Part 19 (1/2)
”Come,” he said, in a hearty tone, ”I don't bear you no ill-will for the crack on the nut you gave me, and you've surely no occasion to bear ill-will to a man you floored so neatly. Shake hands.”
The familiarity, not to say insolence, of this proposal, from one so much beneath him, would probably have induced the youth to turn aside with scorn, but the flattering reference to his pugilistic powers from one who was no mean antagonist softened his feelings.
”Well, I'm sure that I bear _you_ no ill-will,” he said, with a smile, extending his hand.
”Bah! chicken-livers,” exclaimed the small boy, turning away in supreme contempt.
”And I a.s.sure you,” continued Aspel, ”I had no intention of doing you injury. But no doubt a stout fellow like you didn't let a knock-down blow interfere with his next day's work.”
”His next day's work!” repeated Mr Bones, with a chuckle. ”It would be a queer blow as would interfere with my work. Why, guv'nor, I hain't got no work at all” Here he put on a very lugubrious expression.
”P'r'aps you won't believe it, sir, but I do a.s.sure you that I haven't, in them hard times, had a full day's work for ever so long. And I haven't earned a rap this day, except the penny I got for postin' this here letter.”
George Aspel, besides being, as we have said, a kind-hearted man, was unusually ignorant of the ways of the world, especially the world of London. He believed Abel Bones at once, and spoke in quite a softened, friendly tone as he replied--
”I'm sorry to hear that, and would gladly help you if I could, but, to tell you the truth, Mr Bones, I'm not in flouris.h.i.+ng circ.u.mstances myself. Still, I may perhaps think of some way of helping you. Post your letter, and I'll walk with you while we talk over it.”
The man ran up the steps, posted his letter, which had missed the mail-- though he did not appear to care for that--and returned.
Although we have spoken of this man as a confirmed drunkard, it must not be supposed that he had reached the lowest state of degradation. Like George Aspel, he had descended from a higher level in the social scale.
Of course, his language proved that he had never been in the rank of a gentleman, but in manners and appearance he was much above the unhappy outcasts amongst whom he dwelt. Moreover, he had scarcely reached middle life, and was, or had been, a handsome man, so that, when he chose to dress decently and put on a sanctimonious look (which he could do with much facility), he seemed quite a respectable personage.
”Now, guv'nor, I'm at your sarvice,” he said. ”This is my way. Is it yours?”
”Yes--any way will do,” continued Aspel. ”Now let me hear about you. I owe you some sort of reparation for that blow. Have you dined?--will you eat?”
”Well, no; thank 'ee all the same, but I've no objection to drink.”
They chanced to be near a public-house as he spoke. It would be difficult in some thoroughfares of London to stop _without_ chancing to be near a public-house!
They entered, and Aspel, resolving to treat the man handsomely, called for brandy and soda. It need scarcely be said that at that hour the brandy and soda was by no means the first of its kind that either of the men had imbibed that day. Over it they became extremely confidential and chatty. Mr Bones was a lively and sensible fellow. It was noticeable, too, that his language improved and his demeanour became more respectful as the acquaintance progressed. After a time they rose.
Aspel paid for the brandy and soda, and they left the place in company.
Leaving them, we shall return to St. Martin's-le-Grand, and follow the footsteps of no less a personage than Miss Lillycrop, for it so happened that that enthusiastic lady, having obtained permission to view the interior of the Post-Office, had fixed on that evening for her visit.
But we must go back a little in time--to that period when the postal jaws were about to open for the reception of the evening mail.
Ever since Miss Lillycrop's visit to the abode of Solomon Flint, she had felt an increasing desire to see the inside and the working of that mighty engine of State about which she had heard so much. A permit had been procured for her, and her cousin, May Maylands, being off duty at that hour, was able to accompany her.
They were handed over to the care of a polite and intelligent letter-sorter named Bright. The sorter seemed fully to appreciate and enter into Miss Lillycrop's spirit of inquiry. He led her and May to the inside--the throat, as it were--of those postal jaws, the exterior aspect of which we have already described. On the way thither they had to pa.s.s through part of the great letter-sorting hall. It seemed to Miss Lillycrop's excited imagination as if she had been suddenly plunged over head and ears into a very ocean of letters. From that moment onwards, during her two hours' visit, she swam, as it were, among snowy billows of literature.
”This is the receiving-box--the inside of it,” said Mr Bright, as he led the way through a gla.s.s door into a species of closet or compartment about six feet by ten in dimension, or thereabouts, with a low roof.
”This way ladies. Stand here on one side. They are just going to open it.”
The visitors saw in front of them a recess, divided by a part.i.tion, in which were two large baskets. A few letters were falling into these as they entered. Glancing upwards, they saw a long slit, through which a number of curious human eyes peeped for a moment, and disappeared, to be replaced by other eyes. Little spurts of letters came intermittently through the slit and fell into the baskets. These, when full, were seized by two attendants, dragged away, and replaced by empty ones.
Suddenly the upper lip of the slit, or postal mouth, rose.
”Oh, May, look!” exclaimed Miss Lillycrop eagerly.
Not only the eyes but the heads and shoulders of the moving public now became visible to those inside, while the intermittent spurts became gradually a continuous shower of letters. The full significance of the old superscription, ”Haste, post haste, for thy life,” now began to dawn on Miss Lillycrop. The hurry, mentioned elsewhere in our description of the outside view, increased as the minutes of grace flew by, and the visitors fairly laughed aloud when they saw the cataract of correspondence--the absolute waterfall, with, now and then, a bag or an entire bandboxful of letters, like a loosened boulder--that tumbled into the baskets below.