Post Haste. Robert Michael Ballantyne
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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