It must not be supposed that the good lady had given this romantic name to her cottage. No, when Miss Stivergill bought it, she found the name on the two gate-posts; found that all the tradespeople in the vicinity had imbibed it, and therefore quietly accepted it, as she did all the ordinary affairs of life.

"Impossible, dear Maria," said her friend, with a perplexed look, "I have so many engagements, at least so many duties, that—"

"Pooh!" interrupted Miss Stivergill. "Put 'em off. Fulfil 'em when you come back. At all events," she continued, seeing that Miss Lillycrop still hesitated, "come for a night or two."

"But—"

"Come now, Lilly"—thus she styled her friend—"but give me no buts. You know that you've no good reason for refusing."

"Indeed I have," pleaded Miss Lillycrop; "my little servant—"

"What, the infant who opened the door to me?"

"Yes, Tottie Bones; she is obliged to stay at nights with me just now, owing to her mother, poor thing, being under the necessity of shutting up her house while she goes to look after a drunken husband, who has forsaken her."

"Hah!" exclaimed Miss Stivergill, giving a nervous pull at her left glove, which produced a wide rent between the wrist and the thumb. "I wonder why women marry!"

"Don't you think it's a sort of—of—unavoidable necessity?" suggested Miss Lillycrop, with a faint smile.

"Not at all, my dear, not at all. I have avoided it. So have you. If I had my way, I'd put a stop to marriage altogether, and bring this miserable world to an abrupt close.—But little Bones is no difficulty: we'll take her along with us."

"But, dear Maria—"

"Well, what further objections, Lilly?"

"Tottie has charge of a baby, and—"

"What! one baby in charge of another?"

"Indeed it is too true; and, you know, you couldn't stand a baby."

"Couldn't I?" said Miss Stivergill sharply. "How d'you know that? Let me see it."

Tottie being summoned with the baby, entered the room staggering with the rotund mountain of good-natured self-will entirely concealing her person, with exception of her feet and the pretty little coal-dusted arms with which she clasped it to her heaving breast.

"Ha! I suppose little Bones is behind it," said Miss Stivergill.—"Set the baby down, child, and let me see you."

Tottie obeyed. The baby, true to his principles, refused to stand. He sat down and stared at those around him in jovial defiance.

"What is your age, little Bones?"

"Just turned six, m'm," replied Tottie, with a courtesy, which Miss Lillycrop had taught her with great pains.

"You're sixty-six, at the least, compared with male creatures of the same age," observed her interrogator.

"Thank you, m'm," replied Tottie, with another dip.

"Have you a bonnet and shawl, little Bones?"

Tottie, in a state of considerable surprise, replied that she had.

"Go and put 'em on then, and get that thing also ready to go out."

Miss Stivergill pointed to the baby contemptuously, as it were, with her nose.

"He's a very good bybie"—so the child pronounced it—"on'y rather self-willed at times, m'm," said Tottie, going through the athletic feat of lifting her charge.

"Just so. True to your woman's nature. Always ready to apologise for the male monster that tyrannises over you. I suppose, now, you'd say that your drunken father was a good man?"

Miss Stivergill repented of the speech instantly on seeing the tears start into Tottie's large eyes as she replied quickly—"Indeed I would, m'm. Oh! you've no notion 'ow kind father is w'en 'e's not in liquor."

"There, there. Of course he is. I didn't mean to say he wasn't, little Bones. It's a curious fact that many drun—, I mean people given to drink, are kind and amiable. It's a disease. Go now, and get your things on, and do you likewise, Lilly. My cab is at the door. Be quick."

In a few minutes the whole party descended to the street. Miss Stivergill locked the door with her own hand, and put the key in her pocket. As she turned round, Tottie's tawdry bonnet had fallen off in her efforts to raise the baby towards the outstretched hands of her mistress, while the cabman stood looking on with amiable interest.

Catching up the bonnet, Miss Stivergill placed it on the child's head, back to the front, twisted the strings round her head and face—anyhow— lifted her and her charge into the cab, and followed them.

"Where to, ma'am?" said the amiable cabman.

"Charing Cross,—you idiot."

"Yes, ma'am," replied the man, with a broad grin, touching his hat and bestowing a wink on a passing policeman as he mounted the box.

On their way to the station the good lady put out her head and shouted "Stop!"

The maligned man obeyed.

"Stay here, Lilly, with the baby.—Jump out, little Bones. Come with me."

She took the child's bonnet off and flung it under the cab, then grasped Tottie's hand and led her into a shop.

"A hat," demanded the lady of the shopwoman.

"What kind of hat, ma'am?"

"Any kind," replied Miss Stivergill, "suitable for this child—only see that it's not a doll's hat. Let it fit her."

The shopwoman produced a head-dress, which Tottie afterwards described as a billycock 'at with a feather in it. The purchaser paid for it, thrust it firmly on the child's head, and returned to the cab.

A few minutes by rail conveyed them to a charmingly country-like suburb, with neat villas dotting the landscape, and a few picturesque old red brick cottages scattered about here and there.

Such a drive to such a scene, reader, may seem very commonplace to you, but what tongue can tell, or pen describe, what it was to Tottie Bones? That pretty little human flower had been born in the heart of London—in one of the dirtiest and most unsavoury parts of that heart. Being the child of a dissolute man and a hard-working woman, who could not afford to go out excursioning, she had never seen a green field in her life. She had never seen the Thames, or the Parks. There are many such unfortunates in the vast city. Of flowers—with the exception of cauliflowers—she knew nothing, save from what little she saw of them in broken pots in the dirty windows of her poor neighbourhood, and on the barrows and baskets of the people who hawked them about the city. There was a legend among the neighbours of Archangel Court that once upon a time—in some remote period of antiquity—a sunbeam had been in the habit of overtopping the forest of chimneys and penetrating the court below in the middle of each summer, but a large brick warehouse had been erected somewhere to the southward, and had effectually cut off the supply, so that sunshine was known to the very juvenile population only through the reflecting power of roofs and chimney-cans and gable windows. In regard to scents, it need scarcely be said that Tottie had had considerable experience of that class which it is impossible to term sweet.

Judge then, if you can, what must have been the feelings of this little town-sparrow when she suddenly rushed, at the rate of forty miles an hour, into the heavenly influences of fields and flowers, hedgerows, and trees, farm-yards and village spires, horse-ponds, country inns, sheep, cattle, hay-carts, piggeries, and poultry.

Her eyes, always large and liquid, became great crystal globes of astonishment, as, forgetful of herself, and almost of baby, she sat with parted lips and heaving breast, gazing in rapt ecstasy from the carriage window.

Miss Stivergill and Miss Lillycrop, being sympathetic souls, gazed with almost equal interest on the child's animated face.

"She only wants wings and washing to make her an angel," whispered the former to the latter.

But if the sights she saw on the journey inflated Tottie's soul with joy, the glories of Rosebud Cottage almost exploded her. It was a marvellous cottage. Rosebushes surrounded it, ivy smothered it, leaving just enough of room for the windows to peep out, and a few of the old red bricks to show in harmony with the green. Creepers in great variety embraced it, and a picturesque clump of trees on a knoll behind sheltered it from the east wind. There was a farm-yard, which did not belong to itself, but was so close to it that a stranger could scarcely have told whether it formed part of the Rosebud domain or that of the neighbouring cottage. The day, too, was exceptionally fine. It was one of those still, calm, sunny, cloudless days, which induce healthy people sometimes to wish that earth might be their permanent home.

"Oh, bybie!" exclaimed Tottie Bones, when, having clambered to the top of the knoll, she sat down on a tree-root and gazed on the cottage and the farm-yard, where hens were scratching in the interest of active chickens, and cows were standing in blank felicity, and pigs were revelling in dirt and sunshine—"Oh, bybie! it's 'eaven upon earth, ain't it, darling?"

The darling evidently agreed with her for once, for, lying on his back in the long grass, he seized two handfuls of wild-flowers, kicked up his fat legs, and laughed aloud.

"That's right, darling. Ain't it fun? And such flowers too—oh! all for nothing, only got to pull 'em. Yes, roll away, darling, you can't dirty yourself 'ere. Come, I shall 'ave a roll too." With which remark Tottie plunged into the grass, seized the baby and tumbled him and herself about to such an extent that the billycock hat was much deteriorated and the feather damaged beyond recovery.

Inside The Rosebud the other two members of the party were also enjoying themselves, though not exactly in like manner. They revelled in tea and in the feast of reason.

"Where, and when, and why did you find that child?" asked Miss Stivergill.

Her friend related what she knew of Tottie's history.

"Strange!" remarked Miss Stivergill, but beyond that remark she gave no indication of the state of her mind.

"It is indeed strange," returned her friend, "but it is just another instance of the power of God's Word to rescue and preserve souls, even in the most unfavourable circumstances. Tottie's mother is Christian, and all the energies of her vigorous nature are concentrated on two points—the training of her child in the fear of God, and the saving of her husband from drink. She is a woman of strong faith, and is quite convinced that her prayers will be answered, because, she says, 'He who has promised is faithful,' but I fear much that she will not live to see it."

"Why so?" demanded the other sharply.

"Because she has a bad affection of the lungs. If she were under more favourable circumstances she might recover."

"Pooh! nonsense. People constantly recover from what is called bad affection of the lungs. Can nothing be done for her?"

"Nothing," replied Miss Lillycrop; "she will not leave her husband or her home. If she dies—"

"Well, what then?"

"Little Tottie must be rescued, you know, and I have set my heart on doing it."

"You'll do nothing of the sort," said Miss Stivergill firmly.

Miss Lillycrop looked surprised.

"No, you shan't rescue her," continued the good lady, with still firmer emphasis; "you've got all London at your feet, and there's plenty more where that one came from. Come, Lilly, you mustn't be greedy. You may have the baby if you like, but you must leave little Bones to me."

Miss Lillycrop was making feeble resistance to this proposal when the subject of dispute suddenly appeared at the door with glaring eyes and a horrified expression of face. Baby was in her arms as usual, and both he and his nurse were drenched, besides being covered from head to foot with mud.

It needed little explanation to tell that in crossing a ditch on a single plank Tottie had stumbled and gone headlong into the water with baby in her arms. Fortunately neither was hurt, though both had been terribly frightened.

Miss Stivergill was equal to the occasion. Ordering two tubs half-full of warm water into the back kitchen, she stripped the unfortunates and put them therein, to the intense joy of baby, whose delight in a warm bath was only equalled by his pleasure in doing mischief. At first Miss Stivergill thought of burning the children's garments, and fitting them out afresh, but on the suggestion of her friend that their appearing at home with new clothes might create suspicion, and cause unpleasant inquiries, she refrained. When thoroughly cleaned, Tottie and baby were wrapped up in shawls and set down to a hearty tea in the parlour.

While this was being devoured, the two friends conversed of many things. Among others, Miss Stivergill touched on the subject of her progenitors, and made some confidential references to her mother, which her friend received with becoming sympathy.

"Yes, my dear," said Miss Stivergill, in a tone of unwonted tenderness. "I don't mind telling you all about her, for you're a good soul, with a feeling heart. Her loss was a terrible loss to me, though it was great gain to her. Before her death we were separated for a time—only a short time,—but it proved to be a blessed separation, for the letters she wrote me sparkled with love and wit and playfulness, as though they had been set with pearls and rubies and diamonds. I shall show you my treasures before going to bed. I keep them in that box on the sideboard, to be always handy. It is not large, but its contents are more precious to me than thousands of gold and silver."

She paused; and then, observing that Tottie was staring at her, she advised her to make the most of her opportunity, and eat as much as possible.

"If you please, m'm, I can't eat any more," said Tottie.

"Can't eat more, child?—try," urged the hospitable lady.

Tottie heaved a deep sigh and said that she couldn't eat another morsel if she were to try ever so much. As baby appeared to be in the same happy condition, and could with difficulty keep his eyes open, both children were sent to bed under the care of a maid, and Miss Stivergill, taking down her treasure-box, proceeded to read part of its contents to her bosom friend.

Little did good Miss Stivergill imagine that she had dug a mine that night under Rosebud Cottage, and that the match which was destined to light it was none other than her innocent protegee, little Bones.

Throwing herself into the receptive arms of her mother, two days after the events just described, Tottie poured the delight and amazement of her surcharged spirit into sympathetic ears. Unfortunately her glowing descriptions also reached unsympathetic ears. Mrs Bones had happily recovered her husband, and brought him home, where he lay in his familiar corner, resting from his labours of iniquity. The unsympathetic ears belonged to Mr Abel Bones.

When Tottie, however, in her discursive wandering began to talk of pearls, and rubies, and diamonds, and treasures worth thousands of gold and silver, in a box on the sideboard, the ears became suddenly sympathetic, and Mr Bones raised himself on one elbow.

"Hush! darling," said Mrs Bones, glancing uneasily at the dark corner.

Mr Bones knew well that if his wife should caution Tottie not to tell him anything about Rosebud Cottage, he would be unable to get a word out of her. He therefore rose suddenly, staggered towards the child, and seized her hand.

"Come, Tot, you and I shall go out for a walk."

"Oh, Abel, don't. Dear Abel—"

But dear Abel was gone, and his wife, clasping her hands, looked helplessly and hopelessly round the room. Then a gleam of light seemed to come into her eyes. She looked up and went down on her knees.

Meanwhile Abel went into a public-house, and, calling for a pint of beer, bade his child drink, but Tottie declined. He swore with an oath that he'd compel her to drink, but suddenly changed his mind and drank it himself.

"Now, Tot, tell father all about your visit to Miss Stivergill. She's very rich—eh?"

"Oh! awfully," replied Tottie, who felt an irresistible drawing to her father when he condescended to speak to her in kindly tones.

"Keeps a carriage—eh?"

"No, nor a 'oss—not even a pony," returned the child.

"An' no man-servant about the house?"

"No—not as I seed."

"Not even a gardener, now?"

"No, only women—two of 'em, and very nice they was too. One fat and short, the other tall and thin. I liked the fat one best."

"Ha! blessin's on 'em both," said Mr Bones, with a bland smile. "Come now, Tot, tell me all about the cottage—inside first, the rooms and winders, an' specially the box of treasure. Then we'll come to the garden, an' so we'll get out by degrees to the fields and flowers. Go ahead, Tot."

It need scarcely be said that Abel Bones soon possessed himself of all the information he required, after which he sent Tottie home to her mother, and went his way.



CHAPTER THIRTEEN.

MISS LILLYCROP GETS A SERIES OF SURPRISES.

What a world this is for plots! And there is no escaping them. If we are not the originators of them, we are the victims—more or less. If we don't originate them designedly we do so accidentally.

We have seen how Abel Bones set himself deliberately to hatch one plot. Let us now turn to old Fred Blurt, and see how that invalid, with the help of his brother Enoch, unwittingly sowed the seeds of another.

"Dear Enoch," said Fred one day, turning on his pillow, "I should have died but for you."

"And Miss Lillycrop, Fred. Don't be ungrateful. If Miss Lillycrop had not come to my assistance, it's little I could have done for you."

"Well, yes, I ought to have mentioned her in the same breath with yourself, Enoch, for she has been kind—very kind and patient. Now, I want to know if that snake has come."

"Are you sure you've recovered enough to attend to business?" asked the brother.

"Yes, quite sure. Besides, a snake is not business—it is pleasure. I mean to send it to my old friend Balls, who has been long anxious to get a specimen. I had asked a friend long ago to procure one for me, and now that it has come I want you to pack it to go by post."

"By post!" echoed the brother.

"Yes, why not?"

"Because I fear that live snakes are prohibited articles."

"Get the Post-Office Directory and see for yourself," said the invalid.

The enormous volume, full six inches thick, which records the abodes and places of business of all noteworthy Londoners, was fetched.

"Nothing about snakes here," said Enoch, running his eye over the paragraph referring to the articles in question,—"'Glass bottles, leeches, game, fish,' (but that refers to dead ones, I suppose) 'flesh, fruit, vegetables, or other perishable substances' (a snake ain't perishable, at least not during a brief post-journey)—'nor any bladder or other vessel containing liquid,' (ha! that touches him: a snake contains blood, don't it?)—'or anything whatsoever which might by pressure or otherwise be rendered injurious to the contents of the mail-bags or to the officers of the Post-Office.'—Well, brother," continued Enoch, "I'm not quite sure that it comes within the forbidden degrees, so we'll give it the benefit of the doubt and pack it. How d'you propose doing it up? In a letter?"

"No, I had a box made for it before I was taken ill. You'll find it in the shop, on the upper shelf, beside the northern diver."

The little box was brought, and the snake, which had been temporarily consigned to an empty glass aquarium, was put into it.

"You're sure he don't bite, Fred, and isn't poisonous?"

"Quite sure."

"Then here goes—whew! what a lively fellow he is!"

This was indeed true. The animal, upwards of a yard in length, somewhat resembled the eel in his efforts to elude the grasp of man, but Mr Blurt fixed him, coiled him firmly down on his bed of straw and wadding, pressed a similar bed on the top of him to keep him quiet, and shut the lid.

"There; I've got him in all right. Now for the screws. He can't move easily, and even if he could he wouldn't make much noise."

The box was finally secured with a piece of string, a label with the address and the proper number of stamps was affixed, and then it was committed to the care of George Aspel to post, in time for the evening mail.

It was five minutes to six when Aspel ascended the steps of St. Martin's-le-Grand. The usual rush was in progress. There was a considerable crowd in front of the letter-box. Instead of pushing through, George took advantage of his height, stretched his long arm over the heads of the people, and, with a good aim, pitched the box into the postal jaws.

For a few seconds he stood still, meditating a call on Phil Maylands. But he was not now as eager to meet his friend as he used to be. He had begun a course of dissipation, and, superior though he was in years, physique, and knowledge to his friend, he felt a new and uncomfortable sense of inferiority when in the presence of the straightforward, steady boy.

At seventeen a year adds much to the manhood of a youth. Phil's powers of perception had been greatly quickened by his residence in London. Although he regarded Aspel with as warm affection as ever, he could not avoid seeing the change for the worse in him, and a new feeling of deep anxiety and profound but respectful pity filled his heart. He prayed for him also, but did not quite believe that his prayers would be heard, for as yet he did not fully realise or comprehend the grand truths of the religion in which his mother had faithfully trained him. He did not at that time understand, as he afterwards came to understand, that the prayer of faith—however weak and fluttering—is surely answered, whether we see the answer or not, and whether the answer be immediate or long delayed.

On one occasion, with feelings of timorous self-abasement, he ventured to remonstrate with his friend, but the effort was repelled. Possibly the thought of another reproof from Phil was the cause of Aspel's decision not to look him up on the present occasion.

As he descended the steps, a man as tall and powerful as himself met him and stared him in the face. Aspel fired up at once and returned the stare. It was Abel Bones, on his way to post a letter. The glare intensified, and for a moment it seemed as if the two giants were about to fight. A small street boy, observing the pair, was transfixed with ardent hope, but he was doomed to disappointment. Bones had clenched his right hand. If he had advanced another inch the blood of the sea-kings would have declared for war on the spot, regardless of consequences. But Bones was too old a bird thus to come within reach of his great enemy, the law. Besides, a deeper though not immediate plan of revenge flashed into his mind. Relaxing the hand and frown simultaneously, he held out the former.

"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 assure 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 assure 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 flourishing circumstances 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 pass 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 glass 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 partition, 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.

From this letter-fall Miss Lillycrop was led, speechless, by her cicerone, followed by May, to whom the scene was not quite new, and whose chief enjoyment of it consisted in observing her interested and excitable friend's surprise.

Mr Bright led them back to the great sorting-room, where the energetic labour of hundreds of men and boys—facing, carrying, stamping, distributing, sorting, etcetera—was going on full swing. Everywhere there was rapid work, but no hurry; busy and varied action, but no confusion; a hum of mingled voice and footfall, but no unnecessary noise. It was a splendid example of the power of orderly and united action. To Miss Lillycrop it conveyed the idea of hopeless and irretrievable confusion!

Mounting a staircase, Mr Bright conducted the ladies to a gallery from which they had a bird's-eye view of the entire hall. It was, in truth, a series of rooms, connected with the great central apartment by archways. Through these—extending away in far perspective, so that the busy workers in the distance became like miniature men—could be seen rows on rows of facing and sorting-tables, covered, heaped up, and almost hidden, by the snows of the evening mail. Here the chaos of letters, books, papers, etcetera, was being reduced to order—the whole under the superintendence of a watchful gentleman, on a raised platform in the centre, who took good care that England should not only expect, but also be assured, that every man and boy did his duty.

Miss Lillycrop glanced at the clock opposite. It was a quarter to seven.

"Do you mean to tell me," she said, turning full on Mr Bright, and pointing downwards, "that that ocean of letters will be gone, and these tables emptied by eight o'clock?"

"Indeed I do, ma'am; and more than what you see there, for the district bags have not all come in yet. By eight o'clock these tables will be as bare as the palm of my hand."

Mr Bright extended a large and manly palm by way of emphasising his remark.

Miss Lillycrop was too polite to say, "That's a lie!" but she firmly, though mutely, declined to believe it.

"D'you observe the tables just below us, ma'am?"

He pointed to what might have been six large board-room tables, surrounded by boys and men as close as they could stand. As, however, the tables in question were covered more than a foot deep with letters, Miss Lillycrop only saw their legs.

"These are the facing-tables," continued Mr Bright. "All that the men and lads round 'em have got to do with the letters there is to arrange them for the stampers, with their backs and stamps all turned one way. We call that facing the letters. They have also to pick out and pitch into baskets, as you see, all book-packets, parcels, and newspapers that may have been posted by mistake in the letter-box."

While the sorter went on expounding matters, one of the tables had begun to show its wooden surface as its "faced" letters were being rapidly removed, but just then a man with a bag on his shoulder came up, sent a fresh cataract of letters on the blank spot, and re-covered it. Presently a stream of men with bags on their backs came in.

"These are the district mails, ma'am," explained Mr Bright; "during the last half-hour and more they have been hurrying towards us from all quarters of London; the nearest being brought by men on foot, the more distant bags by vans. Some are still on their way; all will concentrate here at last, in time for sorting."

The contents of these bags as they came in were shot out, and the facing-tables—all of which had begun to show symptoms of the flood going down and dry land appearing—were flooded and reflooded again and again to a greater depth than before.

"The mail will be late to-night," observed Miss Lillycrop, with an assured nod.

"O no, ma'am, it won't," replied Bright, with an easy smile, and May laughed as they returned to the hall to inspect the work in detail.

"Here, you see, we stamp the letters."

Mr Bright stopped in front of a long table, at which was standing a row of stampers, who passed letters under the stamps with amazing rapidity. Each man or youth grasped a stamp, which was connected with a machine on a sort of universal joint. It was a miniature printing-machine, with a little inking-roller, which was moved over the types each time by the mere process of stamping, so the stamper had only to pass the letters under the die with the one hand and stamp with the other as fast as he could. The rate varied, of course, considerably. Nervous and anxious stampers illustrated more or less the truth of the proverb, "The more hurry the less speed," while quiet, steady hands made good progress. They stamped on the average from 100 to 150 letters in the minute, each man.

"You see, ma'am," remarked Mr Bright, "it's the way all the world over: cool-headed men who know their powers always get on best. The stamping-machine is a great improvement on the old system, where you had to strike the inker first, and then the letter. It just doubled the action and the time. We have another ingeniously contrived stamp in the office. It might not occur to you that stamping parcels and other articles of irregular shape is rather difficult, owing to the stamper not striking flatly on them. To obviate this, one of our own men invented a stamp with an india-rubber neck, so that, no matter how irregular the surface of the article may be, the face of the stamp is forced flat upon it by one blow."

"When stamped," continued Mr Bright, moving on, "the letters are taken by boys, as you see, to the sorters. You observe that each sorter has a compartment or frame before him, with separate divisions in it for the great towns only, such as Manchester, Liverpool, Birmingham, Brighton, etcetera. Now, you know"—here he stopped and assumed an impressive explanatory tone—"you couldn't expect any single man to sort the letters for every town and village in the kingdom—could you, ma'am?"

Miss Lillycrop admitted that she could not indulge such an expectation, and further expressed her belief that any man who could must be little better than a lunatic.

"But every man you see here," continued Mr Bright, "has batch after batch of letters put before him, which may contain letters from anywhere to everywhere. So, you see, we subdivide the work. The sorters you are now looking at sort the letters for the large towns into separate sections, and all the rest into divisions representing the various parts of the country, such as northern, southern, etcetera. The letters are then collected by the boys you see going up and down the hall."

"I don't see them," interrupted Miss Lillycrop.

"There, that's a northern division boy who has just backed against you, ma'am."

The boy referred to turned, apologised, and gathering the letters for the northern division from the sorter at their elbow, moved on to gather more from others.

"The division letters," continued Bright, "are then conveyed to other sorters, who subdivide them into roads, and then the final sorting takes place for the various towns. We have a staff of about a thousand sorters, assistant sorters, and boy-sorters in this (Inland) office alone, who have been, or are being, carefully trained for the work. Some are smart, and some of course are slow. They are tested occasionally. When a sorter is tested he is given a pack of five hundred cards—dummies—to represent letters. A good man will sort these in thirteen or fifteen minutes. There are always sure to be a few mis-sorts, even in our well-regulated family—that is, letters sorted to the wrong sections or divisions. Forty mis-sorts in the five hundred is considered very bad work."

"But what if a sorter does not happen to know the division to which any particular letter belongs?" asked Miss Lillycrop.

"He ought to know," replied her guide, "because all the sorters have to undergo a strict examination once a year as to their knowledge of towns and villages throughout England."

"Indeed! but," persisted Miss Lillycrop, "what does he do with a letter if he chances to forget?"

"Why, he must get other sorters to help him."

"And what happens if he finds a letter so badly addressed that he cannot read it?"

"Sends it to the blind division; we shall come to that presently," said Mr Bright. "Meanwhile we shall visit the hospital I need scarcely explain to you that the hospital is the place to which wounded letters and packages are taken to be healed. Here it is."

The party now stood beside a table, at which several clerks—we might almost say surgeons—were at work, busy with sealing-wax and string.

The patients were a wondrous lot, and told eloquently of human carelessness. Here were found letters containing articles that no envelope of mere paper could be expected to hold—such as bunches of heavy keys, articles of jewellery, etcetera, which had already more than half escaped from their covers. There were also frail cardboard boxes, so squeezed and burst that their contents were protruding, and parcels containing worsted and articles of wearing apparel, which had been so carelessly put up as to have come undone in the mail-bags. All these things were being re-tied, re-folded, patched up here and there with sealing-wax, or put into new covers, by the postal surgeons, and done with as much care, too, as though the damage had been caused by the Post-Office rather than by carelessness in the public.

But among these invalided articles were a few whose condition accidentally revealed attempts to contravene the postal laws. One letter which had burst completely open revealed a pill-box inside, with "Dinner Pills" on the outside. On examination, the pills turned out to be two sixpences wrapped up in a scrap of paper, on which was written—"Thought you had no money to get a stamp with, so sent you some." It is contrary to regulations to send coin by post without registering the letter. The unfortunate receiver would have to pay eightpence, as a registration fee, for this shilling!

While the party was looking at the hospital work another case was discovered. A book-packet came open and revealed a letter inside. But still further, the letter was found to contain sixpence in silver, sent to defray postage when the book should be returned. Here was a double sin! No letter, or writing of the nature of a letter, is allowed to go by book post, and coin may not be sent unregistered. In this case the book would be forwarded at letter-rate, and the 8 pence registration fee would be charged for the coin—the whole amounting to 6 shillings, 6 pence.

"If the public would only attend," observed Mr Bright, in commenting on these facts, "to the regulations laid down for their guidance by the Post-Office—as detailed in our Directories and Postal Guides—such errors would seldom occur, for I believe that things of this sort are the result of ignorance rather than dishonesty."

"Now, ma'am," he continued, "we come to the blind officers."

There were several of those gentlemen, whose title, we presume, was satirically expressive of the extraordinary sharpness of their eyes and intellects. They were seated at a table, engaged in examining addresses so illegible, so crabbed, so incomplete, and so ineffably ridiculous, that no man of ordinary mental capacity could make head or tail of them. All the principal London and Provincial Directories, Guides, and Gazetteers were ranged in front of the blind officers, to assist them in their arduous labours, and by the aid of these, and their own extensive knowledge of men and places, they managed to dispose of letters for which a stranger would think it impossible to find owners.

"What would you make of that address, now?" said Mr Bright, presenting a letter to Miss Lillycrop for inspection.

"It looks like Cop—Cup—no—it begins with a C at all events.—What think you of it, May?" said the puzzled lady.

"It seems to me something like Captain Troller of Rittler Bunch," said May, laughing. "It is quite illegible."

"Not quite," said one of the blind officers, with a smile. "It is— Comptroller of the Returned Letter Branch. Some one making inquiries, no doubt, after a lost letter addressed as badly as this one."

Having looked at a few more of the letters that were then passing under examination, Mr Bright showed them a book in which were copied facsimiles of addresses which had passed through the post. Some of these were pictorial—embracing quaint devices and caricatures, most of them in ink, and some in colours, all of which had been traced by a gentleman in the office with great skill. One that struck May as being very original was the representation of an artist painting the portrait of the Queen. Her Majesty was depicted as sitting for her portrait, and the canvas on the easel before which the artist stood was made the exact size of the postage-stamp.

While the ladies were examining this book of literary curiosities, Mr Bright took occasion to comment with pardonable pride on the working of the Post-Office.

"You see, ma'am," he said, "we do our best for the public—though many of 'em have no idea of it. We don't send letters to the Returned Letter Branch till we've tried, as you see, to get the correct addresses, and until two separate letter-carriers have attempted to deliver them. After leaving the letter-carriers' hands, the address of every undelivered letter, and the indorsement it bears, are carefully examined by a superior officer, who is held responsible for discovering any wrong treatment it may have undergone, and for having recourse to any further available means of finding the owner. It is considered better that the sender of a letter should know as soon as possible of its non-delivery, than that it should travel about with little prospect of its owner being found. We therefore send it to the Returned Branch without further delay, where it is carefully examined by a superior officer, to see that it has actually been presented as addressed, and that the reasons assigned for its non-delivery are sufficient. In doubtful cases the Directories and other books of reference in the branch are consulted, and should it be found that there has been any oversight or neglect, the letter is immediately re-issued. After all has been done that can be to deliver such letters, they are opened, and returned the same day to the senders. If valuables are enclosed, the address and contents are recorded in case of inquiry. When senders fail to give their addresses, sometimes these are discovered by bills of exchange, cheques, or money-orders, which happen to be enclosed. When addresses of senders can be discovered by information on the outside of covers, the letters are returned without passing through the Returned Letter Branch, and are not opened. When all efforts have failed, and the letters do not contain property, they are not preserved."

"Do many letters come into the Returned Letter Offices in this way?" asked Miss Lillycrop.

"Ay; over the whole kingdom, including the letters sent direct to the senders last year, there were above four millions eight hundred thousand, and of these we managed to return nine-tenths to the writers, or re-issued them to corrected addresses."

"Oh, indeed!" said Miss Lillycrop, utterly bewildered.

"A large proportion of the letters passing through this office," said Mr Bright, "consists of circulars. An account of these was once taken, and the number was found to be nearly twenty millions a year, and of these circulars it was ascertained that—"

"Stop! pray, sir, stop!" exclaimed Miss Lillycrop, pressing her hand to her forehead; "I am lost in admiration of your amazing memory, but I—I have no head for figures. Indeed, what I have already heard and seen in this place has produced such confusion in my poor brain that I cannot perceive any difference whatever between millions, billions, and trillions!"

"Well, come, we will continue our round," said Mr Bright, laughing.

Now, while all this was going on in the hall, there was a restive creature inside of a box which did not relish its confinement. This was Mr Fred Blurt's snake.

That sagacious animal discovered that there was a knot in the side of his pine-wood box. Now, knots are sometimes loose. Whether the snake found this out, and wrought at the knot intentionally, or forced it out accidentally during its struggles, we cannot tell, but certain it is that it got it out somehow, made its escape, and glided away into the darkest corner it could find.

Meanwhile its box was treated after the manner of parcels, and put safely into one of the mail-bags.

As the mass of letters began to diminish in bulk the snake began to feel uncomfortably exposed. At the same time Miss Lillycrop, with that wicked delight in evil prophecy which is peculiar to mankind, began to feel comfortably exultant.

"You see I was right!" she said to her guide, glancing at the clock, which now indicated ten minutes to eight; "the confusion is almost as great as ever."

"We shall see," replied Mr Bright, quietly, as he led the way back to the gallery.

From this point it could be seen, even by unpractised eyes, that, although the confusion of letters all over the place was still considerable, there were huge gaps on the sorting-tables everywhere, while the facing-tables were of course empty. There was a push and energy also which had not prevailed at first. Men seemed as though they really were in considerable haste. Letters were being bundled up and tied with string and thrust into bags, and the bags sealed with a degree of celerity that transfixed Miss Lillycrop and silenced her. A few minutes more and the tables were cleared. Another minute, and the bags were being carried out. Thirty red vans outside gaped to receive them. Eight o'clock struck, whips cracked, wheels rattled, the eight o'clock mail was gone, and there was not a single letter left in the great sorting-room of St. Martin's-le-Grand!

"I was right, you see," said Mr Bright.

"You were right," responded Miss Lillycrop.

They descended and crossed the now unencumbered floor. The snake took it into its mottled head at that moment to do the same. Miss Lillycrop saw it, shrieked, sprang to get out of its way, fell, and sprained her ankle!

There was a rush of sorters, letter-carriers, boy-sorters, and messengers; the snake was captured, and Miss Lillycrop was tenderly borne from the General Post-Office in a state of mental amazement and physical collapse.



CHAPTER FOURTEEN.

FORMATION OF THE PEGAWAY LITERARY ASSOCIATION AND OTHER MATTERS.

Close to the residence of Solomon Flint there was a small outhouse or shed, which formed part of the letter-carrier's domain, but was too small to be sub-let as a dwelling, and too inconveniently situated in a back court to be used as an apartment. It was therefore devoted to the reception of lumber. But Solomon, not being a rich man, did not possess much lumber. The shed was therefore comparatively empty.

When Philip Maylands came to reside with Solomon, he was allowed to use this shed as a workroom.

Phil was by nature a universal genius—a Jack-of-all-trades—and formed an exception to that rule about being master of none, which is asserted, though not proved, by the proverb, for he became master of more than one trade in the course of his career. Solomon owned a few tools, so that carpentry was naturally his first attempt, and he very soon became proficient in that. Then, having discovered an old clock among the lumber of the shed, he took to examining and cleaning its interior of an evening after his work at the Post-Office was done. As his mechanical powers developed, his genius for invention expanded, and soon he left the beaten tracks of knowledge and wandered into the less trodden regions of fancy.

In all this Phil had an admirer and sympathiser in his sister May; but May's engagements, both in and out of the sphere of her telegraphic labours, were numerous, so that the boy would have had to pursue his labours in solitude if it had not been for his friend Peter Pax, whose admiration for him knew no bounds, and who, if he could, would have followed Phil like his shadow. As often as the little fellow could manage to do so, he visited his friend in the shed, which they named Pegaway Hall. There he sometimes assisted Phil, but more frequently held him in conversation, and commented in a free and easy way on his work,—for his admiration of Phil was not sufficient to restrain his innate insolence.

One evening Phil Maylands was seated at his table, busy with the works of an old watch. Little Pax sat on the table swinging his legs. He had brought a pipe with him, and would have smoked, but Phil sternly forbade it.

"It's bad enough for men to fumigate their mouths," he said, with a smile on his lip and a frown in his eye, "but when I see a thing like you trying to make yourself look manly by smoking, I can't help thinking of a monkey putting on the boots and helmet of a Guardsman. The boots and helmet look grand, no doubt, but that makes the monkey seem all the more ridiculous. Your pipe suggests manhood, Pax, but you look much more like a monkey than a man when it's in your mouth."

"How severe you are to-night, Phil!" returned Pax, putting the pipe, however, in his pocket; "where did you graduate, now—at Cambridge or Oxford? Because w'en my eldest boy is big enough I'd like to send 'im w'ere he'd acquire sitch an amazin' flow of eloquence."

Phil continued to rub the works of the watch, but made no reply.

"I say, Phil," observed the little fellow, after a thoughtful pause.

"Well?"

"Don't it strike you, sometimes, that this is a queer sort of world?"

"Yes, I've often thought that, and it has struck me, too, that you are one of the queerest fish in it."

"Come, Phil, don't be cheeky. I'm in a sedate frame of mind to-night, an' want to have a talk in a philosophical sort o' way of things in general."

"Well, Pax, go ahead. I happen to have been reading a good deal about things in general of late, so perhaps between us we may grind something out of a talk."

"Just so; them's my ideas precisely. There's nothin'," said Pax, thrusting both hands deeper into his trousers pockets, and swinging his legs more vigorously—"nothin' like a free an' easy chat for developin' the mental powers. But I say, what a fellow you are for goin' ahead! Seems to me that you're always either workin' at queer contrivances or readin'."

"You forget, Pax, that I sometimes carry telegraphic messages."

"Ha! true, then you and I are bound together by the cords of a common dooty—p'r'aps I should say an uncommon dooty, all things considered."

"Among other things," returned Phil, "I have found out by reading that there are two kinds of men in the world, the men who push and strive and strike out new ideas, and the men who jog along easy, on the let-be-for-let-be principle, and who grow very much like cabbages."

"You're right there, Phil—an' yet cabbages ain't bad vegetables in their way," remarked Pax, with a contemplative cast of his eyes to the ceiling.

"Well," continued Phil gravely, "I shouldn't like to be a cabbage."

"W'ich means," said the other, "that you'd rather be one o' the fellows who push an' strive an strike out noo ideas."

Phil admitted that such were his thoughts and aspirations.

"Now, Pax," he said, laying down the tool with which he had been working, and looking earnestly into his little friend's face, "something has been simmering in my mind for a considerable time past."

"You'd better let it out then, Phil, for fear it should bu'st you," suggested Pax.

"Come, now, stop chaffing for a little and listen, because I want your help," said Phil.

There was something in Phil's look and manner when he was in earnest which effectually quelled the levity of his little admirer. The appeal to him for aid, also, had a sedative effect. As Phil went on, Pax became quite as serious as himself. This power of Pax to suddenly discard levity, and become interested, was indeed one of the qualities which rendered him powerfully attractive to his friend.

"The fact is," continued Phil, "I have set my heart on forming a literary association among the telegraph-boys."

"A what?"

"A literary association. That is, an association of those boys among us who want to read, and study: and discuss, and become knowing and wise."

The daring aspirations suggested by this proposition were too much for little Pax. He remained silent—open mouthed and eyed—while Phil went on quietly to expound his plans.

"There is a capital library, as you know, at the Post-Office, which is free to all of us, though many of us make little use of it—more's the pity,—so that we don't require a library of our own, though we may come to that, too, some day, who knows? Sure it wouldn't be the first time that great things had come out of small beginnings, if all I have read be true. But it's not only books we would be after. What we want, Pax, is to be organised—made a body of. When we've got that done we shall soon put soul into the body,—what with debates, an' readings, an' lectures, an' maybe a soiree now and then, with music and speeches, to say nothing of tea an' cakes."

As Phil Maylands warmed with his subject his friend became excited. He ceased to chaff and raise objections, and finally began to see the matter through Phil's rose-coloured glasses.

"Capital," he exclaimed heartily. "It'll do, Phil. It'll work—like everything else you put your hand to. But"—here his chubby little visage elongated—"how about funds? Nothin' in this world gets along without funds; an' then we've no place to meet in."

"We must content ourselves with funds of humour to begin with," returned Phil, resuming his work on the watch. "As for a meeting-room, wouldn't this do? Pegaway Hall is not a bad place, and quite enough room in it when the lumber's cleared out o' the way. Then, as to members, we would only admit those who showed a strong desire to join us."

"Just so—who showed literary tastes, like you an' me," suggested Pax.

"Exactly so," said Phil, "for, you see, I don't want to have our society flourished about in the eyes of people as a public Post-Office affair. We must make it private and very select."

"Yes, uncommon select," echoed Pax.

"It would never do, you know," continued the other, "to let in every shallow young snipe that wanted to have a lark, and make game of the affair. We will make our rules very stringent."

"Of course," murmured Pax, with a solemn look, "tremendously stringent. For first offences of any kind—a sousin' with dirty water. For second offences—a woppin' and a fine. For third—dismissal, with ears and noses chopped off, or such other mutilation as a committee of the house may invent. But, Phil, who d'yee think would be suitable men to make members of?"

"Well, let me see," said Phil, again laying down his tools, and looking at the floor with a thoughtful air, "there's Long Poker, he's a long-legged, good-hearted fellow—fond o' the newspapers."

"Yes," put in Pax, "Poker'll do for one. He'd be a capital member. Long and thin as a literary c'racter ought to be, and pliable too. We could make a'most anything of him, except a fire-screen or a tablecloth. Then there's Big Jack—he's got strong sedate habits."

"Too fond of punning," objected Phil.

"A little punishment in the mutilation way would stop that," said Pax.

"And there's Jim Brown," rejoined Phil. "He's a steady, enthusiastic fellow; and little Grigs, he's about as impudent as yourself, Pax. Strange, isn't it, that it's chiefly little fellows who are impudent?"

"Wouldn't it be strange if it were otherwise?" retorted Pax, with an injured look. "As we can't knock people down with our fists, aren't we justified in knockin' 'em down with our tongues?"

"Then," continued Phil, "there's George Granger and Macnab—"

"Ah! ain't he the boy for argufyin' too?" interrupted Pax, "and he'll meet his match in Sandy Tod. And there's Tom Blunter—"

"And Jim Scroggins—"

"An' Limp Letherby—"

"An' Fat Collins—"

"An' Bobby Sprat. Oh!" exclaimed Pax, with a glowing countenance, "we've got lots o' first-rate men among the message-boys, though there are some uncommon bad 'uns. But we'll have none except true-blues in our literary association."

The society thus planned was soon called into being, for Philip Maylands was one of those determined characters who carry their plans into execution with vigour and despatch. His first move was to seek counsel of Mr Sterling, a city missionary—the same who had directed George Aspel to the abode of Abel Bones on the night of that youth's visit to Archangel Court,—with whom he had become acquainted on one of his visits to Miss Lillycrop. That good lady was a staunch ally and able assistant of many city missionaries, and did much service in the way of bringing them into acquaintance with people who she thought might be helpful to them, or get help from them. A mutual liking had sprung up between Mr Antony Sterling and Phil on that occasion, which had ripened into friendship.

"You'll help us at our first meeting, won't you?" asked Phil, after they had talked the matter over.

"Yes, if you wish it," replied Mr Sterling. "But I won't come at the beginning. I'll drop in towards the close, and won't say much. You'd best begin the work by yourselves. I'll come to your aid whenever you seem to require it. But have a care how you start, Phil. Whatever the other members may do, remember that you, as the originator of the association, are bound to lay the foundations with the blessing of God."

Phil did not neglect this all-important point, and, having obtained permission from Solomon Flint to use the shed, the society was soon auspiciously commenced with a lively debate, in Pegaway Hall, as to the best method of conducting its own affairs. On this occasion Philip Maylands proved himself to be an able organiser. Long Poker showed that he had not dabbled in newspapers without fishing up and retaining a vast amount of miscellaneous knowledge. Jim Brown roused the meeting to a pitch of enthusiasm almost equal to his own. Little Grigs made stinging remarks all round, and chaffed little Pax with evident delight. Macnab disputed with everybody. Sandy Tod argued and objected more or less to everything, while Tom Blunter, Jim Scroggins, Limp Letherby, Fat Collins, and Bobby Sprat, lent more or less effectual fire to the debate. Big Jack did not speak much. He preferred, as he said, to form a large audience, but, if he might be permitted to offer an opinion, would suggest that less talk and more action might facilitate the despatch of business, and that they ought to try to emulate the House of Commons by allowing a little common sense to mingle with their discussions.

As for Peter Pax, he assumed the role of peacemaker-general. When the debaters seemed to be getting too warm, he rose to order; and, in a calm dignified manner, commented on the conduct of the disputants with such ineffable insolence as to draw down their wrath on his devoted head—to the great delight of the other members. Thus he threw oil on the troubled waters, and, generally, kept the meeting lively.

Finally, the laws of the Pegaway Literary Association were fixed, the plan of meetings was arranged, and the whole thing fairly started.

The society worked well for a time, but after the various members had done their best, as Pax said, to keep the pot boiling, it was felt and suggested that they should seek a little aid from without. A reading or a lecture was proposed, seconded, and carried. Then came the question who should be asked to read or lecture. Macnab proposed that their chairman should endeavour to procure a lecturer, and report to next meeting. Sandy Tod objected, and proposed a committee to consider the subject. Phil Maylands said he had anticipated the demand, and had already secured the promise of a lecturer—if the members chose to accept him.

"Name! name!" cried several voices.

"Our excellent landlord, Solomon Flint," said Phil. "You all know his admirable powers of memory, and his profound knowledge of men and things ('At least if you don't, you ought to,' from Pax), and you may be sure he'll give us something good."

"And proverbial," added little Grigs.

"Ay, Flint will certainly strike fire out of whatever he tackles," said Big Jack.

("Order!" from Pax.)

"When is he to give it?" asked one.

"Won't fix the time just yet," said Phil.

"What's his subject?" asked another.

"Can't say; not yet decided."

With this uncertainty as to time and subject the association was obliged to rest content, and thereafter the meeting was dissolved.

We are grieved to be obliged to state that the society thus hopefully commenced came to a premature close at an early period of its career, owing to circumstances over which its members had no control.

Some time before that sad event occurred, however, Solomon Flint delivered his discourse, and as some of the events of that memorable evening had special bearing on the issues of our tale, we shall recur to it in a succeeding chapter.



CHAPTER FIFTEEN.

GEORGE ASPEL RECEIVES VARIOUS VISITORS AT THE ORNITHOLOGICAL SHOP, AND IS CALLED TO VIGOROUS ACTION.

As long as a man retains a scrap of self-respect, and struggles, from any motive whatever, against his evil tendencies, his journey to destruction is comparatively slow; but when once he gives way to despair, assumes that he has tried his best in vain, and throws the reins on the neck of his passions, his descent into the dark abyss is terribly rapid.

For a time George Aspel was buoyed up by hope. He hoped that May Maylands might yet come to regard him with favour, though she studiously avoided giving him ground for such hope. He also continued, though faintly, to hope that Sir James Clubley might still think of fulfilling his promises, and, in pursuance of that hope, frequently inquired whether any letters had been left for him at the hotel where he first put up on arriving in London. But, when both of these hopes forsook him, and he found himself in what he deemed the ridiculous position of shopman to a bird-stuffer, without an influential friend in the great city, or the slightest prospect of improving his condition, he gave way to despair.

Before quite giving way, however, he made several attempts to obtain work more suited to his tastes and acquirements, in which efforts he was heartily seconded by Mr Enoch Blurt; but Enoch was about as unknown in London as himself, so that their united efforts failed.

In these circumstances the ambitious youth began to regard himself as a martyr to misfortune, and resolved to enjoy himself as he best might. With a view to this he spent his evenings in places of amusement, with companions whose example and influence helped to drag him down and increase his tendency to drink.

This tendency was in part hereditary. His father had been a confirmed drinker. Although well aware of this, he did not believe in his own fallibility. Few young men of his stamp do. Other men might give way to it, but there was no fear of him. He admitted that he could, and sometimes did, take a stiff glass of grog—but what then? It did him no harm. He was not a slave to it. He could give it up and do without it if he chose—although, it is to be remarked, he had never made the trial, and only assumed this power. To be rather "screwed" now and then was, he admitted, somewhat discreditable; but he wasn't worse than many others, and it didn't occur often. Thus he reasoned, half-justifying himself in a thoroughly selfish, sinful course; growling at his "bad luck," and charging the guilt of his sin, which he said he couldn't help, on Fate—in other words, on God.

It never occurred to George Aspel that the true way to get out of his troubles was to commit his way to his Maker; to accept the position assigned him; to do the work of a faithful servant therein; to get connected with good society through the medium of churches and young men's Christian associations, and to spend a few years in establishing a character for trustworthiness, capacity, vigour, and intelligence, which would secure his advancement in life. At least, if such thoughts did occur to him, he refused to entertain them, and resolved to fling care to the dogs and defy fortune.

Of course, it soon became apparent to his employer that there was a great change for the worse in the youth, whom he not only admired for his frank bearing and strapping appearance, but loved as his deliverer from death. Delicacy of feeling, however, prevented Mr Blurt from alluding to dissipations at which he could only guess.

Poverty and distress bring about strange companionships. When Aspel first arrived in London he would have scouted the idea of his having anything whatever to do with such a man as Abel Bones, but he had not proceeded far in his downward course when that disreputable character became, if not a companion, at least an acquaintance.

This state of things was brought about primarily by the patronage which Aspel had extended to the "poor worthless fellow" whom he had so unceremoniously knocked down. But the poor worthless fellow, although born in a lower rank of life, was quite equal to him in natural mental power, and much superior in cunning and villainy. Mr Bones had also a bold, reckless air and nature, which were attractive to this descendant of the sea-kings. Moreover, he possessed a power of mingling flattery with humbug in a way that made his victim fall rather easily into his toils.

Revenge, as we have said, lay at the bottom of Abel Bones' desire to become better acquainted with Aspel, but profit soon took the place of revenge. Mr Bones earned his livelihood chiefly by appropriating what belonged to other people. He was not particular as to what he took, or how he took it, but on the whole preferred easy work (like most people) and large profit. Being a man of bold, ambitious views, he had often thought of forgery, but a neglected education stood in the way of that. Being also a man of resource, he did not doubt that this, like many other difficulties, would ere long succumb to his perseverance. While in this frame of mind it occurred to him that he might make a tool of his new acquaintance and would-be patron. At the same time he had penetration enough to perceive that his intended tool was a dangerous instrument, highly-tempered and sharp-set, with a will of its own, not yet quite demoralised, and not by any means to be played with.

It might be tedious to trace the steps and winding ways by which Abel Bones led his victim from one piece of impropriety to another—always concealing his real character, and playing the role of an unfortunate man, willing to work, but unable to find employment—until he almost had him in his toils.

"It's of no use your dancing attendance on me any longer, Bones," said Aspel one day, as the former appeared at the door of the ornithological shop. "I have all the will to help you, but I have not the power. My friends have failed me, and I can do no more than keep my own soul in my body. You must look to some one else with more influence than I possess."

"That's a bad job, sir," returned Bones, with a downcast look. "I've bin down at the docks all day, an' earned only enough to get a plate of bacon and beans. Surely there's somethin' wrong when a cove that's willin' to work must starve; and there's my wife and child starvin' too. Seems to me that a cove is justified in stealin' in the circumstances."

He cast a sidelong glance at Aspel. It was the first time he had ventured to suggest dishonest intentions. If they should be taken ill, he could turn it off as a jest; if taken well, he could proceed.

"I'm very sorry for you, Bones," said Aspel, not noticing the hint, "very sorry, but what can I do? I have not a copper left beyond what I absolutely require."

"Well, sir, I know that you can do nothing, but now that my wife and child are actually starvin', I really don't see the sin of helpin' myself to a loaf at the nearest baker's, and giving him leg-bail for it."

"Nothing justifies stealing," said Aspel.

"D'ee think not, sir?" said Bones. "If you saw your wife now, supposin' you had one, at the pint of death with hunger, an' you saw a loaf lyin' as didn't belong to you, would you let her die?"

Aspel thought of May Maylands.

"I don't know," he replied, "what I should do. All that I say is, that stealing is unjustifiable."

The argument was stopped at this point by the entrance of a small telegraph message-boy.

Bones was startled by his sudden entrance.

"Well, good-night, sir, we'll talk that matter over some other time," he said quickly, pulling his wideawake well over his face as he went out, and giving the message-boy a prolonged stare.

The boy paid no regard to him, but, turning to Aspel, introduced himself as Peter Pax.

"What! the comrade-in-arms of my friend Phil Maylands?" asked Aspel.

"The same, at your service," replied the small messenger; "an' if you are the friend he talks to me so much about, as goes by the name of George Aspel, an' is descended in a direct line from the old sea-kings, I'm proud to make your acquaintance."

Aspel laughed at the consummate self-possession of the boy, and shaking hands with him heartily as a comrade of their common friend Phil, bade him take a seat, which he immediately did on the counter.

"You're surrounded by pleasant company here," observed Pax, gazing intently at the pelican of the wilderness.

"Well, yes; but it's rather silent company," said Aspel.

"Did that fellow, now," continued Pax, pointing to the owl, "die of surprise?"

"Perhaps he did, but I wasn't present at his death," returned the other.

"Well, now, I do like this sort o' thing."

Little Pax said this with such genuine feeling, and looked round him with such obvious interest, that Aspel, with some surprise, asked him why he liked it.

"Why? because from my earliest years I always was fond of animals. No matter what sort they wos, I liked 'em all—birds an' beasts an' fishes, flyers and creepers, an' squeakers and flutterers," said the boy, clasping both hands over one knee, and rocking himself to and fro on the counter, while he gazed into the owl's face with the air of one whose mind is rambling far away into the remote past.

"Once on a time," he continued, sadly, "I dwelt in the country. I was born in the country. I'm a sort o' country gentleman by nature, so to speak, and would have bin revellin' in the country to this day if a perwerse fate hadn't driven me into the town—a very perwerse fate indeed."

"Indeed?" said Aspel, unable to restrain a laugh at his visitor's old-fashioned ways, "what sort of fate was it?"

"A perwerse one, didn't I tell you?"

"Yes, but wherein consisted its perversity? How did it act, you know?"

"Ah, its perwersity consisted in drivin' me into town in a market-cart," said Pax. "You must know that my perwerse fate was a uncle. He was a big brute. I don't mean to speak of 'im disrespectfully. I merely give 'im his proper name. He was a market-gardener and kept cows—also a pump. He had a wife and child—a little girl. Ah! a sweet child it was."

"Indeed," said Aspel, as the boy relapsed into a silent contemplative gaze at the pelican.

"Yes," resumed Pax, with a sigh, "it was a child, that was. Her name was Mariar, but we called 'er Merry. Her father's name—the Brute's, you know—was Blackadder, and a blacker adder don't wriggle its slimy way through filthy slums nowhere—supposin' him to be yet unscragged, for he was uncommon hard on his wife—that's my Aunt Georgie. Her name was Georgianna. I wonder how it is that people never give people their right names! Well, Mr Aspel, you must know I was nuss to baby. An amytoor nuss I was—got no pay for it, but a considerable allowance o' kicks from the Brute, who wasn't fond o' me, as I'd done 'im a mortal injury, somehow, by being his defunct brother's orphan child. You understand?"

George Aspel having professed a thorough comprehension of these family relationships, little Pax went on.

"Well then, bein' nuss to Merry, I used to take 'er out long walks in the fields among the flowers, an' I was used to catch butterflies and beetles for 'er, an' brought 'em home an' stuck pins through 'em an' made c'lections; an' oh, I did like to scuttle about the green lanes an' chase the cows, an' roll on the grass in the sunshine with Merry, an' tear an bu'st my trousers, for w'ich I got spanked by the Brute, but didn't care a rap, because that brought me double allowance o' coddlin' from Aunt Georgie. One day the Brute drove me into town in the market-cart; set me down in the middle of a street, and drove away, an' I haven't seen him, nor Aunt Georgie, nor Merry from that day to this."

"Dear me!" exclaimed George Aspel, rather shocked at this sudden and unexpected termination of the narrative; "do you mean to say—"

"It strikes me," interrupted Pax, looking pointedly at the door, "that you've got another visitor."

Aspel turned and saw the dishevelled curls and pretty face of Tottie Bones in the doorway.

"Please, sir," she said, entering, "I didn't like to interrupt you, but Miss Lillycrop sent me to say that there was a strange smell of singein' in the 'ouse, an' would Mr Aspel be so kind as to come and try to find out where it was, as she didn't understand such things."

"Smell of singeing, child!" exclaimed Aspel, rising at once and putting on his coat and hat. "Did you search for the cause, especially about your kitchen fireplace?"

"O yes, sir," exclaimed Tottie, "an' we couldn't see no cause at all— only the flue seemed to be 'otter than usual. We looked all over the 'ouse too, but couldn't see nothink—but we could feel a most drefful smell."

Desiring Mrs Murridge to call Mr Blurt to attend to the shop, George Aspel hurried out.

"Don't try to keep up with us," said Aspel to Tottie; "I must run. It may be fire!"

"Oh! please, sir, don't leave me behind," pleaded the child.

"All right—we won't; kitch hold of my hand; give the other to Mr Aspel," said Peter Pax.

Holding on to her two friends, Tottie was swept along the streets at a rate which she had never before experienced—at least not as a foot-passenger,—and in a few minutes they were in Miss Lillycrop's dwelling.

That excellent lady was in a state of dreadful perturbation, as well she might be, for the house was filled with a thin smoke of very peculiar odour.

Few persons except the initiated are fully alive to the immense importance of checking fire at its commencement. The smoke, although not dense enough to attract the attention of people outside, was sufficiently so to make those inside commence an anxious search, when they should have sent at once for the fire-engine.

Three families occupied the tenement. Miss Lillycrop's portion was at the top. A dealer in oils and stores of a miscellaneous and unsavoury kind occupied the basement.

George Aspel at once suspected and made for this point, followed by Miss Lillycrop, who bade Tottie remain in her kitchen, with the intention of keeping her at once out of danger and out of the way.

"There's certainly fire somewhere, Pax; run, call the engines out," said Aspel, descending three steps at a time.

Pax took the last six steps at a bound, and rushed along the street, overturning in his flight two boys bigger than himself, and a wheelbarrow.

The owner of the cellars was absent and his door locked. Where was the key? No one knew, but George Aspel knew of a key that had done some service in times past. He retreated a few steps, and, rushing at the door with all his weight and momentum, dashed it in with a tremendous crash, and went headlong into the cellar, from out of which came belching flames and smoke. Re-issuing instantly therefrom with singed hair and glaring eyes, he found Miss Lillycrop lying on her back in a faint, where the fire and smoke had floored her. To gather her up and dash into the street was the work of a moment. Scarcely less rapid was the rush of the fire, which, having been richly fed and long pent up in the cellar, now dashed up the staircases like a giant refreshed.

Meanwhile little Pax ran headlong into a policeman, and was collared and throttled.

"Now then, young 'un!"

"Fire! station!" gasped Pax.

"All right, this way—just round the corner," said the man in blue, releasing his captive, and running along with him; but the man in blue was stout, middle-aged, and heavy. Pax outran him, saw the red lamp, found the fire-station door open, and leaped through with a yell of "Fire!" that nearly split his little lungs.

The personification of calmness in the form of a fireman rose and demanded "Where?"

Before Pax could gasp the address, two other personifications of calmness, who had been snoring on trestle-beds, dressed and booted, when he entered, now moved swiftly out, axed and helmeted. There was a clattering of hoofs outside. The double doors flew open, and the red engine rolled out almost of its own accord. More brass helmets were seen flashing outside.

"Are you sure of the address, youngster?" asked one of the imperturbable firemen, settling his chinstrap more comfortably.

"Are you sure o' your own grandmother?" said Pax.

"You're cheeky," replied the man, with a smile.

"You make haste," retorted Pax; "three minutes allowed to get under weigh. Two and a half gone already. Two-and-six fine if late, besides a—"

The whip cracked, and Pax, leaping forward, seized the side of the engine. Six brass helmets bounded into the air, and their owners settled on their seats, as the horses made that momentary pause and semi-rear which often precedes a dashing start. The man whom he had been insulting held out a hand; Pax seized it, and was next moment in a terrestrial heaven, while calmness personified sauntered into the back office to make a note of the circumstance, and resume his pipe.

Oh! it was a brief but maddening ride. To experience such a magnificent rush seemed to Pax worth living for. It was not more than half-a-mile; but in that brief space there were three corners to turn like zigzag lightning, which they did chiefly on the two near wheels, and there were carts, vans, cabs, drays, apple-stalls, children, dogs, and cats innumerable. To have run over or upset these would have been small gratification to the comparatively tender spirit of Pax, but to shave them; to graze the apple-stalls; to just scrape a lamp-post with your heart in your mouth; to hear the tremendous roar of the firemen; to see the abject terror of some people, the excitement of others, the obedient "skedaddling" of all, while the sparks from the pump-boiler trailed behind, and the two bull's-eyes glared ahead, so that the engine resembled some awful monster rushing through thick and thin, and waving in triumph its fiery tail—ah! words are but feeble exponents of thought: it was excruciating ecstasy! To have been born for this one burst, and died, would have been better than never to have been born at all,—in the estimation of the enthusiastic Peter Pax!

A few minutes after George Aspel had borne the fainting Miss Lillycrop from the house the engine arrived. Some of the men swarmed into the house, and dived to the basement, as if fire and smoke were their natural food. Others got the engine to work in a few seconds, but already the flames had rushed into the lower rooms and passages and licked away the windows. The thick stream of water had just begun to descend on the fire, when another engine came rattling to the field, and its brazen-headed warriors leaped down to join the battle.

"Oh!" groaned Miss Lillycrop at that moment, recovering in Aspel's arms. "Oh! Tottie—To-o-o-o-tie's in the kitchen!"

Little Pax heard and understood. In one moment he bounded through the blazing doorway and up the smoking stair.

Just then the fire-escape came into view, towering up against the black sky.

"Hold her, some one!" cried Aspel, dropping his poor burden into the ready arms of a policeman.

"The boy's lost!" he exclaimed, leaping after Pax.

Aspel was a practised diver. Many a time had he tried his powers under the Atlantic waves on the west of Ireland. He drew one long breath, and was in the attic kitchen before it was expended. Here he found little Pax and Tottie on the floor. The former had fallen, suffocated, in the act of hauling the latter along by the hair of the head. Aspel did not see them. He stumbled over them, grasped both in his strong arms, and bore them to the staircase. It was by that time a roaring furnace. His power of retaining breath was exhausted. In desperation he turned sharp to the right, and dashed in Miss Lillycrop's drawing-room door, just as the fire-escape performed the same feat on one of the windows. The gush of air drove back the smoke for one moment. Gasping and reeling to the window, Aspel hurled the children into the bag of the escape. He retained sufficient power to plunge in head first after them and ram them down its throat. All three arrived at the bottom in a state of insensibility.

In this state they were borne to a neighbouring house, and soon restored to consciousness.

The firemen battled there during the greater part of that night, and finally gained the victory; but, before this happy consummation was attained, poor Miss Lillycrop's home was gutted and her little property reduced to ashes.