Coals,’ though there does seem to have been a gleam of significance when they fixed on ‘Downward’ to represent ‘Irish Whisky.’”

“That’s true, Phil, there was a touch of sense there, if not sarcasm,” said the widow heartily, for she was an abhorrer of strong drink!

“Then, mother, think of the saving of time accomplished by the telegraph. In days not long past, if a merchant in India wished to transact business with another in New York he had to write a letter which took months to make the voyage out, and his correspondent had to write a reply which took about the same time to return. Now, not long ago the head of an Indian house wanted a ship-load of something (I forget what) from New York. He telegraphed a few unconnected words to my City friend in London. If there had been no obstruction of any kind the message could have been flashed from Bombay to London in a few seconds; as it was, it made the journey in three hours. My friend, who received it in the forenoon, telegraphed to New York, transacted the business, received a reply from New York, and telegraphed back to Bombay that the order was given and in process of execution before five p.m. on the same day. Thus a commercial transaction between India and America, via England, involving, perhaps, thousands of pounds, was completed at the cost of a few pounds between breakfast and dinner. In other words, Bombay aroused New York to action by means of a flash of electricity within twenty-four hours.”

“Phil,” remarked Mrs Maylands, with a sigh, “don’t you think that man has now made almost all the discoveries that it is possible to make?”

“Why, no, mother, I think he is only on the threshold of discovery yet. The thought has sometimes come into my mind with tremendous power, that as God is infinite, and His knowledge infinite, there is, as it were, a necessity that we shall go on learning something new for ever!—But that is too deep a subject to enter on just now,” said Phil, rising, “for I must go and send off my telegram to May—she will be anxious to hear about you, poor girl. You must not be troubled when you see how the roses have faded from her cheeks. She is in good enough health, but I fear the telegraph service is too heavy for her, and the City air is not so bracing as that of the west of Ireland.”