Chapter Six.

Chapter Six.Treats of Poverty, Pride, and Fidelity.Behind a very fashionable square in a very unfashionable little street, in the west end of London, dwelt Miss Sarah Lillycrop.That lady’s portion in this life was a scanty wardrobe, a small apartment, a remarkably limited income, and a tender, religious spirit. From this it will be seen that she was rich as well as poor.Her age was, by a curious coincidence, exactly proportioned to her income—the one being forty pounds, and the other forty years. She added to the former, with difficulty, by teaching, and to the latter, unavoidably, by living.By means of a well-known quality styled economy, she more than doubled her income, and by uniting prayer with practice and a gracious mien she did good, as it were, at the rate of five hundred, or five thousand, a year.It could not be said, however, that Miss Lillycrop lived well in the ordinary sense of that expression.To those who knew her most intimately it seemed a species of standing miracle that she contrived to exist at all, for she fed chiefly on toast and tea. Her dietary resulted in an attenuated frame and a thread-paper constitution. Occasionally she indulged in an egg, sometimes even in a sausage. But, morally speaking, Miss Lillycrop lived well, because she lived for others. Of course we do not mean to imply that she had no regard for herself at all. On the contrary, she rejoiced in creature comforts when she had the chance, and laid in daily “one ha’p’orth of milk” all for herself. She paid for it, too, which is more than can be said of every one. She also indulged herself to some extent in the luxury of brown sugar at twopence-halfpenny a pound, and was absolutely extravagant in hot water, which she not only imbibed in the form of weak tea andeau sucréehot, but actually took to bed with her every night in an india-rubber bottle. But with the exception of these excusable touches of selfishness, Miss Lillycrop ignored herself systematically, and devoted her time, talents, and means, to the welfare of mankind.Beside a trim little tea-table set for three, she sat one evening with her hands folded on her lap, and her eyes fixed on the door as if she expected it to make a sudden and unprovoked assault on her. In a few minutes her expectations were almost realised, for the door burst open and a boy burst into the room with— “Here we are, Cousin Lillycrop.”“Phil, darling, at last!” exclaimed Cousin Lillycrop, rising in haste.Philip Maylands offered both hands, but Cousin Lillycrop declined them, seized him round the neck, kissed him on both cheeks, and thrust him down into an easy chair. Then she retired into her own easy chair and gloated over him.“How much you’ve grown—and so handsome, dear boy,” murmured the little lady.“Ah! then, cousin, it’s the blarney stone you’ve been kissing since I saw you last!”“No, Phil, I’ve kissed nothing but the cat since I saw you last. I kiss that delicious creature every night on the forehead before going to bed, but the undemonstrative thing does not seem to reciprocate. However, I cannot help that.”Miss Lillycrop was right, she could not help it. She was overflowing with the milk of human kindness, and, rather than let any of that valuable liquid go to waste, she poured some of it, not inappropriately, on the thankless cat.“I’m glad you arrived before your sister, Phil,” said Miss Lillycrop. “Of course I asked her here to meet you. I amsosorry the dear girl cannot live with me: I had fully meant that she should, but my little rooms are so far from the Post-Office, where her work is, you know, that it could not be managed. However, we see each other as often as possible, and she visits sometimes with me in my district. What has made you so late, Phil?”“I expected to have been here sooner, cousin,” replied Phil, as he took off his greatcoat, “but was delayed by my friend, George Aspel, who has come to London with me to look after a situation that has been promised him by Sir James Clubley, M.P. for I forget where. He’s coming here to-night.”“Who, Sir James Clubley?”“No,” returned the boy, laughing, “George Aspel. He went with Mr Blurt to a hotel to see after a bed, and promised to come here to tea. I asked him, knowing that you’d be glad to receive any intimate friend of mine. Won’t you, Coz?”Miss Lillycrop expressed and felt great delight at the prospect of meeting Phil’s friend, but the smallest possible shade of anxiety was mingled with the feeling as she glanced at her very small and not too heavily-loaded table.“Besides,” continued Phil, “George is such a splendid fellow, and, as maybe you remember, lived with us long ago. May will be glad to meet him; and he saved Mr Blurt’s life, so you see—”“Saved Mr Blurt’s life!” interrupted Miss Lillycrop.“Yes, and he saved ever so many more people at the same time, who would likely have been all lost if he hadn’t swum off to ’em with the rocket-line, and while he was doing that I ran off to call out the lifeboat, an’ didn’t they get her out and launch her with a will—for you see I had to run three miles, and though I went like the wind they couldn’t call out the men and launch her in a minute, you know; but there was no delay. We were in good time, and saved the whole of ’em—passengers and crew.”“So, then,youhad a hand in the saving of them,” said Miss Lillycrop.“Sure I had,” said Phil with a flush of pleasure at the remembrance of his share in the good work; “but I’d never have thought of the lifeboat, I was so excited with what was going on, if George hadn’t sent me off. He was bursting with big thoughts, and as cool as a cucumber all the time. I do hope he’ll get a good situation here. It’s in a large East India house, I believe, with which Sir James Clubley is connected, and Sir James was an old friend of George’s father, and was very kind to him in his last days, but they say he’s a proud and touchy old fellow.”As Phil spoke, the door, which had a tendency to burst that evening, opened quickly, though not so violently as before, and May Maylands stood before them, radiant with a glow of expectation.Phil sprang to meet her. After the first effusions were over, the brother and sister sat down to chat of home in the Irish far-west, while Miss Lillycrop retired to a small kitchen, there to hold solemn converse with the smallest domestic that ever handled broom or scrubbing-brush.“Now, Tottie, you must run round to the baker directly, and fetch another loaf.”“What! a whole one, ma’am?” asked the small domestic—in comparison with whom Dollops was a giantess.“Yes, a whole one. You see there’s a young gentleman coming to tea whom I did not expect—a grand tall gentleman too, and a hero, who has saved people from wrecks, and swims in the sea in storms like a duck, and all that sort of thing, so he’s sure to have a tremendous appetite. You will also buy another pennyworth of brown sugar, and two more pats of butter.”Tottie opened her large blue eyes in amazement at the extent of what she deemed a reckless order, but went off instantly to execute it, wondering that any hero, however regardless of the sea or storms, could induce her poor mistress to go in for such extravagance, after having already provided a luxurious meal for three.It might have seemed unfair to send such a child even to bed without an attendant. To send her into the crowded streets alone in the dusk of evening, burdened with a vast commission, and weighted with coppers, appeared little short of inhumanity. Nevertheless Miss Lillycrop did it with an air of perfect confidence, and the result proved that her trust was not misplaced.Tottie had been gone only a few seconds when George Aspel appeared at the door and was admitted by Miss Lillycrop, who apologised for the absence of her maid.Great was the surprise and not slight the embarrassment of May Maylands when young Aspel was ushered into the little room, for Phil had not recovered sufficiently from the first greetings to mention him. Perhaps greater was the surprise of Miss Lillycrop when these two, whom she had expected to meet as old playmates, shook hands rather stiffly.“Sure, I forgot, May, to tell you that George was coming—”“I am very glad to see him,” interrupted May, recovering herself, “though I confess to some surprise that he should have forsaken Ireland so soon, after saying to me that it was a perfect paradise.”Aspel, whose curly flaxen hair almost brushed the ceiling, brought himself down to a lower region by taking a chair, while he said with a meaning smile—“Ah! Miss Maylands, the circumstances are entirely altered now—besides,” he added with a sudden change of tone and manner, “that inexorable man-made demon, Business, calls me to London.”“I hope Business intends to keep you here,” said Miss Lillycrop, busying herself at the tea-table.“That remains to be seen,” returned Aspel. “If I find that—”“The loaf and butter, ma’am,” said Tottie, announcing these articles at the door as if they were visitors.“Hush, child; leave them in the kitchen till I ask for them,” said Miss Lillycrop with a quiet laugh. “My little maid issuchan original, Mr Aspel.”“She’s a very beautiful, though perhaps somewhat dishevelled, original,” returned Aspel, “of which one might be thankful to possess even an inferior copy.”“Indeed you are right,” rejoined Miss Lillycrop with enthusiasm; “she’s a perfect little angel—come, draw in your chairs; closer this way, Phil, so—a perfect little angel—you take sugar I think? Yes. Well, as I was saying, the strange thing about her was that she was born and bred—thus far—in one of the worst of the back slums of London, and her father is an idle drunkard. I fear, also, a criminal.”“How strange and sad,” said Aspel, whose heart was easily touched and sympathies roused by tales of sorrow. “But how comes it that she has escaped contamination?”“Because she has a good—by which I mean a Christian—mother. Ah! Mr Aspel, you have no idea how many unknown and unnoticed gems there are half smothered in the moral mud and filth of London. It is a wonderful—a tremendous city;—tremendous because of the mighty influences for good as well as evil which are constantly at work in it. There is an army of moral navvies labouring here, who are continually unearthing these gems, and there are others who polish them. I have the honour to be a member of this army. Dear little Tottie is one of the gems, and I mean, with God’s blessing, to polish her. Of course, I can’t get her all to myself,” continued Miss Lillycrop with a sigh, “for her mother, who is a washer-woman, won’t part with her, but she has agreed to come and work for me every morning for a few hours, and I can get her now and then of an evening. My chief regret is that the poor thing has a long long way to walk from her miserable home to reach me. I don’t know how she will stand it. She has been only a few days in my service.”As the unpolished diamond entered at this moment with a large plate of buttered toast, Miss Lillycrop changed the subject abruptly by expressing a hope that May Maylands had not to go on late duty that evening.“Oh, no; it’s not my turn for a week yet,” said May.“It seems to me very hard that they should work you night and day,” said Phil, who had been quietly drinking in new ideas with his tea while his cousin discoursed.“But they don’t work us night and day, Phil,” returned May, “it is only the telegraphs that do that. We of the female staff work in relays. If we commence at 8 a.m. we work till 4 p.m. If we begin at nine we work till five, and so on—eight p.m. being our latest hour. Night duty is performed by men, who are divided into two sections, and it is so arranged that each man has an alternate long and short duty—working three hours one night and thirteen hours the next. We are allowed half-an-hour for dinner, which we eat in a dining-hall in the place. Of course we dine in relays also, as there are above twelve hundred of us, male and female.”“How many?” asked George Aspel in surprise.“Above twelve hundred.”“Why, that would make two pretty fair regiments of soldiers,” said Aspel.“No, George,” said Phil, “it’s two regiments of pretty fair soldiers that they’d make.”“Can’t you hold your tongue, man, an’ let May talk?” retorted Aspel.“So, you see,” continued May, “that amongst us we manage to have the telegraphic communication of the kingdom well attended to.”“But tell me, May,” said Phil, “do they really suck messages through tubes two miles long?”“Indeed they do, Phil. You see, the General Post-Office in London is in direct communication with all the chief centres of the kingdom, such as Birmingham, Liverpool, Manchester, Edinburgh, Glasgow, Dublin, Cork, etcetera, so that all messages sent from London must pass through the great hall at St. Martin’s-le-Grand. But there are many offices in London for receiving telegrams besides the General Post-Office. Suppose that one of these offices in the city receives numerous telegrams every hour all day long,—instead of transmitting these by wire to the General Post-Office, to be re-distributed to their various destinations, they are collected and put bodily into cylindrical leather cases, which are inserted into pneumatic metal tubes. These extend to our central office, and through them the telegrams are sucked just as they are written. The longest tube, from the West Strand, is about two miles, and each bundle or cylinder of telegrams takes about three minutes to travel. There are upwards of thirty such tubes, and the suction business is done by two enormous fifty-horse-power steam-engines in the basement of our splendid building. There is a third engine, which is kept ready to work in case of a break-down, or while one of the others is being repaired.”“Ah! May, wouldn’t there be the grand blow-up if you were to burst your boilers in the basement?” said Phil.“No doubt there would. But steam is not the only terrible agent at work in that same basement. If you only saw the electric batteries there that generate the electricity which enables us up-stairs to send our messages flying from London to the Land’s End or John o’ Groat’s, or the heart of Ireland! You must know that a far stronger battery is required to send messages a long way than a short. Our Battery Inspector told me the other day that he could not tell exactly the power of all the batteries united, but he had no doubt it was sufficient to blow the entire building into the middle of next week. Now you know, Phil, it would require a pretty severe shock to do that, wouldn’t it? Fortunately the accidental union of all the batteries is impossible. But you’ll see it for yourself soon. And it will make you open your eyes when you see a room with three miles of shelving, on which are ranged twenty-two thousand battery-jars.”“My dear,” said Miss Lillycrop, with a mild smile, “you will no doubt wonder at my ignorance, but I don’t understand what you mean by a battery-jar.”“It is a jar, cousin, which contains the substances which produce electricity.”“Well, well,” rejoined Miss Lillycrop, dipping the sugar-spoon into the slop-bowl in her abstraction, “this world and its affairs is to me a standing miracle. Of course I must believe that what you say is true, yet I can no more understand how electricity is made in a jar and sent flying along a wire for some hundreds of miles with messages to our friends than I can comprehend how a fly walks on the ceiling without tumbling off.”“I’m afraid,” returned May, “that you would require to study a treatise on Telegraphy to comprehend that, but no doubt Phil will soon get it so clearly into his head as to be able to communicate it to you.—You’ll go to the office with me on Monday, won’t you, Phil?”“Of course I will—only too glad to begin at once.”“My poor boy,” said May, putting her hand on her brother’s arm, “it’s not a very great beginning of life to become a telegraph-messenger.”“Ah! now, May, that’s not like yourself,” said Phil, who unconsciously dropped—perhaps we should say rose—to a more decided brogue when he became tender or facetious. “Is it rousin’ the pride of me you’d be afther? Don’t they say that any ould fiddle is good enough to learn upon? Mustn’t I put my foot on the first round o’ the ladder if I want to go up higher? If I’m to be Postmaster-General mustn’t I get a general knowledge of the post from the bottom to the top by goin’ through it? It’s only men like George there that can go slap over everything at a bound.”“Come, Phil, don’t be impertinent,” said George, “it’s a bad sign in one so young. Will you convoy me a short way? I must go now.”He rose as he spoke and bade Miss Lillycrop good-evening. That lady expressed an earnest hope that he would come to see her frequently, and he promised to do so as often as he could find time. He also bade May good-evening because she was to spend the night with her cousin, but May parted from him with the same touch of reserve that marked their meeting. He resented this by drawing himself up and turning away somewhat coldly.“Now, Phil,” he said, almost sternly, on reaching the street, “here’s a letter to Sir James Clubley which I want to read to you.—Listen.”By the light of a lamp he read:—“Dear Sir,—I appreciate your kindness in offering me the situation mentioned in your letter of the 4th, and especially your remarks in reference to my late father, who was indeed worthy of esteem. I shall have pleasure in calling on you on hearing that you are satisfied with the testimonials herewith enclosed.—I am, etcetera.”“Now, Phil, will that do?”“Do? of course it will. Nothing could be better. Only—”“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 pass who could put the letter in for her, but in that retired angle no one passed. 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.

Behind a very fashionable square in a very unfashionable little street, in the west end of London, dwelt Miss Sarah Lillycrop.

That lady’s portion in this life was a scanty wardrobe, a small apartment, a remarkably limited income, and a tender, religious spirit. From this it will be seen that she was rich as well as poor.

Her age was, by a curious coincidence, exactly proportioned to her income—the one being forty pounds, and the other forty years. She added to the former, with difficulty, by teaching, and to the latter, unavoidably, by living.

By means of a well-known quality styled economy, she more than doubled her income, and by uniting prayer with practice and a gracious mien she did good, as it were, at the rate of five hundred, or five thousand, a year.

It could not be said, however, that Miss Lillycrop lived well in the ordinary sense of that expression.

To those who knew her most intimately it seemed a species of standing miracle that she contrived to exist at all, for she fed chiefly on toast and tea. Her dietary resulted in an attenuated frame and a thread-paper constitution. Occasionally she indulged in an egg, sometimes even in a sausage. But, morally speaking, Miss Lillycrop lived well, because she lived for others. Of course we do not mean to imply that she had no regard for herself at all. On the contrary, she rejoiced in creature comforts when she had the chance, and laid in daily “one ha’p’orth of milk” all for herself. She paid for it, too, which is more than can be said of every one. She also indulged herself to some extent in the luxury of brown sugar at twopence-halfpenny a pound, and was absolutely extravagant in hot water, which she not only imbibed in the form of weak tea andeau sucréehot, but actually took to bed with her every night in an india-rubber bottle. But with the exception of these excusable touches of selfishness, Miss Lillycrop ignored herself systematically, and devoted her time, talents, and means, to the welfare of mankind.

Beside a trim little tea-table set for three, she sat one evening with her hands folded on her lap, and her eyes fixed on the door as if she expected it to make a sudden and unprovoked assault on her. In a few minutes her expectations were almost realised, for the door burst open and a boy burst into the room with— “Here we are, Cousin Lillycrop.”

“Phil, darling, at last!” exclaimed Cousin Lillycrop, rising in haste.

Philip Maylands offered both hands, but Cousin Lillycrop declined them, seized him round the neck, kissed him on both cheeks, and thrust him down into an easy chair. Then she retired into her own easy chair and gloated over him.

“How much you’ve grown—and so handsome, dear boy,” murmured the little lady.

“Ah! then, cousin, it’s the blarney stone you’ve been kissing since I saw you last!”

“No, Phil, I’ve kissed nothing but the cat since I saw you last. I kiss that delicious creature every night on the forehead before going to bed, but the undemonstrative thing does not seem to reciprocate. However, I cannot help that.”

Miss Lillycrop was right, she could not help it. She was overflowing with the milk of human kindness, and, rather than let any of that valuable liquid go to waste, she poured some of it, not inappropriately, on the thankless cat.

“I’m glad you arrived before your sister, Phil,” said Miss Lillycrop. “Of course I asked her here to meet you. I amsosorry the dear girl cannot live with me: I had fully meant that she should, but my little rooms are so far from the Post-Office, where her work is, you know, that it could not be managed. However, we see each other as often as possible, and she visits sometimes with me in my district. What has made you so late, Phil?”

“I expected to have been here sooner, cousin,” replied Phil, as he took off his greatcoat, “but was delayed by my friend, George Aspel, who has come to London with me to look after a situation that has been promised him by Sir James Clubley, M.P. for I forget where. He’s coming here to-night.”

“Who, Sir James Clubley?”

“No,” returned the boy, laughing, “George Aspel. He went with Mr Blurt to a hotel to see after a bed, and promised to come here to tea. I asked him, knowing that you’d be glad to receive any intimate friend of mine. Won’t you, Coz?”

Miss Lillycrop expressed and felt great delight at the prospect of meeting Phil’s friend, but the smallest possible shade of anxiety was mingled with the feeling as she glanced at her very small and not too heavily-loaded table.

“Besides,” continued Phil, “George is such a splendid fellow, and, as maybe you remember, lived with us long ago. May will be glad to meet him; and he saved Mr Blurt’s life, so you see—”

“Saved Mr Blurt’s life!” interrupted Miss Lillycrop.

“Yes, and he saved ever so many more people at the same time, who would likely have been all lost if he hadn’t swum off to ’em with the rocket-line, and while he was doing that I ran off to call out the lifeboat, an’ didn’t they get her out and launch her with a will—for you see I had to run three miles, and though I went like the wind they couldn’t call out the men and launch her in a minute, you know; but there was no delay. We were in good time, and saved the whole of ’em—passengers and crew.”

“So, then,youhad a hand in the saving of them,” said Miss Lillycrop.

“Sure I had,” said Phil with a flush of pleasure at the remembrance of his share in the good work; “but I’d never have thought of the lifeboat, I was so excited with what was going on, if George hadn’t sent me off. He was bursting with big thoughts, and as cool as a cucumber all the time. I do hope he’ll get a good situation here. It’s in a large East India house, I believe, with which Sir James Clubley is connected, and Sir James was an old friend of George’s father, and was very kind to him in his last days, but they say he’s a proud and touchy old fellow.”

As Phil spoke, the door, which had a tendency to burst that evening, opened quickly, though not so violently as before, and May Maylands stood before them, radiant with a glow of expectation.

Phil sprang to meet her. After the first effusions were over, the brother and sister sat down to chat of home in the Irish far-west, while Miss Lillycrop retired to a small kitchen, there to hold solemn converse with the smallest domestic that ever handled broom or scrubbing-brush.

“Now, Tottie, you must run round to the baker directly, and fetch another loaf.”

“What! a whole one, ma’am?” asked the small domestic—in comparison with whom Dollops was a giantess.

“Yes, a whole one. You see there’s a young gentleman coming to tea whom I did not expect—a grand tall gentleman too, and a hero, who has saved people from wrecks, and swims in the sea in storms like a duck, and all that sort of thing, so he’s sure to have a tremendous appetite. You will also buy another pennyworth of brown sugar, and two more pats of butter.”

Tottie opened her large blue eyes in amazement at the extent of what she deemed a reckless order, but went off instantly to execute it, wondering that any hero, however regardless of the sea or storms, could induce her poor mistress to go in for such extravagance, after having already provided a luxurious meal for three.

It might have seemed unfair to send such a child even to bed without an attendant. To send her into the crowded streets alone in the dusk of evening, burdened with a vast commission, and weighted with coppers, appeared little short of inhumanity. Nevertheless Miss Lillycrop did it with an air of perfect confidence, and the result proved that her trust was not misplaced.

Tottie had been gone only a few seconds when George Aspel appeared at the door and was admitted by Miss Lillycrop, who apologised for the absence of her maid.

Great was the surprise and not slight the embarrassment of May Maylands when young Aspel was ushered into the little room, for Phil had not recovered sufficiently from the first greetings to mention him. Perhaps greater was the surprise of Miss Lillycrop when these two, whom she had expected to meet as old playmates, shook hands rather stiffly.

“Sure, I forgot, May, to tell you that George was coming—”

“I am very glad to see him,” interrupted May, recovering herself, “though I confess to some surprise that he should have forsaken Ireland so soon, after saying to me that it was a perfect paradise.”

Aspel, whose curly flaxen hair almost brushed the ceiling, brought himself down to a lower region by taking a chair, while he said with a meaning smile—

“Ah! Miss Maylands, the circumstances are entirely altered now—besides,” he added with a sudden change of tone and manner, “that inexorable man-made demon, Business, calls me to London.”

“I hope Business intends to keep you here,” said Miss Lillycrop, busying herself at the tea-table.

“That remains to be seen,” returned Aspel. “If I find that—”

“The loaf and butter, ma’am,” said Tottie, announcing these articles at the door as if they were visitors.

“Hush, child; leave them in the kitchen till I ask for them,” said Miss Lillycrop with a quiet laugh. “My little maid issuchan original, Mr Aspel.”

“She’s a very beautiful, though perhaps somewhat dishevelled, original,” returned Aspel, “of which one might be thankful to possess even an inferior copy.”

“Indeed you are right,” rejoined Miss Lillycrop with enthusiasm; “she’s a perfect little angel—come, draw in your chairs; closer this way, Phil, so—a perfect little angel—you take sugar I think? Yes. Well, as I was saying, the strange thing about her was that she was born and bred—thus far—in one of the worst of the back slums of London, and her father is an idle drunkard. I fear, also, a criminal.”

“How strange and sad,” said Aspel, whose heart was easily touched and sympathies roused by tales of sorrow. “But how comes it that she has escaped contamination?”

“Because she has a good—by which I mean a Christian—mother. Ah! Mr Aspel, you have no idea how many unknown and unnoticed gems there are half smothered in the moral mud and filth of London. It is a wonderful—a tremendous city;—tremendous because of the mighty influences for good as well as evil which are constantly at work in it. There is an army of moral navvies labouring here, who are continually unearthing these gems, and there are others who polish them. I have the honour to be a member of this army. Dear little Tottie is one of the gems, and I mean, with God’s blessing, to polish her. Of course, I can’t get her all to myself,” continued Miss Lillycrop with a sigh, “for her mother, who is a washer-woman, won’t part with her, but she has agreed to come and work for me every morning for a few hours, and I can get her now and then of an evening. My chief regret is that the poor thing has a long long way to walk from her miserable home to reach me. I don’t know how she will stand it. She has been only a few days in my service.”

As the unpolished diamond entered at this moment with a large plate of buttered toast, Miss Lillycrop changed the subject abruptly by expressing a hope that May Maylands had not to go on late duty that evening.

“Oh, no; it’s not my turn for a week yet,” said May.

“It seems to me very hard that they should work you night and day,” said Phil, who had been quietly drinking in new ideas with his tea while his cousin discoursed.

“But they don’t work us night and day, Phil,” returned May, “it is only the telegraphs that do that. We of the female staff work in relays. If we commence at 8 a.m. we work till 4 p.m. If we begin at nine we work till five, and so on—eight p.m. being our latest hour. Night duty is performed by men, who are divided into two sections, and it is so arranged that each man has an alternate long and short duty—working three hours one night and thirteen hours the next. We are allowed half-an-hour for dinner, which we eat in a dining-hall in the place. Of course we dine in relays also, as there are above twelve hundred of us, male and female.”

“How many?” asked George Aspel in surprise.

“Above twelve hundred.”

“Why, that would make two pretty fair regiments of soldiers,” said Aspel.

“No, George,” said Phil, “it’s two regiments of pretty fair soldiers that they’d make.”

“Can’t you hold your tongue, man, an’ let May talk?” retorted Aspel.

“So, you see,” continued May, “that amongst us we manage to have the telegraphic communication of the kingdom well attended to.”

“But tell me, May,” said Phil, “do they really suck messages through tubes two miles long?”

“Indeed they do, Phil. You see, the General Post-Office in London is in direct communication with all the chief centres of the kingdom, such as Birmingham, Liverpool, Manchester, Edinburgh, Glasgow, Dublin, Cork, etcetera, so that all messages sent from London must pass through the great hall at St. Martin’s-le-Grand. But there are many offices in London for receiving telegrams besides the General Post-Office. Suppose that one of these offices in the city receives numerous telegrams every hour all day long,—instead of transmitting these by wire to the General Post-Office, to be re-distributed to their various destinations, they are collected and put bodily into cylindrical leather cases, which are inserted into pneumatic metal tubes. These extend to our central office, and through them the telegrams are sucked just as they are written. The longest tube, from the West Strand, is about two miles, and each bundle or cylinder of telegrams takes about three minutes to travel. There are upwards of thirty such tubes, and the suction business is done by two enormous fifty-horse-power steam-engines in the basement of our splendid building. There is a third engine, which is kept ready to work in case of a break-down, or while one of the others is being repaired.”

“Ah! May, wouldn’t there be the grand blow-up if you were to burst your boilers in the basement?” said Phil.

“No doubt there would. But steam is not the only terrible agent at work in that same basement. If you only saw the electric batteries there that generate the electricity which enables us up-stairs to send our messages flying from London to the Land’s End or John o’ Groat’s, or the heart of Ireland! You must know that a far stronger battery is required to send messages a long way than a short. Our Battery Inspector told me the other day that he could not tell exactly the power of all the batteries united, but he had no doubt it was sufficient to blow the entire building into the middle of next week. Now you know, Phil, it would require a pretty severe shock to do that, wouldn’t it? Fortunately the accidental union of all the batteries is impossible. But you’ll see it for yourself soon. And it will make you open your eyes when you see a room with three miles of shelving, on which are ranged twenty-two thousand battery-jars.”

“My dear,” said Miss Lillycrop, with a mild smile, “you will no doubt wonder at my ignorance, but I don’t understand what you mean by a battery-jar.”

“It is a jar, cousin, which contains the substances which produce electricity.”

“Well, well,” rejoined Miss Lillycrop, dipping the sugar-spoon into the slop-bowl in her abstraction, “this world and its affairs is to me a standing miracle. Of course I must believe that what you say is true, yet I can no more understand how electricity is made in a jar and sent flying along a wire for some hundreds of miles with messages to our friends than I can comprehend how a fly walks on the ceiling without tumbling off.”

“I’m afraid,” returned May, “that you would require to study a treatise on Telegraphy to comprehend that, but no doubt Phil will soon get it so clearly into his head as to be able to communicate it to you.—You’ll go to the office with me on Monday, won’t you, Phil?”

“Of course I will—only too glad to begin at once.”

“My poor boy,” said May, putting her hand on her brother’s arm, “it’s not a very great beginning of life to become a telegraph-messenger.”

“Ah! now, May, that’s not like yourself,” said Phil, who unconsciously dropped—perhaps we should say rose—to a more decided brogue when he became tender or facetious. “Is it rousin’ the pride of me you’d be afther? Don’t they say that any ould fiddle is good enough to learn upon? Mustn’t I put my foot on the first round o’ the ladder if I want to go up higher? If I’m to be Postmaster-General mustn’t I get a general knowledge of the post from the bottom to the top by goin’ through it? It’s only men like George there that can go slap over everything at a bound.”

“Come, Phil, don’t be impertinent,” said George, “it’s a bad sign in one so young. Will you convoy me a short way? I must go now.”

He rose as he spoke and bade Miss Lillycrop good-evening. That lady expressed an earnest hope that he would come to see her frequently, and he promised to do so as often as he could find time. He also bade May good-evening because she was to spend the night with her cousin, but May parted from him with the same touch of reserve that marked their meeting. He resented this by drawing himself up and turning away somewhat coldly.

“Now, Phil,” he said, almost sternly, on reaching the street, “here’s a letter to Sir James Clubley which I want to read to you.—Listen.”

By the light of a lamp he read:—

“Dear Sir,—I appreciate your kindness in offering me the situation mentioned in your letter of the 4th, and especially your remarks in reference to my late father, who was indeed worthy of esteem. I shall have pleasure in calling on you on hearing that you are satisfied with the testimonials herewith enclosed.—I am, etcetera.”

“Dear Sir,—I appreciate your kindness in offering me the situation mentioned in your letter of the 4th, and especially your remarks in reference to my late father, who was indeed worthy of esteem. I shall have pleasure in calling on you on hearing that you are satisfied with the testimonials herewith enclosed.—I am, etcetera.”

“Now, Phil, will that do?”

“Do? of course it will. Nothing could be better. Only—”

“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 pass who could put the letter in for her, but in that retired angle no one passed. 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 nobody, 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 basement 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 shillings sterling a week, and was further buoyed up with the hope of an increase to eight shillings 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 institution 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.“OnlyMrs 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 basement 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 seenyoubefore?” 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 beseen.”“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 friendship over this precious goblet.”Of course Phil cheerfully complied, and the friendship 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 ofaliases—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.“What! you don’t mean to say you can eat it all yourself for dinner?”“The extent of my ability in the disposal of wittles,” answered Pax, “I have never fairly tested. I think I could eat this at one meal, though I ain’t sure, but it’s meant to serve me all day. You see I find a good, solid, well-made plum-pudding, with not too much suet, and a moderate allowance of currants and raisins, an admirable squencher of appetite. It’s portable too, and keeps well. Besides, if I can’t get through with it at supper, it fries up next mornin’ splendidly.—Come, I’ll let you taste a bit, an’ that’s a favour w’ich I wouldn’t grant to every one.”“No, thank ’ee, Pax. I’m already loaded and primed for the forenoon, but I’ll sit by you while you eat, and chat.”“You’re welcome,” returned Pax, “only don’t be cheeky, Philip, as I can’t meet you on an equal footing w’en I’m at grub.”“I’ll be careful, Pax; but don’t call me Philip—call me Phil.”“I will, Phil; come along, Phil; ‘Come fill up my cup, come fill up my can’—that sort o’ thing you understand, Phil, me darlint?”There was such a superhuman amount of knowing presumption in the look and air of Pax, as he poked Phil in the ribs and winked, that the latter burst into laughter, in which however he was not joined by his companion, who with the goblet in one hand and the other thrust into his pocket, stood regarding his new friend with a pitiful expression till he recovered, and then led him off to a confabulation which deepened their mutual esteem.That same evening a gentleman called at the Post-Office, desiring to see Philip Maylands. It turned out to be George Aspel.“Why, George, what brings you here?” said Phil in surprise.“I chanced to be in the neighbourhood,” answered Aspel, “and came to ask the address of that little creature who posted my letter the other night. I want to see her. She does not go to your cousin’s, I know, till morning, and I must see her to-night, to make sure that shedidpost the letter, for, d’you know, I’ve had no reply from Sir James, and I can’t rest until I ascertain whether my letter was posted. Can you tell me where she lives, Phil?”At that moment Phil was summoned for duty. Giving his friend the address hastily, he left him.George Aspel passed the front of the General Post-Office on his way to visit Tottie Bones, and, observing a considerable bustle going on there, he stopped to gaze, for George had an inquiring mind. Being fresh from the country, his progress through the streets of London, as may be well understood, was slow. It was also harassing to himself and the public, for when not actually standing entranced in front of shop-windows his irresistible tendency to look in while walking resulted in many collisions and numerous apologies. At the General Post-Office he avoided the stream of human beings by getting under the lee of one of the pillars of the colonnade, whence he could look on undisturbed.Up to six o’clock letters are received in the letter-box at St. Martin’s-le-Grand for the mails which leave London at eight each evening. The place for receiving book-parcels and newspapers, however, closes half-an-hour sooner. Before five a brass slit in the wall suffices for the public, but within a few minutes of the half-hour the steady run of men and boys towards it is so great that the slit becomes inadequate. A trap-door is therefore opened in the pavement, and a yawning abyss displayed which communicates by an inclined plane with the newspaper regions below. Into this abyss everything is hurled.When Aspel took up his position people were hurrying towards the hole, some with single book-parcels, or a few newspapers, others with armfuls, and many with sackfuls. In a few minutes the rapid walk became a run. Men, boys, and girls sprang up the steps—occasionally tumbled up,—jostled each other in their eager haste, and tossed, dropped, hurled, or poured their contributions into the receptacle, which was at last fed so hastily that it choked once or twice, and a policeman, assisted by an official, stuffed the literary matter down its throat—with difficulty, however, owing to the ever-increasing stream of contributors to the feast. The trap-door, when open, formed a barrier to the hole, which prevented the too eager public from being posted headlong with their papers. One youth staggered up the steps under a sack so large that he could scarcely lift it over the edge of the barrier without the policeman’s aid. Him Aspel questioned, as he was leaving with the empty sack, and found that he was the porter of one of the large publishing firms of the city.Others he found came from advertising agents with sacks of circulars, etcetera.Soon the minutes were reduced to seconds, and the work became proportionally fast and furious; sacks, baskets, hampers, trays of material were emptied violently into that insatiable maw, and in some cases the sacks went in along with their contents. But owners’ names being on these, they were recoverable elsewhere.Suddenly, yet slowly, the opening closed. The monster was satisfied for that time; it would not swallow another morsel, and one or two unfortunates who came late with large bags of newspapers and circulars had to resort to the comparatively slow process of cramming their contents through the narrow slit above, with the comforting certainty that they had missed that post.Turning from this point George Aspel observed that the box for letters—closing, as we have said, half an hour later than that for books and papers—was beginning to show symptoms of activity. At a quarter to six the long metal slit suddenly opened up like a gaping mouth, into which a harlequin could have leaped easily. Through it Aspel could look—over the heads of the public—and see the officials inside dragging away great baskets full of letters to be manipulated in the mysterious realms inside. At five minutes to six the rush towards this mouth was incessant, and the operations at the newspaper-tomb were pretty much repeated, though, of course, the contents of bags and baskets were not quite so ponderous. At one side of the mouth stood an official in a red coat, at the other a policeman. These assisted the public to empty their baskets and trays, gave information, sometimes advice, and kept people moving on. Little boys there, as elsewhere, had a strong tendency to skylark and gaze at the busy officials inside, to the obstruction of the way. The policeman checked their propensities. A stout elderly female panted towards the mouth with a letter in one hand and a paper in the other. She had full two minutes and a half to spare, but felt convinced she was too late. The red-coated official posted her letter, and pointed out the proper place for the newspaper. At two minutes to six anxious people began to run while yet in the street. Cool personages, seeing the clock, and feeling safe, affected an easy nonchalance, but did not loiter. One minute to six—eager looks were on the faces of those who, from all sides, converged towards the great receiving-box. The active sprang up the wide stairs at a bound, heaved in their bundles, or packets, or single missives, and heaved sighs of relief after them; the timid stumbled on the stairs and blundered up to the mouth; while the hasty almost plunged into it bodily. Even at this critical moment there were lulls in the rush. Once there was almost a dead pause, and at that moment an exquisite sauntered towards the mouth, dropped a solitary little letter down the slope where whole cataracts had been flowing, and turned away. He was almost carried off his legs by two youths from a lawyer’s office, who rushed up just as the first stroke of six o’clock rang out on the night air. Slowly and grandly it tolled from St. Paul’s, whose mighty dome was visible above the house-tops from the colonnade. During these fleeting moments a few dozens of late ones posted some hundreds of letters. With kindly consideration the authorities of St. Martin’s-le-Grand have set their timepieces one minute slow. Aware of this, a clerk, gasping and with a pen behind his ear, leaped up the steps at the last stroke, and hurled in a bundle of letters. Next moment, like inexorable fate, the mouth closed, and nothing short of the demolition of the British Constitution could have induced that mouth to convey another letter to the eight o’clock mails.Hope, however, was not utterly removed. Those who chose to place an additional penny stamp on their letters could, by posting them in a separate box, have them taken in for that mail up to seven. Twopence secured their acceptance up to 7:15. Threepence up to 7:30, and sixpence up to 7:45, but all letters posted after six without the late fees were detained for the following mail.“Sharp practice!” observed George Aspel to the red-coated official, who, after shutting the mouth, placed a ticket above it which told all corners that they were too late.“Yes, sir, and pretty sharp work is needful when you consider that the mails we’ve got to send out daily from this office consist of over 5800 bags, weighing forty-three tons, while the mails received number more than 5500 bags. Speaks to a deal of correspondence that, don’t it, sir?”“What!—every day?” exclaimed Aspel in surprise.“Every day,” replied the official, with a good-humoured smile and an emphatic nod. “Why, sir,” he continued, in a leisurely way, “we’re some what of a literary nation, we are. How many letters, now, d’you think, pass through the Post-Office altogether—counting England, Scotland, and Ireland?”“Haven’t the remotest idea.”“Well, sir,” continued the red-coated man, with impressive solemnity, “we passes through our hands in one year about one thousand and fifty-seven million odd.”“I know enough of figures,” said Aspel, with a laugh, “to be aware that I cannot realise such a number.”“Nevertheless, sir,” continued the official, with a patronising air, “you can realise somethingaboutsuch a number. For instance, that sum gives thirty-two letters per head to the population in the year; and, of course, as thousands of us can’t write, and thousands more don’t write, it follows that the real correspondents of the kingdom do some pretty stiff work in the writing way. But these are only theletters. If you include somewhere about four hundred and twenty million post-cards, newspapers, book-packets, and circulars, you have a sum total of fourteen hundred and seventy-seven million odd passing through our hands. Put that down in figures, sir, w’en you git home—1,477,000,000—an p’r’aps it’ll open your eyes a bit. If you want ’em opened still wider, just try to find out how long it would take you to count that sum, at the rate of sixty to the minute, beginning one, two, three, and so on, workin’ eight hours a day without takin’ time for meals, but givin’ you off sixty-five days each year for Sundays and holidays to recruit your wasted energies.”“How longwouldit take?” asked Aspel, with an amused but interested look.“W’y, sir, it would take you just a little over one hundred and seventy years. The calculation ain’t difficult; you can try it for yourself if you don’t believe it.—Good-night, sir,” added the red-coated official, with a pleasant nod, as he turned and entered the great building, where a huge proportion of this amazing work was being at that moment actively manipulated.

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 nobody, 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 basement 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 shillings sterling a week, and was further buoyed up with the hope of an increase to eight shillings 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 institution 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.

“OnlyMrs 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 basement 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 seenyoubefore?” 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 beseen.”

“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 friendship over this precious goblet.”

Of course Phil cheerfully complied, and the friendship 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 ofaliases—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.

“What! you don’t mean to say you can eat it all yourself for dinner?”

“The extent of my ability in the disposal of wittles,” answered Pax, “I have never fairly tested. I think I could eat this at one meal, though I ain’t sure, but it’s meant to serve me all day. You see I find a good, solid, well-made plum-pudding, with not too much suet, and a moderate allowance of currants and raisins, an admirable squencher of appetite. It’s portable too, and keeps well. Besides, if I can’t get through with it at supper, it fries up next mornin’ splendidly.—Come, I’ll let you taste a bit, an’ that’s a favour w’ich I wouldn’t grant to every one.”

“No, thank ’ee, Pax. I’m already loaded and primed for the forenoon, but I’ll sit by you while you eat, and chat.”

“You’re welcome,” returned Pax, “only don’t be cheeky, Philip, as I can’t meet you on an equal footing w’en I’m at grub.”

“I’ll be careful, Pax; but don’t call me Philip—call me Phil.”

“I will, Phil; come along, Phil; ‘Come fill up my cup, come fill up my can’—that sort o’ thing you understand, Phil, me darlint?”

There was such a superhuman amount of knowing presumption in the look and air of Pax, as he poked Phil in the ribs and winked, that the latter burst into laughter, in which however he was not joined by his companion, who with the goblet in one hand and the other thrust into his pocket, stood regarding his new friend with a pitiful expression till he recovered, and then led him off to a confabulation which deepened their mutual esteem.

That same evening a gentleman called at the Post-Office, desiring to see Philip Maylands. It turned out to be George Aspel.

“Why, George, what brings you here?” said Phil in surprise.

“I chanced to be in the neighbourhood,” answered Aspel, “and came to ask the address of that little creature who posted my letter the other night. I want to see her. She does not go to your cousin’s, I know, till morning, and I must see her to-night, to make sure that shedidpost the letter, for, d’you know, I’ve had no reply from Sir James, and I can’t rest until I ascertain whether my letter was posted. Can you tell me where she lives, Phil?”

At that moment Phil was summoned for duty. Giving his friend the address hastily, he left him.

George Aspel passed the front of the General Post-Office on his way to visit Tottie Bones, and, observing a considerable bustle going on there, he stopped to gaze, for George had an inquiring mind. Being fresh from the country, his progress through the streets of London, as may be well understood, was slow. It was also harassing to himself and the public, for when not actually standing entranced in front of shop-windows his irresistible tendency to look in while walking resulted in many collisions and numerous apologies. At the General Post-Office he avoided the stream of human beings by getting under the lee of one of the pillars of the colonnade, whence he could look on undisturbed.

Up to six o’clock letters are received in the letter-box at St. Martin’s-le-Grand for the mails which leave London at eight each evening. The place for receiving book-parcels and newspapers, however, closes half-an-hour sooner. Before five a brass slit in the wall suffices for the public, but within a few minutes of the half-hour the steady run of men and boys towards it is so great that the slit becomes inadequate. A trap-door is therefore opened in the pavement, and a yawning abyss displayed which communicates by an inclined plane with the newspaper regions below. Into this abyss everything is hurled.

When Aspel took up his position people were hurrying towards the hole, some with single book-parcels, or a few newspapers, others with armfuls, and many with sackfuls. In a few minutes the rapid walk became a run. Men, boys, and girls sprang up the steps—occasionally tumbled up,—jostled each other in their eager haste, and tossed, dropped, hurled, or poured their contributions into the receptacle, which was at last fed so hastily that it choked once or twice, and a policeman, assisted by an official, stuffed the literary matter down its throat—with difficulty, however, owing to the ever-increasing stream of contributors to the feast. The trap-door, when open, formed a barrier to the hole, which prevented the too eager public from being posted headlong with their papers. One youth staggered up the steps under a sack so large that he could scarcely lift it over the edge of the barrier without the policeman’s aid. Him Aspel questioned, as he was leaving with the empty sack, and found that he was the porter of one of the large publishing firms of the city.

Others he found came from advertising agents with sacks of circulars, etcetera.

Soon the minutes were reduced to seconds, and the work became proportionally fast and furious; sacks, baskets, hampers, trays of material were emptied violently into that insatiable maw, and in some cases the sacks went in along with their contents. But owners’ names being on these, they were recoverable elsewhere.

Suddenly, yet slowly, the opening closed. The monster was satisfied for that time; it would not swallow another morsel, and one or two unfortunates who came late with large bags of newspapers and circulars had to resort to the comparatively slow process of cramming their contents through the narrow slit above, with the comforting certainty that they had missed that post.

Turning from this point George Aspel observed that the box for letters—closing, as we have said, half an hour later than that for books and papers—was beginning to show symptoms of activity. At a quarter to six the long metal slit suddenly opened up like a gaping mouth, into which a harlequin could have leaped easily. Through it Aspel could look—over the heads of the public—and see the officials inside dragging away great baskets full of letters to be manipulated in the mysterious realms inside. At five minutes to six the rush towards this mouth was incessant, and the operations at the newspaper-tomb were pretty much repeated, though, of course, the contents of bags and baskets were not quite so ponderous. At one side of the mouth stood an official in a red coat, at the other a policeman. These assisted the public to empty their baskets and trays, gave information, sometimes advice, and kept people moving on. Little boys there, as elsewhere, had a strong tendency to skylark and gaze at the busy officials inside, to the obstruction of the way. The policeman checked their propensities. A stout elderly female panted towards the mouth with a letter in one hand and a paper in the other. She had full two minutes and a half to spare, but felt convinced she was too late. The red-coated official posted her letter, and pointed out the proper place for the newspaper. At two minutes to six anxious people began to run while yet in the street. Cool personages, seeing the clock, and feeling safe, affected an easy nonchalance, but did not loiter. One minute to six—eager looks were on the faces of those who, from all sides, converged towards the great receiving-box. The active sprang up the wide stairs at a bound, heaved in their bundles, or packets, or single missives, and heaved sighs of relief after them; the timid stumbled on the stairs and blundered up to the mouth; while the hasty almost plunged into it bodily. Even at this critical moment there were lulls in the rush. Once there was almost a dead pause, and at that moment an exquisite sauntered towards the mouth, dropped a solitary little letter down the slope where whole cataracts had been flowing, and turned away. He was almost carried off his legs by two youths from a lawyer’s office, who rushed up just as the first stroke of six o’clock rang out on the night air. Slowly and grandly it tolled from St. Paul’s, whose mighty dome was visible above the house-tops from the colonnade. During these fleeting moments a few dozens of late ones posted some hundreds of letters. With kindly consideration the authorities of St. Martin’s-le-Grand have set their timepieces one minute slow. Aware of this, a clerk, gasping and with a pen behind his ear, leaped up the steps at the last stroke, and hurled in a bundle of letters. Next moment, like inexorable fate, the mouth closed, and nothing short of the demolition of the British Constitution could have induced that mouth to convey another letter to the eight o’clock mails.

Hope, however, was not utterly removed. Those who chose to place an additional penny stamp on their letters could, by posting them in a separate box, have them taken in for that mail up to seven. Twopence secured their acceptance up to 7:15. Threepence up to 7:30, and sixpence up to 7:45, but all letters posted after six without the late fees were detained for the following mail.

“Sharp practice!” observed George Aspel to the red-coated official, who, after shutting the mouth, placed a ticket above it which told all corners that they were too late.

“Yes, sir, and pretty sharp work is needful when you consider that the mails we’ve got to send out daily from this office consist of over 5800 bags, weighing forty-three tons, while the mails received number more than 5500 bags. Speaks to a deal of correspondence that, don’t it, sir?”

“What!—every day?” exclaimed Aspel in surprise.

“Every day,” replied the official, with a good-humoured smile and an emphatic nod. “Why, sir,” he continued, in a leisurely way, “we’re some what of a literary nation, we are. How many letters, now, d’you think, pass through the Post-Office altogether—counting England, Scotland, and Ireland?”

“Haven’t the remotest idea.”

“Well, sir,” continued the red-coated man, with impressive solemnity, “we passes through our hands in one year about one thousand and fifty-seven million odd.”

“I know enough of figures,” said Aspel, with a laugh, “to be aware that I cannot realise such a number.”

“Nevertheless, sir,” continued the official, with a patronising air, “you can realise somethingaboutsuch a number. For instance, that sum gives thirty-two letters per head to the population in the year; and, of course, as thousands of us can’t write, and thousands more don’t write, it follows that the real correspondents of the kingdom do some pretty stiff work in the writing way. But these are only theletters. If you include somewhere about four hundred and twenty million post-cards, newspapers, book-packets, and circulars, you have a sum total of fourteen hundred and seventy-seven million odd passing through our hands. Put that down in figures, sir, w’en you git home—1,477,000,000—an p’r’aps it’ll open your eyes a bit. If you want ’em opened still wider, just try to find out how long it would take you to count that sum, at the rate of sixty to the minute, beginning one, two, three, and so on, workin’ eight hours a day without takin’ time for meals, but givin’ you off sixty-five days each year for Sundays and holidays to recruit your wasted energies.”

“How longwouldit take?” asked Aspel, with an amused but interested look.

“W’y, sir, it would take you just a little over one hundred and seventy years. The calculation ain’t difficult; you can try it for yourself if you don’t believe it.—Good-night, sir,” added the red-coated official, with a pleasant nod, as he turned and entered the great building, where a huge proportion of this amazing work was being at that moment actively manipulated.

Chapter Eight.Downward—Deeper and Deeper.As the great bell of St. Paul’s struck the half-hour, George Aspel was reminded of the main object of his visit to that part of the City. Descending to the street, and pondering in silent wonder on the vast literary correspondence of the kingdom, he strode rapidly onward, his long legs enabling him to pass ahead of the stream of life that flowed with him, and causing him to jostle not a few members of the stream that opposed him.“Hallo, sir!” “Look out!” “Mind your eye, stoopid!” “Now, then, you lamp-post, w’ere are you a-goin’ to?” “Wot asylum ’aveyouescaped from?” were among the mildest remarks with which he was greeted.But Aspel heeded them not. The vendors of penny marvels failed to attract him. Even the print-shop windows had lost their influence for a time; and as for monkeys, barrel-organs, and trained birds, they were as the dust under his feet, although at other times they formed a perpetual feast to his unsophisticated soul. “Letters, letters, letters!”He could think of nothing else. “Fourteen hundred and seventy-seven millions of letters, etcetera, through the Post-Office in one year!” kept ringing through his brain; only varied in its monotony by “that gives thirty-two letters per head to the entire population, and as lots of ’em can’t write, of course it’s much more for those who can! Take a man one hundred and seventy years to count ’em!”At this point the brilliant glare of a gin-palace reminded him that he had walked far and long, and had for some time felt thirsty. Entering, he called for a pot of beer. It was not a huge draught for a man of his size. As he drained it the memory of grand old jovial sea-kings crossed his mind, and he called for another pot. As he was about to apply it to his lips, and shook back his flaxen curls, the remembrance of, a Norse drinking-cup in his possession—an heirloom, which could not stand on its bottom, and had therefore to be emptied before being set down,—induced him to chuckle quietly before quaffing his beer.On setting down the empty pot he observed a poor miserable-looking woman, with a black eye and a black bottle, gazing at him in undisguised admiration. Instantly he called for a third pot of beer. Being supplied by the wondering shop-boy, he handed it to the woman; but she shook her head, and drew back with an air of decision.“No, sir,” she said, “but thank you kindly all the same, sir.”“Very well,” returned the youth, putting the pot and a half-crown on the counter, “you may drink it or leave it as you please. I pay for it, and you may take the change—or leave that too if you like,” he added, as he went out, somewhat displeased that his feeling of generosity had been snubbed.After wandering a short distance he was involved in labyrinths of brick and mortar, and suddenly became convinced that he was lost. This was however a small matter. To find one’s way by asking it is not difficult, even in London, if one possesses average intelligence.The first man he stopped was a Scot. With characteristic caution that worthy cleared his throat, and with national deliberation repeated Aspel’s query, after which, in a marked tone of regret, he said slowly, “Weel, sir, I really div not ken.”Aspel thanked him with a sarcastic smile and passed on. His next effort was with a countryman, who replied, “Troth, sur, that’s more nor I can tell ’ee,” and looked after his questioner kindly as he walked away. A policeman appearing was tried next. “First to the right, sir, third to the left, and ask again,” was the sharp reply of that limb of the Executive, as he passed slowly on, stiff as a post, and stately as a law of fate.Having taken the required turns our wanderer found himself in a peculiarly low, dirty, and disagreeable locality. The population was in keeping with it—so much so that Aspel looked round inquiringly before proceeding to “ask again.” He had not quite made up his mind which of the tawdry, half-drunken creatures around him he would address, when a middle-aged man of respectable appearance, dressed in black, issued from one of the surrounding dens.“A city missionary,” thought George Aspel, as he approached, and asked for direction to the abode of a man named Abel Bones.The missionary pointed out the entrance to the desired abode, and looked at his questioner with a glance which arrested the youth’s attention.“Excuse me, sir,” he said, “but the man you name has a very bad character.”“Well, what then?” demanded Aspel sharply.“Oh! nothing. I only meant to warn you, for he is a dangerous man.”The missionary was a thin but muscular man, with stern black eyes and a powerful nose, which might have rendered his face harsh if it had not been more than redeemed by a large firm mouth, round which played lines that told unmistakably of the milk of human kindness. He smiled as he spoke, and Aspel was disarmed.“Thank you,” he said; “I am well able to take care of myself.”Evidently the missionary thought so too, for, with a quiet bow, he turned and went his way.At the end of a remarkably dark passage George Aspel ran his head against a beam and his knee against a door with considerable violence.“Come in,” said a very weak but sweet little voice, as though doors in that region were usually rapped at in that fashion.Lifting the latch and entering, Aspel found himself confronted by Tottie Bones in her native home.It was a very small, desolate, and dirty home, and barely rendered visible by a thin “dip” stuck into an empty pint-bottle.Tottie opened her large eyes wide with astonishment, then laid one of her dirty little fingers on her rosy lips and looked imploringly at her visitor. Thus admonished, he spoke, without knowing why in a subdued voice.“You are surprised to see me, Tottie?”“I’m surprised at nothink, sir. ’Taint possible to surprise me with anythink inthislife.”“D’you expect to be surprised by anything in any other life, Tottie?” asked Aspel, more amused by the air of the child than by her answer.“P’r’aps. Don’t much know, and don’t much care,” said Tottie.“Well, I’ve come to ask something,” said the youth, sitting down on a low box for the convenience of conversation, “and I hope, Tottie, that you’ll tell me the truth. Here’s a half-crown for you. The truth, mind, whether you think it will please me or not; I don’t want to be pleased—I want the truth.”“I’d tell you the truth withoutthat,” said Tottie, eyeing the half-crown which Aspel still held between his fingers, “but hand it over. We want a good many o’ these things here, bein’ pretty hard up at times.”She spun the piece deftly in the air, caught it cleverly, and put it in her pocket.“Well, tell me, now, did you post the letter I gave you the night I took tea with Miss Lillycrop?”“Yes, I did,” answered the child, with a nod of decision.“You’re telling the truth?”“Yes; as sure as death.”Poor Tottie had made her strongest asseveration, but it did not convey to Aspel nearly so much assurance as did the earnest gaze of her bright and truthful eyes.“You put it in the pillar?” he continued.“Yes.”“At the end of the street?”“Yes, at the end of the street; and oh, you’ve no idea what an awful time I was about it; the slit was so high, an’ I come down sitch a cropper w’en it was done!”“But it went in all right?”“Yes, all right.”George Aspel sat for some moments in gloomy silence. He now felt convinced of that which at first he had only suspected—namely, that his intending patron was offended because he had not at once called in person to thank him, instead of doing so by letter. Probably, also, he had been hurt by the expressions in the letter to which Philip Maylands had objected when it was read to him.“Well, well,” he exclaimed, suddenly giving a severe slap to his unoffending thigh, “I’ll have nothing to do with him. If he’s so touchy—as that comes to, the less that he and I have to say to each other the better.”“Oh!please, sir, hush!” exclaimed Tottie, pointing with a look of alarm to a bundle which lay in a dark corner, “you’ll wake ’im.”“Wake who?”“Father,” whispered the child.The visitor rose, took up the pint-bottle, and by the aid of its flaring candle beheld something that resembled a large man huddled together in a heap on a straw mattress, as he had last fallen down. His position, together with his torn and disarranged garments, had destroyed all semblance to human form save where a great limb protruded. His visage was terribly disfigured by the effects of drink, besides being partly concealed by his matted hair.“What a wretched spectacle!” exclaimed the young man, touching the heap with his foot as he turned away in disgust.Just then a woman with a black eye entered the room with a black bottle in her hand. She was the woman who had refused the beer from Aspel.“Mother,” said Tottie, running up to her, “here’s the gent who—”“’Av-’ee-go’-th’-gin?” growled a deep voice from the dark corner.“Yes, Abel—”“’Ave ’ee got th’ gin, I say, Molly?” roared the voice in rising wrath.“Yes, yes, Abel, here it is,” exclaimed the woman, hastening towards the corner.The savage who lay there was so eager to obtain the bottle that he made a snatch at it and let it slip on the stone floor, where it was broken to pieces.“O don’t, Abel dear, don’t! I’ll get another,” pleaded the poor woman; but Abel’s disappointment was too great for endurance; he managed to rise, and made a wild blow at the woman,—missed her, and staggered into the middle of the room. Here he encountered the stern glance of George Aspel. Being a dark, stern man himself, with a bulky powerful frame, he rather rejoiced in the sight of a man who seemed a worthy foe.“What d’ee wan’ here, you long-legged—hah! would you?” he added, on observing Aspel’s face flush and his fists close, “Take that!”He struck out at his adversary’s face with tremendous violence. Aspel parried the blow and returned it with such good-will that Abel Bones went headlong into the dark corner whence he had risen,—and lay there.“I’mverysorry,” said the instantly-repentant George, turning to Mrs Bones, “but I couldn’t help it; really, I—”“There, there; go away, sir, and thank you kindly,” said the unfortunate woman, urging—almost pushing—her visitor towards the door. “It’ll do ’im good, p’r’aps. He don’t get that every day, an’ it won’t ’urt ’im.”Aspel found himself suddenly in the dark passage, and heard the door slammed. His first impulse was to turn, dash in the door with his foot, and take vengeance on Abel Bones, his next to burst into a sardonic laugh. Thereafter he frowned fiercely, and strode away. In doing so he drew himself up with sea-king-like dignity and assaulted a beam, which all but crushed his hat over his eyes. This did not improve his temper, but the beer had not yet robbed him of all self-control; he stooped to conquer and emerged into the street.Well was it for George Aspel that his blow had been such an effective one, for if a riot with Bones had followed the blow, there were numerous kindred spirits there who would have been only too glad to aid their chum, and the intruder would have fared badly among them, despite his physical powers. As it was, he soon regained a respectable thoroughfare, and hastened away in the direction of his lodgings.But a dark frown clouded his brow, for as he went along his thoughts were busy with what he believed to be the insolent pride of Sir James Clubley. He also thought of May Maylands, and the resolution with which she so firmly yet so gently repelled him. The latter thought wounded his pride as well as his feelings deeply. While in this mood the spirit of the sea-kings arose within him once again. He entered a public-house and had another pot of beer. It was very refreshing—remarkably so! True, the tall and stalwart young frame of George Aspel needed no refreshment at the time, and he would have scorned the insinuation that herequiredanything to support him—but—but—it was decidedly refreshing! There could be no doubt whatever about that, and it induced him to take a more amiable view of men in general—of “poor Abel Bones” in particular. He even felt less savagely disposed towards Sir James, though he by no means forgave him, but made up his mind finally to have nothing more to do with him, while as to May—hope told him flattering tales.At this point in his walk he was attracted by one of those traps to catch the unwary, which are so numerous in London—a music-hall. George knew not what it was, and cared not. It was a place of public entertainment: that was enough for him. He wanted entertainment, and in he went.It is not our purpose to describe this place. Enough is told when we have said that there were dazzling lights and gorgeous scenes, and much music, and many other things to amuse. There were also many gentlemen, but—no ladies. There was also much smoking and drinking.Aspel soon observed that he was expected either to drink or smoke. He did not wish to do either, but, disliking singularity, ordered a cigar and a glass of brandy-and-water. These were followed by another cigar and another glass. Towards midnight he had reached that condition when drink stimulates the desire for more drink. Being aware, from former experience, of the danger of this condition, and being, as we have said, a man of some strength of will, he rose to go.At the moment a half-tipsy man at the little table next him carelessly flung the end of his cigar away. It alighted, probably by accident, on the top of Aspel’s head.“Hallo, sir!” shouted the enraged youth, starting up and seizing the man by his collar.“Hallo, sir!” echoed the man, who had reached his pugnacious cups, “let go.”He struck out at the same moment. Aspel would have parried the blow, but his arm had been seized by one of the bystanders, and it took effect on his nose, which instantly sent a red stream over his mouth and down the front of his shirt.Good-humour and kindliness usually served Aspel in the place of principle. Remove these qualities temporarily, and he became an unguarded savage—sometimes a roaring lion.With a shout that suspended the entertainments and drew the attention of the whole house, he seized his adversary, lifted him in the air, and would infallibly have dashed him on the floor if he had not been caught in the arms of the crowd. As it was, the offender went down, carrying half-a-dozen friends and a couple of tables with their glasses along with him.Aspel was prevented from doing more mischief by three powerful policemen, who seized him from behind and led him into the passage. There a noisy explanation took place, which gave the offender time to cool and reflect on his madness. On his talking quietly to the policemen, and readily paying for the damage he had done, he was allowed to go free. Descending the stair to the street, where the glare of the entrance-lamps fell full upon him, he felt a sudden sensation of faintness, caused by the combination of cold air, excitement, drink, and smoke. Seizing the railings with one hand, he stood for a moment with his eyes shut.Re-opening them, and gazing stupidly before him, he encountered the horrified gaze of May Maylands! She had been spending the evening with Miss Lillycrop, and was on her way home, escorted by Solomon Flint.“Come along, Miss May,” said Solomon, “don’t be afraid of ’im. He can’t ’urt you—too far gone for that, bless you. Come on.”May yielded, and was out of sight in a moment.Filled with horror, despair, madness, and self-contempt, George Aspel stood holding on to the railings and glaring into vacuity. Recovering himself he staggered home and went to bed.

As the great bell of St. Paul’s struck the half-hour, George Aspel was reminded of the main object of his visit to that part of the City. Descending to the street, and pondering in silent wonder on the vast literary correspondence of the kingdom, he strode rapidly onward, his long legs enabling him to pass ahead of the stream of life that flowed with him, and causing him to jostle not a few members of the stream that opposed him.

“Hallo, sir!” “Look out!” “Mind your eye, stoopid!” “Now, then, you lamp-post, w’ere are you a-goin’ to?” “Wot asylum ’aveyouescaped from?” were among the mildest remarks with which he was greeted.

But Aspel heeded them not. The vendors of penny marvels failed to attract him. Even the print-shop windows had lost their influence for a time; and as for monkeys, barrel-organs, and trained birds, they were as the dust under his feet, although at other times they formed a perpetual feast to his unsophisticated soul. “Letters, letters, letters!”

He could think of nothing else. “Fourteen hundred and seventy-seven millions of letters, etcetera, through the Post-Office in one year!” kept ringing through his brain; only varied in its monotony by “that gives thirty-two letters per head to the entire population, and as lots of ’em can’t write, of course it’s much more for those who can! Take a man one hundred and seventy years to count ’em!”

At this point the brilliant glare of a gin-palace reminded him that he had walked far and long, and had for some time felt thirsty. Entering, he called for a pot of beer. It was not a huge draught for a man of his size. As he drained it the memory of grand old jovial sea-kings crossed his mind, and he called for another pot. As he was about to apply it to his lips, and shook back his flaxen curls, the remembrance of, a Norse drinking-cup in his possession—an heirloom, which could not stand on its bottom, and had therefore to be emptied before being set down,—induced him to chuckle quietly before quaffing his beer.

On setting down the empty pot he observed a poor miserable-looking woman, with a black eye and a black bottle, gazing at him in undisguised admiration. Instantly he called for a third pot of beer. Being supplied by the wondering shop-boy, he handed it to the woman; but she shook her head, and drew back with an air of decision.

“No, sir,” she said, “but thank you kindly all the same, sir.”

“Very well,” returned the youth, putting the pot and a half-crown on the counter, “you may drink it or leave it as you please. I pay for it, and you may take the change—or leave that too if you like,” he added, as he went out, somewhat displeased that his feeling of generosity had been snubbed.

After wandering a short distance he was involved in labyrinths of brick and mortar, and suddenly became convinced that he was lost. This was however a small matter. To find one’s way by asking it is not difficult, even in London, if one possesses average intelligence.

The first man he stopped was a Scot. With characteristic caution that worthy cleared his throat, and with national deliberation repeated Aspel’s query, after which, in a marked tone of regret, he said slowly, “Weel, sir, I really div not ken.”

Aspel thanked him with a sarcastic smile and passed on. His next effort was with a countryman, who replied, “Troth, sur, that’s more nor I can tell ’ee,” and looked after his questioner kindly as he walked away. A policeman appearing was tried next. “First to the right, sir, third to the left, and ask again,” was the sharp reply of that limb of the Executive, as he passed slowly on, stiff as a post, and stately as a law of fate.

Having taken the required turns our wanderer found himself in a peculiarly low, dirty, and disagreeable locality. The population was in keeping with it—so much so that Aspel looked round inquiringly before proceeding to “ask again.” He had not quite made up his mind which of the tawdry, half-drunken creatures around him he would address, when a middle-aged man of respectable appearance, dressed in black, issued from one of the surrounding dens.

“A city missionary,” thought George Aspel, as he approached, and asked for direction to the abode of a man named Abel Bones.

The missionary pointed out the entrance to the desired abode, and looked at his questioner with a glance which arrested the youth’s attention.

“Excuse me, sir,” he said, “but the man you name has a very bad character.”

“Well, what then?” demanded Aspel sharply.

“Oh! nothing. I only meant to warn you, for he is a dangerous man.”

The missionary was a thin but muscular man, with stern black eyes and a powerful nose, which might have rendered his face harsh if it had not been more than redeemed by a large firm mouth, round which played lines that told unmistakably of the milk of human kindness. He smiled as he spoke, and Aspel was disarmed.

“Thank you,” he said; “I am well able to take care of myself.”

Evidently the missionary thought so too, for, with a quiet bow, he turned and went his way.

At the end of a remarkably dark passage George Aspel ran his head against a beam and his knee against a door with considerable violence.

“Come in,” said a very weak but sweet little voice, as though doors in that region were usually rapped at in that fashion.

Lifting the latch and entering, Aspel found himself confronted by Tottie Bones in her native home.

It was a very small, desolate, and dirty home, and barely rendered visible by a thin “dip” stuck into an empty pint-bottle.

Tottie opened her large eyes wide with astonishment, then laid one of her dirty little fingers on her rosy lips and looked imploringly at her visitor. Thus admonished, he spoke, without knowing why in a subdued voice.

“You are surprised to see me, Tottie?”

“I’m surprised at nothink, sir. ’Taint possible to surprise me with anythink inthislife.”

“D’you expect to be surprised by anything in any other life, Tottie?” asked Aspel, more amused by the air of the child than by her answer.

“P’r’aps. Don’t much know, and don’t much care,” said Tottie.

“Well, I’ve come to ask something,” said the youth, sitting down on a low box for the convenience of conversation, “and I hope, Tottie, that you’ll tell me the truth. Here’s a half-crown for you. The truth, mind, whether you think it will please me or not; I don’t want to be pleased—I want the truth.”

“I’d tell you the truth withoutthat,” said Tottie, eyeing the half-crown which Aspel still held between his fingers, “but hand it over. We want a good many o’ these things here, bein’ pretty hard up at times.”

She spun the piece deftly in the air, caught it cleverly, and put it in her pocket.

“Well, tell me, now, did you post the letter I gave you the night I took tea with Miss Lillycrop?”

“Yes, I did,” answered the child, with a nod of decision.

“You’re telling the truth?”

“Yes; as sure as death.”

Poor Tottie had made her strongest asseveration, but it did not convey to Aspel nearly so much assurance as did the earnest gaze of her bright and truthful eyes.

“You put it in the pillar?” he continued.

“Yes.”

“At the end of the street?”

“Yes, at the end of the street; and oh, you’ve no idea what an awful time I was about it; the slit was so high, an’ I come down sitch a cropper w’en it was done!”

“But it went in all right?”

“Yes, all right.”

George Aspel sat for some moments in gloomy silence. He now felt convinced of that which at first he had only suspected—namely, that his intending patron was offended because he had not at once called in person to thank him, instead of doing so by letter. Probably, also, he had been hurt by the expressions in the letter to which Philip Maylands had objected when it was read to him.

“Well, well,” he exclaimed, suddenly giving a severe slap to his unoffending thigh, “I’ll have nothing to do with him. If he’s so touchy—as that comes to, the less that he and I have to say to each other the better.”

“Oh!please, sir, hush!” exclaimed Tottie, pointing with a look of alarm to a bundle which lay in a dark corner, “you’ll wake ’im.”

“Wake who?”

“Father,” whispered the child.

The visitor rose, took up the pint-bottle, and by the aid of its flaring candle beheld something that resembled a large man huddled together in a heap on a straw mattress, as he had last fallen down. His position, together with his torn and disarranged garments, had destroyed all semblance to human form save where a great limb protruded. His visage was terribly disfigured by the effects of drink, besides being partly concealed by his matted hair.

“What a wretched spectacle!” exclaimed the young man, touching the heap with his foot as he turned away in disgust.

Just then a woman with a black eye entered the room with a black bottle in her hand. She was the woman who had refused the beer from Aspel.

“Mother,” said Tottie, running up to her, “here’s the gent who—”

“’Av-’ee-go’-th’-gin?” growled a deep voice from the dark corner.

“Yes, Abel—”

“’Ave ’ee got th’ gin, I say, Molly?” roared the voice in rising wrath.

“Yes, yes, Abel, here it is,” exclaimed the woman, hastening towards the corner.

The savage who lay there was so eager to obtain the bottle that he made a snatch at it and let it slip on the stone floor, where it was broken to pieces.

“O don’t, Abel dear, don’t! I’ll get another,” pleaded the poor woman; but Abel’s disappointment was too great for endurance; he managed to rise, and made a wild blow at the woman,—missed her, and staggered into the middle of the room. Here he encountered the stern glance of George Aspel. Being a dark, stern man himself, with a bulky powerful frame, he rather rejoiced in the sight of a man who seemed a worthy foe.

“What d’ee wan’ here, you long-legged—hah! would you?” he added, on observing Aspel’s face flush and his fists close, “Take that!”

He struck out at his adversary’s face with tremendous violence. Aspel parried the blow and returned it with such good-will that Abel Bones went headlong into the dark corner whence he had risen,—and lay there.

“I’mverysorry,” said the instantly-repentant George, turning to Mrs Bones, “but I couldn’t help it; really, I—”

“There, there; go away, sir, and thank you kindly,” said the unfortunate woman, urging—almost pushing—her visitor towards the door. “It’ll do ’im good, p’r’aps. He don’t get that every day, an’ it won’t ’urt ’im.”

Aspel found himself suddenly in the dark passage, and heard the door slammed. His first impulse was to turn, dash in the door with his foot, and take vengeance on Abel Bones, his next to burst into a sardonic laugh. Thereafter he frowned fiercely, and strode away. In doing so he drew himself up with sea-king-like dignity and assaulted a beam, which all but crushed his hat over his eyes. This did not improve his temper, but the beer had not yet robbed him of all self-control; he stooped to conquer and emerged into the street.

Well was it for George Aspel that his blow had been such an effective one, for if a riot with Bones had followed the blow, there were numerous kindred spirits there who would have been only too glad to aid their chum, and the intruder would have fared badly among them, despite his physical powers. As it was, he soon regained a respectable thoroughfare, and hastened away in the direction of his lodgings.

But a dark frown clouded his brow, for as he went along his thoughts were busy with what he believed to be the insolent pride of Sir James Clubley. He also thought of May Maylands, and the resolution with which she so firmly yet so gently repelled him. The latter thought wounded his pride as well as his feelings deeply. While in this mood the spirit of the sea-kings arose within him once again. He entered a public-house and had another pot of beer. It was very refreshing—remarkably so! True, the tall and stalwart young frame of George Aspel needed no refreshment at the time, and he would have scorned the insinuation that herequiredanything to support him—but—but—it was decidedly refreshing! There could be no doubt whatever about that, and it induced him to take a more amiable view of men in general—of “poor Abel Bones” in particular. He even felt less savagely disposed towards Sir James, though he by no means forgave him, but made up his mind finally to have nothing more to do with him, while as to May—hope told him flattering tales.

At this point in his walk he was attracted by one of those traps to catch the unwary, which are so numerous in London—a music-hall. George knew not what it was, and cared not. It was a place of public entertainment: that was enough for him. He wanted entertainment, and in he went.

It is not our purpose to describe this place. Enough is told when we have said that there were dazzling lights and gorgeous scenes, and much music, and many other things to amuse. There were also many gentlemen, but—no ladies. There was also much smoking and drinking.

Aspel soon observed that he was expected either to drink or smoke. He did not wish to do either, but, disliking singularity, ordered a cigar and a glass of brandy-and-water. These were followed by another cigar and another glass. Towards midnight he had reached that condition when drink stimulates the desire for more drink. Being aware, from former experience, of the danger of this condition, and being, as we have said, a man of some strength of will, he rose to go.

At the moment a half-tipsy man at the little table next him carelessly flung the end of his cigar away. It alighted, probably by accident, on the top of Aspel’s head.

“Hallo, sir!” shouted the enraged youth, starting up and seizing the man by his collar.

“Hallo, sir!” echoed the man, who had reached his pugnacious cups, “let go.”

He struck out at the same moment. Aspel would have parried the blow, but his arm had been seized by one of the bystanders, and it took effect on his nose, which instantly sent a red stream over his mouth and down the front of his shirt.

Good-humour and kindliness usually served Aspel in the place of principle. Remove these qualities temporarily, and he became an unguarded savage—sometimes a roaring lion.

With a shout that suspended the entertainments and drew the attention of the whole house, he seized his adversary, lifted him in the air, and would infallibly have dashed him on the floor if he had not been caught in the arms of the crowd. As it was, the offender went down, carrying half-a-dozen friends and a couple of tables with their glasses along with him.

Aspel was prevented from doing more mischief by three powerful policemen, who seized him from behind and led him into the passage. There a noisy explanation took place, which gave the offender time to cool and reflect on his madness. On his talking quietly to the policemen, and readily paying for the damage he had done, he was allowed to go free. Descending the stair to the street, where the glare of the entrance-lamps fell full upon him, he felt a sudden sensation of faintness, caused by the combination of cold air, excitement, drink, and smoke. Seizing the railings with one hand, he stood for a moment with his eyes shut.

Re-opening them, and gazing stupidly before him, he encountered the horrified gaze of May Maylands! She had been spending the evening with Miss Lillycrop, and was on her way home, escorted by Solomon Flint.

“Come along, Miss May,” said Solomon, “don’t be afraid of ’im. He can’t ’urt you—too far gone for that, bless you. Come on.”

May yielded, and was out of sight in a moment.

Filled with horror, despair, madness, and self-contempt, George Aspel stood holding on to the railings and glaring into vacuity. Recovering himself he staggered home and went to bed.

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