In these circumstances she and her little maid found a friend in need in Miss Stivergill, and an asylum in Rosebud Cottage.



CHAPTER SIXTEEN.

BEGINS WITH JUVENILE FLIRTATION, AND ENDS WITH CANINE CREMATION.

The disreputable nature of the wind which blows good to nobody has been so frequently referred to and commented on by writers in general that it merits only passing notice here. The particular breeze which fanned the flames that consumed the property that belonged to Miss Lillycrop, and drove that lady to a charming retreat in the country thereby rescuing her from a trying existence in town, also blew small Peter Pax in the same direction.

"Boy," said Miss Stivergill in stern tones, on the occasion of her first visit to the hospital in which Pax was laid up for a short time after his adventure, "you're a good boy. I like you. The first of your sex I ever said that to."

"Thank you, ma'am. I hope I shan't be the last," returned Pax languidly, for he was still weak from the effects of the partial roasting and suffocation he had undergone.

"Miss Lillycrop desired me to come and see you," resumed Miss Stivergill. "She has told me how bravely you tried to rescue poor little Bones, who—"

"Not much hurt, I hope?" asked the boy eagerly.

"No, very little—scarcely at all, I'm glad to say. Those inexplicable creatures called firemen, who seem to me what you may call fire-fiends of a good-natured and recklessly hilarious type, say that her having fallen down with her nose close to the ground, where there is usually a free current of air, saved her. At all events she is saved, and quite well."

"I hope I didn't haul much of the hair out of her poor head?" said Pax.

"Apparently not, if one may judge from the very large quantity that remains," replied his visitor.

"You see, ma'am, in neck-or-nothin' scrimmages o' that sort," continued Pax, in the off-hand tone of one much experienced in such scrimmages, "one can't well stop to pick and choose; besides, I couldn't see well, d'ee see? an' her hair came first to hand, you know, an' was convenient. It's well for both on us, however, that that six foot odd o' magnificence came to the rescue in time. I like 'im, I do, an' shall owe 'im a good turn for savin' little Bones.—What was her other name, did you say, ma'am?"

"I didn't mention any other name, but I believe it is Tottie.—Now, little Peter, when the doctor gives you leave to be moved, you are to come to me to recruit your health in the country."

"Thank you, ma'am. You're too good," said Pax, becoming languid again. "Pray give my best respects to Tottie and Miss Lillycrop."

"So small, and so pretty, and such a wise little thing," murmured Miss Stivergill, unaware, apparently, that she soliloquised aloud.

"So big, and so ugly, and such a good-hearted stoopid old thing!" murmured Pax; but it is only just to add that he was too polite to allow the murmur to be heard.

"Good-bye, little Peter, till we meet again," said Miss Stivergill, turning away abruptly.

"Farewell, ma'am," said Pax, "farewell; and if for ever—"

He stopped, because his visitor was gone.

According to this arrangement, Pax found himself, not many days after, revelling in the enjoyment of what he styled "tooral-ooral" felicity— among cows and hay, sunshine and milk, buttercups and cream, green meadows and blue skies,—free as a butterfly from telegraphic messagery and other postal cares. He was allowed to ramble about at will, and, as little Bones was supposed to be slightly invalided by her late semi-suffocation, she was frequently allowed by her indulgent mistress to accompany him.

Seated on a stile one day, Pax drew Tottie out as to her early life, and afterwards gave an account of his own in exchange.

"How strange," said Tottie, "that you and I should both have had bybies to nuss w'en we was young, ain't it?"

"It is, Tot—very remarkable. And we've had a sad fate, both of us, in havin' bin wrenched from our babbies. But the wrench couldn't have bin so bad in your case as in mine, of course, for your babby was nobody to you, whereas mine was a full cousin, an' such a dear one too. Oh, Tot, you've no notion what splendid games we used to have, an' such c'lections of things I used to make for 'er! Of course she was too young to understand it, you know, for she could neither walk nor speak, and I don't think could understand, though she crowed sometimes as if she did. My! how she crowed!—But what's the matter, Tot?"

Tottie was pouting.

"I don't like your bybie at all—not one bit," she said emphatically.

"Not like my babby!" exclaimed Pax.

"No, I don't, 'cause it isn't 'alf so good as mine."

"Well," returned Pax, with a smile, "I was took from mine. I didn't forsake it like you."

"I didn't forsake it," cried Tottie, with flashing eyes, and shaking her thick curls indignantly—which latter, by the way, since her coming under the stern influence of Miss Stivergill, had been disentangled, and hung about her like a golden glory.—"I left it to go to service, and mother takes care of it till I return home. I won't speak to you any more. I hate your bybie, and I adore mine!"

So saying, little Bones jumped up and ran away. Small Pax made no attempt to stop her or to follow. He was too much taken aback by the sudden burst of passion to be able for more than a prolonged whistle, followed by a still more prolonged stare. Thereafter he sauntered away slowly, ruminating, perhaps, on the fickle character of woman, even in her undeveloped stages.

Tottie climbed hastily over a stile and turned into a green lane, where she meant to give full vent to her feelings in a satisfactory cry, when she was met face to face by Mr Abel Bones.

"Why, father!" she exclaimed, running to her sire with a look of joyful surprise, for occasional bad treatment had failed to dry up the bottomless well of love in her little heart.

"Hush! Tottie; there—take my hand, an' don't kick up such a row. You needn't look so scared at seein' me here. I'm fond o' the country, you know, an' I've come out to 'ave a little walk and a little talk with you.—Who was that you was talkin' with just now?"

Tottie told him.

"Stoppin' here, I s'pose?"

"Yes. He's bin here for some time, but goes away soon—now that he's better. It was him as saved my life—at least him and Mr Aspel, you know."

"No, I don't know, Tot. Let's hear all about it," replied Mr Bones, with a look of unwonted gravity.

Tottie went off at once into a glowing account of the fire and the rescue, to which her father listened with profound attention, not unmingled with surprise. Then he reverted to the aspect of the surrounding country.

"It's a pretty place you live in here, Tot, an' a nice house. It's there the lady lives, I suppose who has the strange fancy to keep her wealth in a box on the sideboard? Well, it is curious, but there's no accountin' for the fancies o' the rich, Tot. An' you say she keeps no men-servants about her? Well, that's wise, for men are dangerous characters for women to 'ave about 'em. She's quite right. There's a dear little dog too, she keeps, I'm told. Is that the only one she owns?"

"Yes, it's the only one, and such a darlin' it is, and so fond of me!" exclaimed Tottie.

"Ah, yes, wery small, but wery noisy an' vicious," remarked Mr Bones, with a sudden scowl, which fortunately his daughter did not see.

"O no, father; little Floppart ain't vicious, though it is awful noisy w'en it chooses."

"Well, Tot, I'd give a good deal to see that dear little Floppart, and make friends with it. D'you think you could manage to get it to follow you here?"

"Oh, easily. I'll run an' fetch it; but p'r'aps you had better come to the house. I know they'd like to see you, for they're so kind to me."

Mr Bones laughed sarcastically, and expressed his belief that they wouldn't like to see him at all.

Just at that moment Miss Stivergill came round the turn of the lane and confronted them.

"Well, little Bones, whom have you here?" asked the lady, with a stern look at Mr Bones.

"Please, ma'am, it's father. He 'appened to be in this neighbourhood, and came to see me."

"Your father!" exclaimed Miss Stivergill, with a look of surprise. "Indeed!"

"Yes, ma'am," said Bones, politely taking off his hat and looking her coolly in the face. "I 'ope it's no offence, but I came a bit out o' my way to see 'er. She says you've bin' wery kind to her."

"Well, she says the truth. I mean to be kind to her," returned Miss Stivergill, as sternly as before.—"Take your father to the cottage, child, and tell them to give him a glass of beer. If you see Miss Lillycrop, tell her I've gone to the village, and won't be back for an hour." So saying, Miss Stivergill walked down the lane with masculine strides, leaving Tottie pleased, and her father smiling.

"I don't want no beer, Tot," said the latter. "But you go to the cottage and fetch me that dear little dog. I want to see it; and don't forget the lady's message to Miss Lillycrop—but be sure you don't say I'm waitin' for you. Don't mention me to nobody. D'ee understand?"

Poor Tottie, with a slight and undefined misgiving at her heart, professed to understand, and went off.

In a few minutes she returned with the little dog—a lively poodle— which at first showed violent and unmistakable objections to being friendly with Mr Bones. But a scrap of meat, which that worthy had brought in his pocket, and a few soothing words, soon modified the objection.

Presently Mr Bones pulled a small muzzle from his pocket.

"D'you think, now, that Floppart would let you put it on 'er, Tot?"

Tot was sure she would, and soon had the muzzle on.

"That's right; now, hold 'er fast a moment—just a—there—!"

He sprang at and caught the dog by the throat, choked a snarling yelp in the bud, and held it fast.

"Dear, dear, how wild it has got all of a sudden! W'y, it must be ill— p'r'aps mad. It's well you put that muzzle on, Tot."

While he spoke Abel Bones thrust the dog into one of the capacious pockets of his coat.

"Now, Tot," he said, somewhat sternly, "I durstn't let this dog go. It wants a doctor very bad. You go back to the 'ouse and tell 'em a man said so. You needn't say what man; call me a philanthropist if you choose, an' tell 'em I'll send it back w'en it recovers. But you needn't tell 'em anything until you're axed, you know—it might get me into trouble, d'ee see, an' say to Miss Stivergill it wasn't your father as took the dog, but another man."

He leaped over a low part of the hedge and was gone, leaving poor Tottie in a state of bewildered anxiety on the other side.

Under the influence of fear Tottie told the lies her father had bid her tell, and thereafter dwelt at Rosebud Cottage with an evil conscience and a heavy heart.

Having gained the high-road, Mr Bones sauntered easily to the railway station, took a third-class ticket for Charing Cross, and in due time found himself passing along the Strand. In the course of that journey poor little Floppart lay on its back in the bottom of its captor's pocket, with a finger and thumb gently pressing her windpipe. Whenever she became restive, the finger and thumb tightened, and this with such unvarying regularity that she soon came to understand the advantage of lying still. She did, however, make sundry attempts to escape—once very violently, when the guard was opening the carriage-door to let Mr Bones enter, and again almost as violently at Charing Cross, when Mr Bones got out. Indeed, the dog had well-nigh got off, and was restored to its former place and position with difficulty.

Turning into Chancery Lane, and crossing over to Holborn, Abel Bones continued his way to Newgate, where, appropriately enough, he stopped and gazed grimly up at the massive walls.

"Don't be in a 'urry," said a very small boy, with dirt and daring in equal proportions on his face, "it'll wait for you."

Mr Bones made a tremendous demonstration of an intention to rush at the boy, who precipitately fled, and the former passed quietly on.

At St. Martin's-le-Grand he paused again.

"Strange," he muttered, "there seems to be some sort o' fate as links me wi' that Post-Office. It was here I began my London life as a porter, and lost my situation because the Postmaster-General couldn't see the propriety of my opening letters that contained coin and postage-stamps and fi'-pun' notes, which was quite unreasonable, for I had a special talent that way, and even the clargy tell us that our talents was given us to be used. It wasn't far from here where I sot my little nephy down, that time I got rid of him, and it was goin' up these wery steps I met with the man I'm tryin' my best to bring to grief, an' that same man wants to marry one of the girls in the Post-Office, and now, I find, has saved my Tot from bein' burnt alive! Wery odd! It was here, too, that—"

Floppart at this moment turned the flow of his meditations by making a final and desperate struggle to be free. She shot out of his pocket and dropped with a bursting yell on the pavement. Recovering her feet before Bones recovered from his surprise she fled. Thought is quick as the lightning-flash. Bones knew that dogs find their way home mysteriously from any distance. He knew himself to be unable to run down Floppart. He saw his schemes thwarted. He adopted a mean device, shouted "Mad dog!" and rushed after it. A small errand-boy shrieked with glee, flung his basket at it, and followed up the chase. Floppart took round by St. Paul's Churchyard. However sane she might have been at starting, it is certain that she was mad with terror in five minutes. She threaded her way among wheels and legs at full speed in perfect safety. It was afterwards estimated that seventeen cabmen, four gentlemen, two apple-women, three-and-twenty errand-boys—more or less,—and one policeman, flung umbrellas, sticks, baskets, and various missiles at her, with the effect of damaging innumerable shins and overturning many individuals, but without hurting a hair of Floppart's body during her wild but brief career. Bones did not wish to recapture her. He wished her dead, and for that end loudly reiterated the calumny as to madness. Floppart circled round the grand cathedral erected by Wren and got into Cheapside. Here, doubling like a hare, she careered round the statue of Peel and went blindly back to St. Martin's-le-Grand, as if to add yet another link to the chain of fate which bound her arch-pursuer to the General Post-Office. By way of completing the chain, she turned in at the gate, rushed to the rear of the building, dashed in at an open door, and scurried along a passage. Here the crowd was stayed, but the policeman followed heroically. The passage was cut short by a glass door, but a narrow staircase descended to the left. "Any port in a storm" is a proverb as well known among dogs as men. Down went Floppart to the basement of the building, invading the sanctity of the letter-carriers' kitchen or salle-a-manger. A dozen stalwart postmen leaped from their meals to rush at the intruder. In the midst of the confusion the policeman's truncheon was seen to sway aloft. Next instant the vaulted roof rang with a terrible cry, which truth compels us to state was Floppart's dying yell.

None of those who had begun the chase were in at the death—save the policeman,—not even Abel Bones, for that worthy did not by any means court publicity. Besides, he felt pretty sure that his end was gained. He remembered, no doubt, the rule of the Office, that no letters or other things that have been posted can be returned to the sender, and, having seen the dog safely posted, he went home with a relieved mind.

Meanwhile the policeman took the remains of poor Floppart by the tail, holding it at arm's-length for fear of the deadly poison supposed to be on its lips; and left the kitchen by a long passage. The men of the Post-Office returned to their food and their duties. Those who manage the details of her Majesty's mails cannot afford to waste time when on duty. The policeman, left to himself, lost himself in the labyrinth of the basement. He made his way at last into the warm and agreeable room in which are kept the boilers that drive the engine that works the lifts. He was accosted by a stalwart stoker, whose appearance and air were as genial as the atmosphere of his apartment.

"Hallo!" said he, "what 'ave you got there?"

"A mad dog," answered the policeman.—"I say, stoker, have you any ashpit where I could bury him?"

"Couldn't allow 'im burial in our ashpit," replied the stoker, with a decided shake of the head; "altogether out of the question."

The policeman looked at the dead dog and at the stoker with a perplexed air.

"I say, look here," he said, "couldn't we—ah—don't you think that we might—"

He paused, and cast a furtive glance at the furnaces.

"What! you don't mean—cremate 'im?"

The policeman nodded.

"Well, now, I don't know that it's actooally against the rules of the GPO," replied the stoker, with a meditative frown, "but it seems to me a raither unconstitootional proceedin'. It's out o' the way of our usual line of business, but—"

"That's right," said the policeman, as the stoker, who was an obliging man, took up a great shovel and flung open the furnace-door.

A terrific glare of intense heat and light shot out, appearing as if desirous of licking the stoker and policeman into its dreadful embrace.

"I don't half like it," said the stoker, glancing in; "the Postmaster-General might object, you know."

"Not a bit of it, he's too much of a gentleman to object—come," said the policeman encouragingly.

The stoker held up the shovel. The body of Floppart was put thereon, after the removal of its collar. There was one good swing of the shovel, followed by a heave, and the little dog fell into the heart of the fiery furnace. The stoker shut the great iron door with a clang, and looked at the policeman solemnly. The policeman returned the look, thanked him, and retired. In less probably than three minutes Floppart's body was reduced to its gaseous elements, vomited forth from the furnace chimney, and finally dissipated by the winds of heaven.

Thus did this, the first recorded and authentic case of cremation in the United Kingdom, emanate—as many a new, advantageous, and national measure has emanated before—from the prolific womb of the General Post-Office.



CHAPTER SEVENTEEN.

TOTTIE AND MRS. BONES IN DIFFICULTY.

The descent of George Aspel became very rapid in course of time. As he lost self-respect he became reckless and, as a natural consequence, more dissipated. Remonstrances from his friend Mr Blurt, which were repelled at first with haughty disdain, came to be received with sullen indifference. He had nothing to say for himself in reply, because, in point of fact, there was nothing in his case to justify his taking so gloomy and despairing a view of life. Many men, he knew, were at his age out of employment, and many more had been crossed in love. He was too proud to condescend to false reasoning with his lips, though he encouraged it in his heart. He knew quite well that drink and bad companionship were ruining him, and off-hand, open-hearted fellow though he was said to be, he was mean enough, as we have already said, to growlingly charge his condition and his sins on Fate.

At last he resolved to give up the business that was so distasteful to him. Unable to give a satisfactory reason for so doing, or to say what he meant to attempt next, and unwilling or ashamed to incur the remonstrances and rebut the arguments of his patron, the bold descendant of the sea-kings adopted that cowardly method of departure called taking French leave. Like some little schoolboy, he ran away! In other words, he disappeared, and left no trace behind him.

Deep was Mr Enoch Blurt's regret, for he loved the youth sincerely, and made many fruitless efforts to find him—for lost in London means lost indeed! He even employed a detective, but the grave man in grey—who looked like no class of man in particular, and seemed to have no particular business in hand, and who talked with Mr Blurt, at their first meeting, in a quiet, sensible, easy way, as though he had been one of his oldest friends—could find no clue to him, for the good reason that Mr Bones had taken special care to entice Aspel into a distant locality, under pretence of putting him in the way of finding semi-nautical employment about the docks. Moreover, he managed to make Aspel drunk, and arranged with boon companions to strip him, while in that condition, of his garments, and re-clothe him in the seedy garb peculiar to those gentlemen who live by their wits.

"Very strange," muttered Aspel, on recovering sufficiently to be led by his friend towards Archangel Court,—"very strange that I did not feel the scoundrels robbing me. I must have slept very soundly."

"Yes, you slep' wery sound, and they're a bad lot, and uncommon sharp in that neighbourhood. It's quite celebrated. I tried to get you away, but you was as obstinate as a mule, an' kep' on singing about some sort o' coves o' the old times that must have bin bigger blackguards than we 'ave about us now-a-days, though the song calls 'em glorious."

"Well, well," said Aspel, shrinking under the public gaze as he passed through the streets, "don't talk about that. Couldn't you get into some by-lanes, where there are not so many people? I don't like to be seen, even by strangers, in this disreputable guise. I wish the sun didn't shine so brightly. Come, push on, man."

"W'y, sir," said Bones, becoming a little more respectful in spite of himself, "you've no need to be ashamed of your appearance. There's not 'alf a dozen people in a mile walk in London as would look twice at you whatever appearance you cut—so long as it was only disreputable."

"Never mind—push on," said Aspel sternly; "I am ashamed whether I have need to be or not. I'm a fool. I'm more—I'm a brute. I tell you what it is, Bones, I'm determined to turn over a new leaf. I'll write to Mr Blurt and tell him where I am, for, of course, I can't return to him in such clothes as these, and—and—I'll give up drink."

Bones met this remark with an unexpected and bitter laugh.

"What d'you mean?" demanded Aspel, turning fiercely upon him.

"I mean," replied Bones, returning his stare with the utmost coolness, "that you can't give up drink, if you was to try ever so much. You're too far gone in it. I've tried it myself, many a time, and failed, though I've about as strong a will as your own—maybe stronger."

"We shall see," returned Aspel, as they moved on again and turned into the lane which led to the wretched abode of Bones.

"Bring me pen, ink, and paper!" he exclaimed, on entering the room, with a grand air—for a pint of ale, recently taken, had begun to operate.

Bones, falling in with his friend's humour, rummaged about until he found the stump of a quill, a penny inkbottle, and a dirty sheet of paper. These he placed on a rickety table, and Aspel wrote a scrawly note, in which he gave himself very bad names, and begged Mr Blurt to come and see him, as he had got into a scrape, and could by no means see his way out of it. Having folded the note very badly, he rose with the intention of going out to post it, but his friend offered to post it for him.

Accepting the offer, he handed him the note and flung himself down in a heap on the straw mattress in the dark corner, where he had first become acquainted with Bones. In a few seconds he was in a deep lethargic slumber.

"What a wretched spectacle!" exclaimed Bones, touching him with his toe, and, in bitter mockery, quoting the words that Aspel had once used regarding himself.

He turned to leave the room, and was met by Mrs Bones.

"There's a friend o' yours in the corner, Molly. Don't disturb him. I'm goin' to post a letter for him, and will be back directly."

Bones went out, posted the letter in the common sewer, and returned home.

During the brief interval of his absence Tottie had come in—on a visit after her prolonged sojourn in the country. She was strangling her mother with a kiss when he entered.

"Oh, mother! I'm so happy, and so sorry!" she exclaimed, laughing and sobbing at once.

Tottie was obviously torn by conflicting emotions. "Take your time, darling," said Mrs Bones, smoothing the child's hair with her red toil-worn hand.

"Ay, take it easy, Tot," said her father, with a meaning glance, that sent a chill to the child's heart, while he sat down on a stool and began to fill his pipe. "What's it all about?"

"Oh! it's the beautiful country I've been in. Mother, you can't think— the green fields and the trees, and, oh! the flowers, and no bricks— almost no houses—and—But did you know"—her grief recurred here—"that Mr Aspel 'as bin lost? an' I've been tellin' such lies! We came in to town, Miss Lillycrop an' me, and we've heard about Mr Aspel from old Mr Blurt, who's tryin' to find him out with 'vertisements in the papers an' detectives an' a message-boy they call Phil, who's a friend of Mr Aspel, an' also of Peter."

"Who's Peter?" asked Mrs Bones.

"Ah, who's Peter?" echoed Mr Bones, with a somewhat sly glance under his brows.

"He's a message-boy, and such a dear fellow," replied Tottie. "I don't know his other name, he didn't mention it, and they only call him little Peter, but he saved me from the fire; at least he tried—"

"Saved you from the fire!" exclaimed Mrs Bones in amazement.

"Yes; didn't Miss Lillycrop tell you?" asked Tottie in no less surprise.

Now it is but justice to Miss Lillycrop to say that even in the midst of her perturbation after the fire she sought to inform Mrs Bones of her child's safety, and sent her a note, which failed to reach her, owing to her being away at the time on one of her prolonged absences from home, and the neighbour to whose care it had been committed had forgotten all about it. As Mrs Bones read no newspapers and took no interest in fires, she knew nothing about the one that had so nearly swallowed up Tottie.

"Come, tell us all about it, Tot. You mentioned it to me, but we couldn't go into details at the time," said her father, puffing a vigorous cloud of smoke into the chimney.

Nothing loath, the child gave her parents an account of the event, which was as glowing as the fire itself. As she dwelt with peculiar delight on the brave rescue effected by Aspel at the extreme peril of his life, conscience took Abel Bones by surprise and gave him a twinge.

At that moment the sleeper in the corner heaved a deep sigh and turned round towards the light. Mrs Bones and the child recognised him at once, and half rose.

"Keep still!" said Bones, in a low savage growl, which was but too familiar to his poor wife and child. "Now, look here," he continued in the same voice, laying down his pipe,—"if either of you two tell man, woman, or child w'ere George Aspel is, it'll be the death of you both, and of him too."

"Oh, Abel! don't be hard on us," pleaded his wife. "You would—no, you can't mean to do 'im harm!"

"No, I won't hurt him," said Bones, "but you must both give me your word that you'll make no mention of him or his whereabouts to any one till I give you leave."

They were obliged to promise, and Bones, knowing from experience that he could trust them, was satisfied.

"But you'll make a promise to me too, Abel, won't you, dear?" said Mrs Bones; "you'll promise not to do 'im harm of any kind—not to tempt 'im?"

"Yes, Molly, I promise that."

Mrs Bones knew, by some peculiarity in the tone of her husband's voice, that he meant what he said, and was also satisfied.

"Now, Molly," said Bones, with a smile, "I want you to write a letter for me, so get another sheet of paper, if you can; Mr Aspel used up my last one."

A sheet was procured from a neighbouring tobacconist. Mrs Bones always acted as her husband's amanuensis (although he wrote very much better than she did), either because he was lazy, or because he entertained some fear of his handwriting being recognised by his enemies the police! Squaring her elbows, and with her head very much on one side—almost reposing on the left arm—Mrs Bones produced a series of hieroglyphics which might have been made by a fly half-drowned in ink attempting to recover itself on the paper. The letter ran as follows:—

"Deer bil i am a-goin to doo it on mundy the 15th tother cove wont wurk besides Iv chaningd my mind about him. Don't fale."

"What's the address, Abel?" asked Mrs Bones.

"Willum Stiggs," replied her husband.

"So—i—g—s," said Mrs Bones, writing very slowly, "Rosebud Cottage."

"What!" exclaimed the man fiercely, as he started up.

"Oh, I declare!" said Mrs Bones, with a laugh, "if that place that Tottie's been tellin' us of ain't runnin' in my 'ead. But I've not writ it, Abel, I only said it."

"Well, then, don't say it again," growled Bones, with a suspicious glance at his wife; "write number 6 Little Alley, Birmingham."

"So—numr sx littlaly bringinghum," said Mrs Bones, completing her task with a sigh.

When Bones went out to post this curious epistle, his wife took Tottie on her knee, and, embracing her, rocked to and fro, uttering a moaning sound. The child expressed anxiety, and tried to comfort her.

"Come what's the use o' strivin' against it?" she exclaimed suddenly. "She's sure to come to know it in the end, and I need advice from some one—if it was even from a child."

Tottie listened with suspense and some anxiety.

"You've often told me, mother, that the best advice comes from God. So has Miss Lillycrop."

Mrs Bones clasped the child still closer, and uttered a short, fervent cry for help.

"Tottie," she said, "listen—you're old enough to understand, I think. Your father is a bad man—at least, I won't say he's altogether bad, but—but, he's not good."

Tottie quite understood that, but said that she was fond of him notwithstanding.

"Fond of 'im, child!" cried Mrs Bones, "that's the difficulty. I'm so fond of 'im that I want to save him, but I don't know how."

Hereupon the poor woman explained her difficulties. She had heard her husband murmuring in his sleep something about committing a burglary, and the words Rosebud Cottage had more than once escaped his lips.

"Now, Tottie dear," said Mrs Bones firmly, "when I heard you tell all about that Rosebud Cottage, an' the treasure Miss Stiffinthegills—"

"Stivergill, mother."

"Well, Stivergill. It ain't a pretty name, whichever way you put it. When I heard of the treasure she's so foolish as to keep on her sideboard, I felt sure that your father had made up his mind to rob Miss Stivergill—with the help of that bad man Bill Stiggs—all the more w'en I see how your father jumped w'en I mentioned Rosebud Cottage. Now, Tottie, we must save your father. If he had only got me to post his letter, I could easily have damaged the address so as no one could read it. As it is, I've writ it so bad that I don't believe there's a man in the Post-Office could make it out. This is the first time, Tottie, that your father has made up his mind to break into a 'ouse, but when he do make up his mind to a thing he's sure to go through with it. He must be stopped, Tottie, somehow—must be stopped—but I don't see how."

Tottie, who was greatly impressed with the anxious determination of her mother, and therefore with the heinous nature of her father's intended sin, gave her entire mind to this subject, and, after talking it over, and looking at it in all lights, came to the conclusion that she could not see her way out of the difficulty at all.

While the two sat gazing on the ground with dejected countenances, a gleam of light seemed to shoot from Tottie's eyes.

"Oh! I've got it!" she cried, looking brightly up. "Peter!"

"What! the boy you met at Rosebud Cottage?" asked Mrs Bones.

"Yes. He's such a nice boy, and you've no idea, mother, what a inventor he is. He could invent anythink, I do believe—if he tried, and I'm sure he'll think of some way to help us."

Mrs Bones was not nearly so hopeful as her daughter in regard to Peter, but as she could think of nothing herself, it was agreed that Tottie should go at once to the Post-Office and inquire after Peter. She did so, and returned crestfallen with the news that Peter was away on a holiday until the following Monday.

"Why, that's the 15th," said Mrs Bones anxiously. "You must see him that day, Tottie dear, though I fear it will be too late. How did you find him out? There must be many Peters among the telegraph-boys."

"To be sure there are, but there are not many Peters who have helped to save a little girl from a fire, you know," said Tottie, with a knowing look. "They knew who I wanted at once, and his other name is such a funny one; it is Pax—"

"What?" exclaimed Mrs Bones, with a sudden look of surprise.

"Pax, mother; Peter Pax."

Whatever Mrs Bones might have replied to this was checked by the entrance of her husband. She cautioned Tottie, in earnest, hurried tones, to say nothing about Rosebud Cottage unless asked, and especially to make no mention whatever of the name of Pax.



CHAPTER EIGHTEEN.

BUSINESS INTERFERED WITH IN A REMARKABLE MANNER.

The modest estimate which Mrs Bones had formed of her penmanship turned out to be erroneous, and her opinion that there was not a man in the Post-Office able to read it was ill-founded. She was evidently ignorant of the powers and intelligence of the Blind Division.

To make this more plain we will follow the letter. You and I, reader, will post ourselves, as it were, and pass through the General Post-Office unstamped. At a few minutes to six p.m. the mouth is wide enough to admit us bodily. Mr Bones has just put in his epistle and walked away with the air of a man who feels that he has committed himself, and is "in for it." He might have posted it at an office or a pillar nearer home, but he has an idea, founded no doubt on experience, that people, especially policemen, are apt to watch his movements and prefers a longish walk to the General.

There! we take a header and descend with the cataract into the basket. On emerging in the great sorting-room, somehow, we catch sight of the Bones epistle at once. There is no mistaking it. We should know its dirty appearance and awry folding—not to mention bad writing—among ten thousand. Having been turned with its stamp in the right direction at the facing-tables and passed under the stamping-machines without notice, it comes at last to one of the sorters, and effectually, though briefly, stops him. His rapid distributive hand comes to a dead pause. He looks hard at the letter, frowns, turns it upside down, turns his head a little on one side, can make nothing of it, puts it on one side, and continues his work.

But at the Blind Division, to which it is speedily conveyed, our letter proves a mere trifle. It is nothing to the hieroglyphics which sometimes come under the observation of the blind officers. One of these officers gazes at it shrewdly for a few seconds. "William Stiggs, I think," he says, appealing to a comrade. "Yes," replies the comrade, "number six little lady—no—aly—oh, Little Alley, Bring—Bringing—ah, Birmingham!"

Just so—the thing is made out almost as quickly as though it had been written in copperplate, and the letter, redirected in red ink, finds its way into the Birmingham mail-bag.

So far so good, but there is many a slip 'twixt the cup and the lip, and other elements were more successful than bad writing in preventing Mr William Stiggs from receiving that letter.

When the mail-bag containing it was put into the Travelling Post-Office van, Mr Bright passed in after it. Our energetic sorter was in charge of the van that night, and went to work at once. The letters to be dropped at the early stages of the journey had to be commenced even before the starting of the train. The letter did not turn up at first. The officials, of whom there were six in the van, had littered their sorting-table and arranged many of the letters, and the limited mail was flying north at full speed before the Bones epistle found its appropriate pigeon-hole—for it must be understood that the vans of the Travelling Post-Office—the T.P.O., as it is familiarly called by its friends—are fitted up on one side with a long narrow table, above which are numerous pigeon-holes, arranged somewhat like those of the sorting-tables in the non-travelling Post-Offices. There is a suggestive difference, however, in the former. Their edges are padded to prevent the sorters' knuckles and noses from being damaged in the event of violent jolting. The sides and ends of the vans are padded all round to minimise their injuries in the event of an accident. Beyond this padding, however, there are no luxuries—no couches or chairs; only a few things like bicycle saddles attached to the tables, astride which the sorters sit in front of their respective pigeon-holes. On the other side of the van are the pegs on which to hang the mail-bags, a lamp and wax for sealing the same, and the apparatus for lowering and lifting the net which catches the bags.

Everything connected with railways must needs be uncommonly strong, as the weight of materials, coupled with high speed, subjects all the parts of a carriage to extremely violent shocks. Hence the bag-catching affair is a powerful iron frame with rope netting, the moving of which, although aided by a pulley and heavy weight, tries the strength of a strong man.

Nimbly worked the sorters, as they swept by town and field, village, tunnel, bridge, and meadow,—for time may not be wasted when space between towns is being diminished at the rate of forty or fifty miles an hour, and chaos has to be reduced to order. The registered-letter clerk sat in one corner in front of a set of special pigeon-holes, with a sliding cover, which could be pulled over all like a blind and locked if the clerk should have occasion to quit his post for a moment. While some were sorting, others were bagging and sealing the letters. Presently the junior sorter, whose special duty it is to manipulate the net, became aware that a bag-exchanging station drew near. His eyes might have assured him of this, but officers of the Travelling Post-Office become so expert with their ears as to know stations by the peculiarity of the respective sounds connected with them—caused, it might be, by the noise of tunnels, cuttings, bridges, or even slighter influences.

Going quietly to the apparatus above referred to, the junior sorter looked out at the window and lowered the net, which, instead of lying flat against the van, now projected upwards of three feet from it. As he did so something flashed about his feet. He leaped aside and gave a shout. Fearful live creatures were sometimes sent by post, he knew, and serpents had been known before that to take an airing in Post-Office vans as well as in the great sorting-room of St. Martin's-le-Grand! A snake had only a short time before been observed at large on the floor of one of the night mail sorting carriages on the London and North-Western Railway, which, after a good deal of confusion and interruption to the work, was killed. This flashed into his mind, but the moment was critical, and the junior sorter had no time to indulge in private little weaknesses. Duty required prompt action.

About a hundred yards from the approaching station, a mail-bag hung suspended from a massive wooden frame. The bag weighed nearly eighty pounds. It was fitted so exactly in its place, with reference to the approaching train, that its neck was caught to a nicety in a fork, which swept it with extreme violence off its hook, and laid it in the net. This process, reversed, had been at the same moment performed on the bag given out by the train. To prevent the receiving and delivering apparatus from causing mutual destruction in passing each other, the former is affixed to the upper, the latter to the lower, part of the van. There was a rather severe jerk. The junior sorter exerted his powers, raised the net, and hauled in the bag, while the train with undiminished speed went thundering on.

"What was that I saw on the floor?" asked the junior sorter, looking anxiously round as he set the mail-bags down.

"Only two white mice," replied Bright, who was busy in front of his pigeon-holes. "They nibbled themselves out of a parcel under my very nose. I made a grab at 'em, but they were too quick for me."

"Isn't it strange," observed the registered-letter clerk, sealing one of the bags which had just been made up, "that people will break the law by sending live animals through the post?"

"More strange, it seems to me," returned Bright, as he tied up a bundle of letters, "that the people who do it can't pack 'em properly."

"There's the next station," said the junior sorter, proceeding once more to the net.

"Whew!" shrieked the steam-whistle, as the train went crashing towards the station. Bright looked out. The frame and its mail-bags were all right and ready. The net was lowered. Another moment and the mail-bags were swept into the van, while the out-going bags were swept off the projecting arm into the fixed net of the station. The train went through the station with a shriek and a roar. There was a bridge just beyond. The junior sorter forgot to haul up the net, which caught some object close to the bridge—no one knew what or how. No one ever does on such occasions! The result was that the whole apparatus was demolished; the side of the van was torn out, and Mr Bright and the junior sorter, who were leaning against it at the time, were sent, in a shower of woodwork, burst bags, and letters, into the air. The rest of the van did not leave the rails, and the train shot out of sight in a few seconds, like a giant war-rocket, leaving wreck and ruin behind!

There are many miraculous escapes in this world. Mr Bright and the junior sorter illustrated this truth by rising unhurt from the debris of their recent labours, and began sadly to collect the scattered mails. These however were not, like their guardians, undamaged. There were several fatal cases, and among these was the Bones epistle. That important document had been caught by a mass of timber and buried beyond recovery in the ballast of the line.

But why pursue this painful subject further? It is sufficient to say that although the scattered mails were carefully collected, re-sorted, and, finally, as far as possible, delivered, the letter with which we have specially to do never reached its destination. Indeed, it never more saw the light of day, but remained in the hole where it had been buried, and thus it came to pass that Mr William Stiggs failed to make his appearance on the appointed night of the 15th, and Abel Bones was constrained to venture on his deed of darkness alone.

On the appointed night, however, Tottie did not fail to do her best to frustrate her father's plans. After a solemn, and last, consultation with her mother, she left her home with fluttering heart and dry tongue, and made for the General Post-Office.



CHAPTER NINETEEN.

DEEP-LAID PLANS FOR CHECKMATING MR. BONES.

Now it chanced that the Post-Office Message-boys' Literary Association had fixed to hold its first grand soiree on the night of the 15th.

It was a great occasion. Of course it was held in Pegaway Hall, the shed in rear of Solomon Flint's dwelling. There were long planks on trestles for tables, and school forms to match. There were slabs of indigestible cake, buns in abundance, and tea, with milk and sugar mixed, in illimitable quantities. There were paper flowers, and illuminated texts and proverbs round the walls, the whole being lighted up by two magnificent paraffin lamps, which also served to perfume the hall agreeably to such of the members and guests as happened to be fond of bad smells.

On this particular evening invitations had been issued to several friends of the members of the Association, among whom were Mr Enoch Blurt and Mr Sterling the missionary. No ladies were invited. A spirited discussion had taken place on this point some nights before the soiree, on which occasion the bashful Poker opposed the motion "that invitations should be issued to ladies," on the ground that, being himself of a susceptible nature, the presence of the fair sex would tend to distract his attention from the business on hand. Big Jack also opposed it, as he thought it wasn't fair to the fair sex to invite them to a meeting of boys, but Big Jack was immediately called to order, and reminded that the Society was composed of young men, and that it was unmanly—not to say unmannerly—to make puns on the ladies. To this sentiment little Grigs shouted "Hear! hear!" in deafening tones, and begged leave to support the motion. This he did in an eloquent but much interrupted speech, which was finally cut short by Macnab insisting that the time of the Society should not be taken up with an irrelevant commentary on ladies by little Grigs; whereupon Sandy Tod objected to interruptions in general—except when made by himself—and was going on to enlarge on the inestimable blessing of free discussion when he was in turn called to order. Then Blunter and Scroggins, and Fat Collins and Bobby Sprat, started simultaneously to their feet, but were put down by Peter Pax, who rose, and, with a calm dignified wave of his hand, remarked that as the question before the meeting was whether ladies should or should not be invited to the soiree, the simplest plan would be to put it to the vote. On this being done, it was found that the meeting was equally divided, whereupon the chairman—Phil Maylands—gave his casting vote in favour of the amendment, and thus the ladies were excluded from the soiree amid mingled groans and cheers.

But although the fair sex were debarred from joining in the festivities, they were represented on the eventful evening in question by a Mrs Square, an angular washer-woman with only one eye (but that was a piercingly black one), who dwelt in the same court, and who consented to act the double part of tea-maker and doorkeeper for that occasion. As most of the decorations and wreaths had been made and hung up by May Maylands and two of her telegraphic friends, there was a pervading influence of woman about Pegaway Hall, in spite of Phil's ungallant and un-Irish vote.

When Tottie Bones arrived at the General Post-Office in search of Peter Pax, she was directed to Pegaway Hall by those members of the staff whose duties prevented their attendance at the commencement of the soiree.

Finding the hall with difficulty, she was met and stopped by the uncompromising and one-eyed stare of Mrs Square.

"Please, ma'am, is Mr Peter Pax here?" asked Tottie.

"Yes, he is, but he's engaged."

Tottie could not doubt the truth of this, for through the half-open door of the hall she saw and heard the little secretary on his little legs addressing the house.

"Please may I wait till he's done?" asked Tottie.

"You may, if you keep quiet, but I doubt if he'll 'ave time to see you even w'en he is done," said the one-eyed one, fiercely.—"D'you like buns or cake best?"

Tottie was much surprised by the question, but stated at once her decided preference for cake.

"Look here," said Mrs Square, removing a towel from a large basket.

Tottie looked, and saw that the basket was three-quarters full of buns and cakes.

"That," said the washer-woman, "is their leavin's. One on 'em called it the debree of the feast, though what that means is best known to hisself. For one hour by the clock these literairies went at it, tooth an' nail, but they failed to get through with all that was purwided, though they stuffed themselves to their muzzles.—There, 'elp yourself."

Tottie selected a moderate slab of the indigestible cake, and sat down on a stool to eat it with as much patience as she could muster in the circumstances.

Peter Pax's remarks, whatever else they might have been considered, possessed the virtue of brevity. He soon sat down amid much applause, and Mr Sterling rose to speak.

At this point Tottie, who had cast many anxious glances at a small clock which hung in the outer porch or vestibule of the hall, entreated Mrs Square to tell Pax that he was wanted very much indeed.

"I durstn't," said Mrs Square; "it's as much as my sitooation's worth. I was told by Mr Maylands, the chairman, to allow of no interruptions nor anythink of the kind."

"But please, ma'am," pleaded Tottie, with such an earnest face that the woman was touched, "it's a matter of—of—life an' death—at least it may be so. Oh! do-o-o-o tell 'im he's wanted—by Tottie Bones. Only say Tottie Bones, that'll be sure to bring 'im out."

"Well—I never!" exclaimed Mrs Square, sticking her fists in her waist and leaning her head to one side in critical scrutiny of her small petitioner. "You do seem cock-sure o' your powers. H'm! p'r'aps you're not far out neither. Well, I'll try it on, though it may cost me a deal of abuse. You sit there an' see that cats don't get at the wittles, for the cats in this court are a sharper set than or'nar."

Mrs Square entered the hall, and begged one of the members near the door to pass up a message—as quietly as possible—to the effect that Mr Pax was wanted.

This was immediately done by the member shouting, irreverently, that the secretary's mother "'ad come to take 'im 'ome."

"Order, order! Put 'im out!" from several of the members.

"Any'ow, 'e's wanted by some one on very partikler business," growled the irreverent member, and the secretary made his way to the door.

"W'y, Tottie!" exclaimed Pax, taking both the child's hands patronisingly in his, "what brings you here?"

With a furtive glance at Mrs Square, Tottie said, "Oh! please, I want to speak about something very partikler."

"Indeed! come out to the court then," said little Pax, leading the way; "you'll be able to air the subject better there, whatever it is, and the cats won't object. Sorry I can't take you into the hall, little 'un, but ladies ain't admitted."

When the child, with eager haste, stated the object of her visit, and wound up her discourse with the earnest remark that her father must be stopped, and mustn't be took, her small counsellor looked as perplexed and anxious as herself. Wrinkling up his smooth brow, he expressed the belief that it was a difficult world to deal with, and he had had some trouble already in finding out how to manage it.

"You see, Tot," he said, "this is a great evenin' with the literary message-boys. Not that I care a rap for that, but I've unfortunately got to move a vote of thanks to our lecturer to-night, and say somethin' about the lecture, which I couldn't do, you know, unless I remained to hear it. To be sure, I might get some one else to take my place, but I'm not easily spared, for half the fun o' the evenin' would be lost if they hadn't got me to make game of and air their chaff upon. Still, as you say, your dad must have his little game stopped. He must be a great blackg—I beg pardon, Tot, I mean that he must be a great disregarder of the rights of man—woman, as it happens, in this case. However, as you said, with equal truth, he must not be took, for if he was, he'd probably be hanged, and I couldn't bear to think of your father bein' scragged. Let me see. When did you say he meant to start?"

"He said to mother that he'd leave at nine, and might 'ave to be out all night."

"At nine—eh? That would just give 'im time to get to Charing Cross to catch the 9:30 train. Solomon Flint's lecture will be over about eight. I could polish 'im off in ten minutes or so, and 'ave plenty of time to catch the same train. Yes, that will do. But how am I to know your father, Tot, for you know I haven't yet had the pleasure of makin' his acquaintance?"

"Oh, you can't mistake him," replied the child confidently. "He's a big, tall, 'andsome man, with a 'ook nose an' a great cut on the bridge of it all down 'is left cheek. You'll be sure to know 'im. But how will you stop 'im?"

"That is more than I can tell at present, my dear," replied Pax, with a careworn look, "but I'll hatch a plot of some sort durin' the lecture.— Let me see," he added, with sudden animation, glancing at the limited portion of sky that roofed the court, "I might howl 'im down! That's not a bad idea. Yellin' is a powerful influence w'en brought properly to bear. D'you mind waitin' in the porch till the lecture's over?"

"O no! I can wait as long as ever you please, if you'll only try to save father," was Tottie's piteous response.

"Well, then, go into the porch and sit by the door, so that you can hear and see what's goin' on. Don't be afraid of the one-eyed fair one who guards the portals. She's not as bad as she looks; only take care that you don't tread on her toes; she can't stand that."

Tottie promised to be careful in this respect, and expressed a belief that she was too light to hurt Mrs Square, even if she did tread on her toes accidentally.

"You're wrong, Tottie," returned Pax; "most females of your tender years are apt to jump at wrong conclusions. As you live longer you'll find out that some people's toes are so sensitive that they can't bear a feather's weight on 'em. W'y, there's a member of our Society who riles up directly if you even look at his toes. We keep that member's feet in hot water pretty continuously, we do.—There now, I'll be too late if I keep on talkin' like this. You'll not feel tired of the lecture, for Solomon's sure to be interesting, whatever his subject may be. I don't know what it is—he hasn't told us yet. You'll soon hear it if you listen."

Pax re-entered the hall, and Tottie sat down by the door beside Mrs Square, just as Solomon Flint rose to his legs amid thunders of applause.



CHAPTER TWENTY.

THE POST OF THE OLDEN TIME.

When the applause had subsided Solomon Flint caused a slight feeling of depression in the meeting by stating that the subject which he meant to bring before them that evening was a historical view of the Post-Office. Most of those present felt that they had had more than enough of the Post-Office thrust on their attention every day of their lives, and the irreverent member ventured to call out "Shop," but he was instantly and indignantly called to order.

When, however, Solomon went on to state his firm belief that a particular branch of the Post-Office began in the immediate neighbourhood of the Garden of Eden, and that Adam was the first Postmaster-General, the depression gave way to interest, not unmingled with curiosity.

"You see, my young friends," continued the lecturer, "our information with regard to the origin of the Post-Office is slight. The same may be said as to the origin of a'most everythink. Taking the little information that we do possess, and applying to it the reasoning power which was given to us for the purpose of investigatin' an' discoverin' truth, I come to the following conclusions:—

"Adam was a tiller of the ground. There can be no doubt about that. Judging from analogy, we have the best ground for supposing that while Adam was digging in the fields Eve was at home preparing the dinner, and otherwise attending to the domestic arrangements of the house, or hut, or hovel, or cave. Dinner being ready, Eve would naturally send little Cain or Abel to fetch their father, and thus, you see, the branch of boy-messengers began." (Applause, mingled with laughter and cheers.)

"Of course," continued Solomon, "it may be objected—for some people can always object—(Hear, hear)—that these were not Post-Office messengers, but, my young friends, it is well known that the greater includes the less. As mankind is involved in Adam, and the oak is embedded in the acorn, so it may be maintained that the first faint germ of the Boy-Messenger Branch of the Post-Office was included in Cain and Abel.

"Passing, however, from what I may style this Post-Office germ, over many centuries, during which the records of postal history are few and faint and far between, we come down to more modern times—say five or six hundred years ago—and what do we find?" (Here Solomon became solemn.) "We find next to nothink! Absolutely next to nothink! The Boy-Messenger Department had indeed developed amazingly, insomuch that, whereas there were only two to begin with, there were in the 15th century no fewer than innumerable millions of 'em in every region and land and clime to which the 'uman family had penetrated, but no section of them had as yet prefixed the word 'Telegraph' to their name, and as to postal arrangements, w'y, they were simply disgraceful. Just think, now, up to the century of which I speak—the fifteenth—there was no regular Post-Office in this country. Letters were conveyed by common carriers at the rate, probably, of three or four miles an hour. Flesh and blood couldn't stand that, you know, so about the close of the century, places, or 'posts,' were established in some parts of the country, where horses could be hired by travellers, and letters might be conveyed. The post-boys of those days evidently required spurring as well as their horses, for letters of the period have been preserved with the words 'Haste, post haste' on their backs. Sometimes the writers seem to have been in a particularly desperate hurry. One letter, written by a great man of the period, had on the back of it the words, 'In haste; post haste, for thy life, for thy life, for thy life;' and it is believed that this was no idle caution, but a threat which was apt to be carried out if the post-boy loitered on the way."

It may be remarked that Solomon's language became more refined as he proceeded, but lapsed into a free-and-easy style whenever he became jocular.

"The first horse-posts," continued the lecturer, "were established for military purposes—the convenience of the public being deemed quite a secondary matter. Continental nations were in advance of England in postal arrangements, and in the first quarter of the sixteenth century (1514) the foreign merchants residing in London were so greatly inconvenienced by the want of regular letter conveyance, that they set up a Post-Office of their own from London to its outports, and appointed their own Postmaster, but, quarrelling among themselves, they referred their dispute to Government. James the First established a Post-Office for letters to foreign countries, for the benefit of English merchants, but it was not till the year 1635—in the reign of Charles the First— that a Post-Office for inland letters was established. It was ordained that the Postmaster of England for foreign parts 'should settle a running post or two to run night and day between Edinburgh and London, to go thither and come back again in six days, and to take with them all such letters as shall be directed to any post-town in or near that road.'

"In 1640 the Post-Office was placed under the care and superintendence of the Principal Secretary of State, and became one of the settled institutions of the country.

"Here, then, we have what may be considered the birth of the Post-Office, which is now pretty nigh two centuries and a half old. And what a wonderful difference there is between this infant Post-Office and the man! Then, six days; now, less than a dozen hours, between the capitals of England and Scotland—to say nothing of other things. But, my lads, we must not turn up our noses at the day of small things."

"Hear, hear," cried little Grigs, who approved the sentiment.

"Lay it to heart then, Grigs," said Peter Pax, who referred to the fact that little Grigs's nose was turned up so powerfully by nature that it could not help turning up at things small and great alike.

Laughter and great applause were mingled with cries of "Order," which Solomon subdued by holding up his hand.

"At the same time," continued the lecturer, "bye-posts were set a-going to connect the main line with large towns, such as Hull, Lincoln, Chester, etcetera. These bye-posts were farmed out to private individuals, and the rates fixed at 2 pence a single letter to any place under 80 miles; 4 pence up to 140 miles; 6 pence to any more distant place in England; and 8 pence to Scotland.

"From that date forward the infant began to grow—sometimes slowly, sometimes quickly, now and then by spurts—just like other infants, and a horribly spoiled and mismanaged baby it was at first. Those who see it now,—in the prime of its manhood, wielding its giant strength with such ease, accomplishing all but miraculous work with so great speed, regularity, and certainty, and with so little fuss,—can hardly believe what a cross-grained little stupid thing it was in those early days, or what tremendous difficulties it had to contend with.

"In the first place, the roads in the land were few, and most of them inconceivably bad, besides which they were infested by highwaymen, who often took a fancy to rummage the mail-bags and scatter their contents. The post in those days was slow, but not sure. Then it experienced some trouble from other infants, of the same family, who claimed a right to share its privileges. Among these was a Post-Office established by the Common Council of London in direct rivalry to the Parliamentary child. This resulted in a great deal of squabbling and pamphleteering, also in many valuable improvements—for it is well known that opposition is the life of trade. The Council of State, however, came to the conclusion that, in an affair so thoroughly national, the office of Postmaster and the management of the Post-Office ought to rest in the sole power and disposal of Parliament; the City posts were peremptorily suppressed; opposition babies were quietly—no doubt righteously—murdered; and from that date the carrying of letters has remained the exclusive privilege of the Crown. But considerable and violent opposition was made to this monopoly. This is a world of opposition, my young friends"—the lecturer was pathetic here—"and I have no doubt whatever that it was meant to be a world of opposition"—the lecturer was energetic here, and drew an emphatic "Hear, hear," from the Scotch members. "Why, it is only by opposition that questions are ventilated and truth is established!

"No doubt every member of this ancient and literary Society is well acquainted with the name of Hill—(great cheering)—Sir Rowland Hill, who in the year 1840 succeeded in getting introduced to the nation one of the greatest boons with which it has been blessed—namely, the Penny Post." (Renewed cheering.) "Well, it is a curious and interesting fact that in the middle of the seventeenth century—more than two hundred years ago—a namesake of Sir Rowland (whether an ancestor or not I cannot tell), a Mr John Hill, wrote a pamphlet in which monopoly was condemned and a penny post suggested. The title of the pamphlet was 'John Hill's Penny Post; or, A Vindication of every Englishman in carrying Merchants' or any other Men's Letters against any restraints of Farmers of such Employment.' So, you see, in regard to the Penny Post, the coming event cast its shadow about two hundred years in advance.

"The Creeping Era may be the title assigned to this period of Post-Office history. Little was expected of the Post-Office, and not much was done. Nevertheless, considering the difficulties in its way, our infant progressed wonderfully. Its revenue in 1649 was 5000 pounds. Gradually it got upon its legs. Then it monopolised post-horses and began to run. Waxing bolder, it also monopolised packet-boats and went to sea. Like all bold and energetic children, it had numerous falls, and experienced many troubles in its progress. Nevertheless its heart was kept up by the steady increase of its revenue, which amounted to 76,000 pounds in 1687. During the following seventy-eight years the increase was twofold, and during the next ninety years (to 1854) it was tenfold.

"It was hard times with the Post-Office officials about the beginning of last century.

"During what we may call the Post-boy Era, the officials were maltreated by robbers on shore and by privateers (next thing to pirates) at sea. In fact they were compelled to become men of war. And the troubles and anxieties of the Postmaster-Generals were proportionately great. The latter had to fit out the mail-packets as ships of war, build new ships, and sell old ones, provide stores and ammunition for the same, engage captains and crews, and attend to their disputes, mutinies, and shortcomings. They had also to correspond with the deputy-postmasters all over the country about all sorts of matters—chiefly their arrears and carelessness or neglect of duty—besides foreign correspondence. What the latter involved may be partly gathered from lists of the articles sent by post at that time. Among other things, we find reference to 'fifteen couple of hounds going to the King of the Romans with a free pass.' A certain 'Dr Crichton, carrying with him a cow and divers other necessaries,' is mentioned as having been posted! also 'two servant-maids going as laundresses to my Lord Ambassador Methuen,' and 'a deal case with four flitches of bacon for Mr Pennington of Rotterdam.' The captains of the mail-packets ought to have worn coats of mail, for they had orders to run while they could, to fight when they could not run, and to throw the mails overboard when fighting failed!

"Of course, it is to be hoped, this rule was not strictly enforced when doctors and females formed part of the mails.

"In one case a certain James Vickers, captain of the mail-packet 'Grace Dogger,' lay in Dublin Bay waiting till the tide should enable him to get over the bar. A French privateer chanced to be on the look-out in these waters, and pounced upon James Vickers, who was either unable or unwilling to fight. The French captain stripped the 'Grace Dogger'—as the chronicler writes—'of rigging, sails, spars, yards, and all furniture wherewith she had been provided for due accommodation of passengers, leaving not so much as a spoone, or a naile, or a hooke to hang anything on.' Having thus made a clean sweep of her valuables, and having no use for the hull, the Frenchman ransomed the 'Grace Dogger' to poor J.V. for fifty guineas, which the Post-Office had to pay!

"But our mail-packets were not always thus easily or summarily mastered. Sometimes they fought and conquered, but, whatever happened, the result was invariably productive of expense, because wounded men had to be cared for and cured or pensioned. Thus one Edward James had a donation of 5 pounds, because 'a musket shot had grazed the tibia of his left leg.' What the tibia may be, my young friends, is best known to the doctors—I have not taken the trouble to inquire!" (Hear, hear, and applause.) "Then another got 12 pounds 'because a shot had divided his frontal muscles and fractured his skull;' while a third received a yearly pension of 6 pounds, 13 shillings, 4 pence 'on account of a shot in the hinder part of the head, whereby a large division of scalp was made.' Observe what significance there is in that fourpence! Don't it speak eloquently of the strict justice of the Post-Office authorities of those days? Don't it tell of tender solicitude on their part thus to gauge the value of gunshot wounds? Might it not be said that the men were carefully rated when wounded? One Postmaster-General writes to an agent at Falmouth in regard to rates: 'Each arm or leg amputated above the elbow or knee is 8 pounds per annum; below the knee, 20 nobles. Loss of sight of one eye, 4 pounds; of pupil of the eye, 5 pounds; of sight of both eyes, 12 pounds; of pupils of both eyes, 14 pounds.' Our well-known exactitude began to crop up, you see, even in those days.

"The post-boys—who in many instances were grey-headed men—also gave the authorities much trouble, many of them being addicted to strong drink, and not a few to dilatory habits and dishonesty. One of them was at one time caught in the act of breaking the laws. At that period the bye-posts were farmed, but the post-boys, regardless of farmers' rights, often carried letters and brought back answers on their own account— receiving and keeping the hire, so that neither the Post-Office nor the farmer got the benefit. The particular boy referred to was convicted and committed to prison, but as he could not get bail—having neither friends nor money—he begged to be whipped instead! His petition was granted, and he was accordingly whipped to his heart's content—or, as the chronicler has it, he was whipped 'to the purpose.'

"Many men of great power and energy contributed to the advance of the Post-Office in those times. I won't burden your minds with many of their names however. One of them, William Dockwra, started a penny post in London for letters and small parcels in 1683. Twenty-three years later an attempt was made to start a halfpenny post in London, but that was suppressed.

"Soon after that a great man arose named Ralph Allen. He obtained a lease of the cross posts from Government for life at 6000 pounds a year. By his wisdom and energy he introduced vast improvements in the postal system, besides making a profit of 12,000 pounds a year, which he lived to enjoy for forty-four years, spending much of his fortune in charity and in the exercise of hospitality to men of learning and genius.

"About the middle of last century—the eighteenth—the Post-Office, although greatly increased in efficiency, was an insignificant affair compared with that of the present day. It was bound to pay into the Exchequer 700 pounds a week. In Ireland and Scotland improvements also went on apace, but not so rapidly as in England, as might have been expected, considering the mountainous nature of these countries. In Scotland the first modern stage-coach was introduced in 1776. The same year a penny post was started in Edinburgh by a certain Peter Williamson of Aberdeen, who was a keeper of a coffee-stall in the Parliament House, and his experiment was so successful that he had to employ four carriers to deliver and collect letters. These men rang a bell on their rounds and wore a uniform. Others soon entered into competition, but the Post-Office authorities came forward, took the local penny post in hand, and pensioned Williamson off.

"It was not till the end of the century that the Post-Office made one of its greatest and most notable strides.

"The Mail-coach Era followed that of the post-boys, and was introduced by Mr John Palmer, manager of the Bath theatre. The post-boys had become so unbearably slow and corrupt that people had taken to sending valuable letters in brown paper parcels by the coaches, which had now begun to run between most of the great towns. Palmer, who afterwards became Controller-General of the Post-Office, proposed that mail-bags should be sent by passenger-coaches with trusty and armed guards. His advice, after some opposition, was acted on, and thus the mails came to travel six miles an hour, instead of three or four—the result being an immediate increase of correspondence, despite an increase of postage. Rapidity, security, regularity, economy, are the great requisites in a healthy postal system. Here, then, was an advance in at least two of these. The advance was slight, it is true, but once more, I repeat, we ought not to turn up our noses at the day of small things." (Little Grigs was going to repeat "Hear! hear!" but thought better of it and checked himself.) "Of course there was opposition to the stage-coaches. There always is and will be opposition to everything in a world of mixed good and evil." (The Scotsman here thought of repeating "Hear! hear!" but refrained.) "One pamphleteer denounced them as the 'greatest evil that had happened of late years in these kingdoms,—mischievous to the public, prejudicial to trade, and destructive to lands. Those who travel in these coaches contract an idle habit of body, become weary and listless when they had rode a few miles, and were unable to travel on horseback, and not able to endure frost, snow, or rain, or to lodge in the fields.' Opposition for ever! So it ever is. So it was when foot-runners gave place to horsemen; so it was when horseflesh succumbed to steam. So it will be when electro-galvanic aerial locomotives take the place—." (The remainder of the sentence was lost in laughter and rapturous applause.) "But roads were still intolerably bad. Stage-coach travelling was a serious business. Men made their wills before setting out on a journey. The journey between Edinburgh and London was advertised to last ten days in summer, and twelve in winter, and that, too, in a so-called 'flying machine on steel springs.' But, to return:—Our infant, having now become a sturdy youth, advanced somewhat more rapidly. In 1792 a money-order office was set on foot for the first time. It had been originally undertaken by some post-office clerks on their own account, but was little used until the introduction of the penny postage. Great reforms were made in many departments. Among them was an Act passed to authorise the sending of letter-bags by private ships. This originated the ship-letter system, by which letters are now conveyed to every part of the world visited by private ships.

"Another mighty influence for good was the introduction (about 1818) of macadamised roads, which brought travelling up to the point of ten miles an hour. So also was the opening for use in 1829 of St. Martin's-le-Grand—a grand event this, in every sense of the word." (Here a member objected to punning, and was immediately hooted out of countenance.)

"With mail-coaches, macadamised roads, security, ten miles an hour, and a vastly increased revenue, the Post-Office seemed to have reached the highest heights of prosperity. The heights from which we now look down upon these things ought to make us humble in our estimate of the future! We have far surpassed the wildest dreams of those days, but there were some points of picturesque interest in which we can never surpass them. Ah! boys," said Solomon, looking up with a gleam of enthusiasm in his eyes, "I mind the old mail-coaches well. They had for a long time before I knew them reached their best days. It was about the year 1820 that most of the post-roads had been macadamised, and the service had reached its highest state of efficiency. In 1836 there were fifty four-horse mails in England, thirty in Ireland, and ten in Scotland, besides forty-nine two-horse mails in England. Those who have not seen the starting of the mail-coaches from the General Post-Office can never understand the magnificence and excitement of that scene. The coaches were clean, trim, elegant, and glittering; the blood-horses were the finest that could be procured, groomed to perfection, and full of fire; the drivers and guards were tried and trusty men of mettle, in bright scarlet costume—some of the former being lords, baronets, and even parsons! It was a gay and stirring sight when the insides and outsides were seated, when the drivers seized their reins, and the bugles sounded, the whips cracked, the impatient steeds reared, plunged, or sprang away, and the Royal Mails flew from the yard of St. Martin's-le-Grand towards every corner of the Kingdom.

"Their progress, too, was a sort of royal progress—a triumphal march. Wherever they had to pass, crowds of people waited for them in subdued excitement, hailed them with delight, and waved them on with cheers, for they were almost the only means of distributing news; and when a great victory, such as Trafalgar, Vittoria, or Waterloo had to be announced, the mail-coaches—dressed in flowers and ribbons, with guards shouting the news to eager crowds as they passed through hamlet, village, and town—swept like a thrill of electric fire throughout the land. News was news in those days! You didn't get it at all till you got it altogether, and then you got it like a thunderbolt. There was no dribbling of advance telegrams; no daily papers to spread the news (or lies), and contradict 'em next day, in the same columns with commentaries or prophetic remarks on what might or should have been, but wasn't, until news got muddled up into a hopeless entanglement, so that when all was at last cleared up you'd been worried out of all your interest in it! Yes, my lads, although I would not wish to see the return of those stirring days, I'm free to assert that the world lost something good, and that it was not all clear gain when the old four-in-hand Royal Mail coaches drove out of the present into the past, and left the Iron Horse in possession of the field.

"But nothing can arrest the hand of Time. When mail-coaches were at their best, and a new Great North Road was being laid out by Telford, the celebrated engineer, another celebrated engineer, named Stephenson, was creating strange commotion among the coal-pits of the North. The iron horse was beginning to snort. Soon he began to shriek and claw the rails. Despite the usual opposition, he succeeded in asserting himself, and, in the words of a disconsolate old mail-coach guard, 'men began to make a gridiron of old England.' The romance of the road had faded away. No more for the old guard were there to be the exciting bustle of the start, the glorious rush out of the smoky town into the bright country; the crash through hamlet and village; the wayside changings; the rough crossing of snow-drifted moorlands; the occasional breakdowns; the difficulties and dangers; the hospitable inns; the fireside gossipings. The old guard's day was over, and a new act in the drama of human progress had begun.

"The Railway Era may be said to have commenced about the time of the opening of the Liverpool and Manchester line in 1830, though the railway system developed slowly during the first few years. Men did not believe in it, and many suggestions were made to accelerate the speed of mails in other ways. One writer proposed balloons. Another—Professor Babbage—suggested a series of high pillars with wires stretched thereon, along which letter-bags might be drawn. He even hinted that such pillars and wires might come to be 'made available for a species of telegraphic communication yet more rapid'—a hint which is peculiarly interesting when we consider that it was given long prior to the time of the electric telegraph. But the Iron Horse rode roughshod over all other plans, and finally became the recognised and effective method of conveyance.

"During this half-century of the mail-coach period many improvements and alterations had been made in the working of the Post-Office.

"Among other things, the mails to India were despatched for the first time by the 'overland route'—the Mediterranean, Suez, and the Red Sea— in 1835. A line of communication was subsequently extended to China and Australia. In the following year the reduction of the stamp-duty on newspapers to one penny led to a great increase in that branch of the service.

"But now approached the time for the greatest reform of all—that reduction of postage of which I have already spoken—namely, the uniform rate of one penny for all inland letters not exceeding a certain weight.

"The average postage of a letter in 1837 was 8 pence three farthings. Owing to the heavy rates the net proceeds of the Department had remained stationary for nearly twenty years. To mend this state of matters, Sir Rowland Hill fought his long and famous fight, the particulars of which I may not enter on just now, but which culminated in victory in 1840, when the Penny Post was established throughout the kingdom. Sir Rowland still (1879) lives to witness the thorough success of his daring and beneficent innovation! It is impossible to form a just estimate of the value of cheap postage to the nation,—I may say, to the world. Trade has been increased, correspondence extended, intelligence deepened, and mental activity stimulated.

"The immediate result of the change was to raise the number of letters passing through the post from seventy-six millions in 1839 to one hundred and sixty-nine millions in 1840. Another result was the entire cessation of the illicit smuggling of letters. Despite penal laws, some carriers had been doing as large a business in illegal conveyance of letters as the Post-Office itself! One seizure made, a single bag in the warehouse of a well-known London carrier, revealed eleven hundred such letters! The horrified head of the firm hastened to the Postmaster-General, and offered immediate payment of 500 pounds to escape the penalties incurred. The money was accepted, and the letters were all passed through the Post-Office the same night!

"Sir Rowland—then Mr—Hill had said that the Post-Office was 'capable of performing a distinguished part in the great work of national education.' His prophetic words have been more than justified. People who never wrote letters before write them now. Those who wrote only a few letters now write hundreds. Only grave and important subjects were formerly treated of by letter, now we send the most trifling as well as the most weighty matters by the penny post in such floods that there is scarce room to receive the correspondence, but liberal men and measures have been equal to the emergency. One objector to cheap rates prophesied that their adoption would cause the very walls of the General Post-Office to burst. Well, it has seemed as if his prophecy were about to come true, especially on recent Christmas eves, but it is not yet fulfilled, for the old place has a tough skin, and won't burst up for a considerable time to come." (Great applause.)

"Financially, too," continued Solomon, "the Penny Post reform was an immense success, though at first it showed a tendency to hang fire. The business of the Money-Order Office was enormously increased, as the convenience of that important department became obvious to the public, and trade was so greatly improved that many tradesmen, at the end of the first three years, took the trouble to write to the Post-Office to tell how their business had increased since the introduction of the change. In short, the Penny Post would require a lecture to itself. I will therefore dismiss it with the remark that it is one of the greatest blessings of modern times, and that the nation owes an everlasting debt of gratitude to its author.

"With decreased rates came the other great requisites,—increased speed and security; and now, as you all know, the work of the Post-Office, in all its wide ramifications, goes on with the uniform regularity of a good chronometer from year to year.

"To the special duty of letter-carrying the Post-Office has now added the carriage of books and patterns, and a Savings-Bank as well as a Money Order department; but if I were to enlarge on the details of all this it would become necessary to order coffee and buns for the whole Society of literary message-boys, and make up our beds on the floor of Pegaway Hall—(Hear! hear! applause, and cries of 'Go on!')—to avoid which I shall bring my discourse to a close, with a humble apology for having detained you so long."



CHAPTER TWENTY ONE.

TELLS OF A SERIES OF TERRIBLE SURPRISES.

"Well, what did you think of that, old girl?" asked Peter Pax of Tottie, on issuing from the Literary Message-Boys' Hall, after having performed his duties there.

"It was wonderful. I 'ad no idear that the Post-Office was so old or so grand a' institootion—But please don't forget father," said Tottie, with an anxious look at the battered clock.

"I don't forget 'im, Tot. I've been thinkin' about 'im the whole time, an' I've made up my mind what to do. The only thing I ain't sure of is whether I shouldn't take my friend Phil Maylands into partnership."

"Oh, please, don't," pleaded Tottie; "I shouldn't like 'im to know about father."

"Well, the less he knows about 'im the better. P'r'aps you're right. I'll do it alone, so you cut away home. I'll go to have my personal appearance improved, and then off to Charing Cross. Lots of time, Tottie. Don't be anxious. Try if you can trust me. I'm small, no doubt, but I'm tough.—Good-night."

When Abel Bones seated himself that night in a third-class carriage at Charing Cross, and placed a neat little black hand-bag, in which he carried his housebreaking tools, on the floor between his feet, a small negro boy entered the carriage behind him, and, sitting down directly opposite, stared at him as if lost in unutterable amazement.

Mr Bones took no notice of the boy at first, but became annoyed at last by the pertinacity of his attention.

"Well, you chunk of ebony," he said, "how much are you paid a week for starin'?"

"No pound no shillin's an' nopence, massa, and find myself," replied the negro so promptly that Bones smiled in spite of himself. Being, however, in no mood for conversation, he looked out at the carriage window and let the boy stare to his heart's content.

On drawing up to the platform of the station for Rosebud Cottage, Mr Bones seemed to become anxious, stretched his head out at the carriage window, and muttered to himself. On getting out, he looked round with a disappointed air.

"Failed me!" he growled, with an anathema on some one unknown. "Well, I'll do it alone," he muttered, between his teeth.

"O no! you won't, my fine fellow," thought the negro boy; "I'll help you to do it, and make you do it badly, if you do it at all.—May I carry your bag, massa?" he added, aloud.

Mr Bones replied with a savage kick, which the boy eluded nimbly, and ran with a look of mock horror behind a railway van. Here he put both hands to his sides, and indulged in a chuckle so hearty—though subdued—that an ordinary cat, to say nothing of a Cheshire one, might have joined him from sheer sympathy.

"O the brute!" he gasped, on partially recovering, "and Tottie!— Tottie!! why she's—" Again this eccentric boy went off into subdued convulsions, in which state he was discovered by a porter, and chased off the premises.

During the remainder of that night the "chunk of ebony" followed Mr Bones like his shadow. When he went down to the small public-house of the hamlet to moisten his throat with a glass of beer, the negro boy waited for him behind a hay-stack; when he left the public-house, and took his way towards Rosebud Cottage, the boy walked a little behind him—not far behind, for the night was dark. When, on consulting his watch, with the aid of a match, Bones found that his time for action had not arrived and sat down by the side of a hedge to meditate, the chunk crept through a hole in the same hedge, crawled close up like a panther, lay down in the grass on the other side, and listened. But he heard nothing, for the burglar kept his thoughts, whatever they might have been, to himself. The hour was too still, the night too dark, the scene too ghostly for mutterings. Peering through the hedge, which was high and thick, the boy could see the red glow of Mr Bones's pipe.

Suddenly it occurred to Pax that now was a favourable opportunity to test his plan. The hedge between him and his victim was impassable to any one larger than himself; on his side the ground sloped towards a plantation, in which he could easily find refuge if necessary. There was no wind. Not a leaf stirred. The silence was profound—broken only by the puffing of the burglar's lips. Little Pax was quick to conceive and act. Suddenly he opened his mouth to its widest, took aim where he thought the ear of Bones must be, and uttered a short, sharp, appalling yell, compared to which a shriek of martyrdom must have been as nothing.

That the effect on Bones was tremendous was evinced by the squib-like action of his pipe, as it flew into the air, and the stumbling clatter of his feet, as he rushed blindly from the spot. Little Pax rolled on the grass in indescribable ecstasies for a few seconds, then crept through the hole, and followed his victim.

But Bones was no coward. He had only been taken by surprise, and soon stopped. Still, he was sufficiently superstitious to look frequently over his shoulder as he walked in the direction of Miss Stivergill's Cottage.

Pax was by that time on familiar ground. Fearing that Bones was not to be scared from his purpose by one fright, he made a detour, got ahead of him, and prepared to receive him near the old well of an adjoining farm, which stood close by the road. When the burglar's footsteps became audible, he braced himself up. As Bones drew near Pax almost burst his little chest with an inhalation. When Bones was within three feet of him, he gave vent to such a skirl that the burglar's reason was again upset. He bounded away, but suddenly recovered self-possession, and, turning round, dashed at the old well, where Pax had prematurely begun to enjoy himself.

To jump to his feet and run like the wind was the work of a moment. Bones followed furiously. Rage lent him for the moment unwonted power. He kept well up for some distance, growling fiercely as he ran, but the lithe limbs and sound lungs of the boy were too much for him. He soon fell behind, and finally stopped, while Pax ran on until out of breath.

Believing that he had now rid himself of some mischievous boy of the neighbourhood, the burglar turned back to transact his business at Rosebud Cottage.

Peter Pax also turned in the same direction. He felt that things were now beginning to look serious. To thwart Mr Bones in his little game by giving information as to his intentions, would have been easy, but then that would have involved his being "took," which was not to be thought of. At the same time, it was evident that he was no longer to be scared by yells.

Somewhat depressed by his failure, Pax hastened towards the cottage as fast as he could, resolved to give his enemy a last stunning reception in the garden, even although, by so doing, he would probably scare Miss Stivergill and her household out of their wits.

He reached the garden some minutes before Bones, and clambered over the wall. While in the very act of doing so, he felt himself seized by the throat and nearly strangled.

"Now then, young 'un," growled a deep voice, which was not that of Bones, "what little game may you be up to?"

"Ease your grip and I'll tell you," gasped Pax.

It was the constable of the district who had caught him. That faithful guardian of the night, having been roused by the unwonted yells, and having heard Pax's footsteps, had followed him up.

"I'm not a burglar, sir," pleaded Pax, not well knowing what to say. Suddenly he opened his mouth in desperation, intending to give one final yell, which might scare Bones from his impending fate, but it was nipped in the bud by the policeman's strong hand.

"Ha! you'd give your pal a signal, would you?" he said, in a gruff whisper. "Come now, keep quiet if you don't want to be choked. You can't save 'im, so you'd better give in."

Poor Pax now saw that nothing more could be done. He therefore made a virtue of necessity, and revealed as much of the object of his mission as he deemed prudent. The man believed him, and, on his promising to keep perfectly still, released him from his deadly grip.