Post Haste. Robert Michael Ballantyne
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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 something about such 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 the letters. 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 long would it 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 ’ave you escaped 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 in this life.”
“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