Post Haste - Robert Michael Ballantyne (little red riding hood ebook .txt) 📗

power required to do the work and transmit the messages. This is the battery that fires two signal-guns every day at one o'clock--one at Newcastle, the other at South Shields, and supplies Greenwich time to all our principal stations over a radius of three hundred miles.--I sent the contents of one hundred and twenty jars through you just now!"

"That's curious and interesting; I may even say it is suggestive," returned the detective, in a meditative tone. "Double that number of jars, now, applied to the locks of street doors at night and the fastenings of windows would give a powerful surprise to burglars."

"Ah, no doubt, and also to belated friends," said the Inspector, "not to mention the effect on servant-maids in the morning when people forgot to disconnect the wires."

The man in grey admitted the truth of the observation, and, thanking the Battery Inspector for his kind attentions, bade him a cordial adieu. Continuing his investigation of the basement, he came to the three huge fifty-horse-power engines, whose duty it is to suck the air from the pneumatic telegraph tubes in the great hall above. Here the detective became quite an engineer, asked with much interest and intelligence about governors, pistons, escape-valves, actions, etcetera, and wound up with a proposition.

"Suppose, now," he said, "that a little dog were to come suddenly into this room and dash about in a miscellaneous sort of way, could it by any means manage to become entangled in your machinery and get so demolished as never more to be seen or heard of?"

The engineer looked at his questioner with a somewhat amused expression. "No, sir, I don't think it could. No doubt it might kill itself with much facility in various ways, for fifty horsepower, properly applied, would do for an elephant, much more a dog. But I don't believe that power to be sufficient to produce annihilation. There would have been remains of some sort."

From the engine-room our detective proceeded to the boiler-room and the various kitchens, and thence to the basement of the old building on the opposite side of the street, where he found a similarly perplexing labyrinth. He was taken in hand here by Mr Bright, who chanced to be on duty, and led him first to the Stamp Department. There was much to draw him off his "canine" mania here. First he was introduced to the chief of the department, who gave him much interesting information about stamps in general.

Then he was conducted to another room, and shown the tables at which men were busy counting sheets of postage-stamps and putting them up in envelopes for all parts of the United Kingdom. The officer in charge told him that the weight of stamps sent out from that room averaged a little over three tons daily, and that the average value of the weekly issue was 150,000 pounds. Then he was led into a fireproof safe--a solid stone apartment--which was piled from floor to ceiling with sheets of postage-stamps of different values. Those for letters ranged from one halfpenny to one pound, but those used for telegrams ran up to as much as five pounds sterling for a single stamp. Taking down from a shelf a packet of these high-priced stamps, which was about the size of a thick octavo book, the official stated that it was worth 35,000 pounds.

"Yes, sir," he added, "this strong box of ours holds a deal of money. You are at this moment in the presence of nearly two millions sterling!"

"A tidy little sum to retire upon. Would build two thousand Board Schools at a thousand pounds each," said the detective, who was an adept at figures,--as at everything else.

Feeling that it would be ridiculous to inquire about mad dogs in the presence of two millions sterling, the man in grey suffered himself to be led through long passages and vaulted chambers, some of which latter were kitchens, where the men on duty had splendid fires, oceans of hot water, benches and tables, and liberty to cook the food either brought by themselves for the day or procured from a caterer on the premises-- for Post-Office officials when on duty may not leave the premises for any purpose whatever, _except_ duty, and must sign books specifying to the minute when, where, and why, they come and go. In this basement also, as in the other, were long rows of numbered cupboards or large pigeon-holes with lockable doors, one of which was appropriated to each man for the safe depositing of his victuals and other private property.

Here, too, were whitewashed lavatories conveniently and plentifully distributed, with every appliance for cleanliness and comfort, including a large supply of fresh and good water. Of this, 49,000 gallons a day is supplied by an artesian well, and 39,000 gallons a day by the New River Company, in the new building. In the old building the 27,000 gallons consumed daily is supplied by the New River Company. It is, however, due to the 5900 human beings who labour in both buildings to state that at least 55,000 of these gallons are swallowed by steam-engines on the premises.

To all these things Mr Bright directed attention with professional zeal, and the man in grey observed with much interest all that he saw and heard, until he came to the letter-carriers' kitchen, where several of the men were cooking food at the fire, while others were eating or chatting at the tables.

Happening to mention the dog here, he found that Mr Bright was partially acquainted with the incident.

"It was down these stairs it ran," he said, "and was knocked on the head in this very room by the policeman. No one knows where he took the body to, but he went out at that door, in the direction, it is supposed, of the boiler-house."

The detective had at last got hold of a clew. He was what is styled, in a well-known game, "getting warm."

"Let us visit the boiler-house," he said.

Again, for the nonce, he became an engineer. Like Paul, he was all things to all men. He was very affable to the genial stoker, who was quite communicative about the boilers. After a time the detective referred to the dog, and the peculiar glance of the stoker at once showed him that his object was gained.

"A policeman brought it?" he asked quietly.

"Yes, a policeman brought it," said the stoker suspiciously.

The man in grey soon, however, removed his suspicions and induced him to become confidential. When he had obtained all the information that the stoker could give--in addition to poor Floppart's collar, which had no name on it, but was stamped with three stars on its inside--the detective ceased to make any further inquiries after mad dogs, and, with a disengaged mind, accompanied Mr Bright through the remainder of the basement, where he commented on the wise arrangement of having the mail-bags made by convicts, and on the free library, which he pronounced a magnificent institution, and which contained about 2000 volumes, that were said by the courteous librarian to be largely used by the officials, as well as the various newspapers and magazines, furnished gratuitously by their proprietors. He was also shown the "lifts," which raised people--to say nothing of mails, etcetera--from the bottom to the top of the building, or _vice versa_; the small steam-engine which worked the same, and the engineer of which--an old servant--was particularly impressive on the peculiar "governor" by which his engine was regulated; the array of letter stampers, which were kept by their special guardian in immaculate order and readiness; the fire-hose, which was also ready for instant service, and the firemen, who were in constant attendance with a telegraphic instrument at their special disposal, connecting them with other parts of the building. All this, and a great deal more which we have not space to mention, the man in grey saw, admired, and commented on, as well as on the general evidence of order, method, regularity, neatness, and system which pervaded the whole place.

"You manage things well here," he said to his conductor at parting.

"We do," responded Mr Bright, with an approving nod; "and we had need to, for the daily despatch of Her Majesty's mails to all parts of the world is no child's play. Our motto is--or ought to be--`Security, Celerity, Punctuality, and Regularity.' We couldn't carry that out, sir, without good management.--Good-bye."

"Good-bye, and thank you," said the detective, leaving St. Martin's-le-Grand with his busy brain ruminating on a variety of subjects in a manner that no one but a detective could by any possibility understand.


CHAPTER TWENTY THREE.


THE TURNING-POINT.

As time advanced Philip Maylands' circumstances improved, for Phil belonged to that class of which it is sometimes said "they are sure to get on." He was thorough-going and trustworthy--two qualities these which the world cannot do without, and which, being always in demand, are never found begging.

Phil did not "set up" for anything. He assumed no airs of superior sanctity. He did not even aim at being better than others, though he did aim, daily, at being better than he was. In short, the lad, having been trained in ways of righteousness, and having the Word of God as his guide, advanced steadily and naturally along the narrow way that leads to life. Hence it came to pass in the course of time that he passed from the ranks of Out-door Boy Telegraph Messenger to that of Boy-Sorter, with a wage of twelve shillings a week, which was raised to eighteen shillings. His hours of attendance at the Circulation Department were from 4:30 in the morning till 9; and from 4:30 in the evening till 8. These suited him well, for he had ever been fond of rising with the lark while at home, and had no objection to rise before the lark in London. The evening being free he devoted to study--for Phil was one of that by no means small class of youths who, in default of a College education, do their best to train themselves, by the aid of books and the occasional help of clergymen, philanthropists, and evening classes.

In all this Phil was greatly assisted by his sister May, who, although not much more highly educated than himself, was quick of perception, of an inquiring mind, and a sympathetic soul. He was also somewhat assisted, and, at times, not a little retarded, by his ardent admirer Peter Pax, who joined him enthusiastically in his studies, but, being of a discursive and enterprising spirit, was prone to tempt him off the beaten paths of learning into the thickets of speculative philosophy.

One evening Pax was poring over a problem in Euclid with his friend in Pegaway Hall.

"Phil," he said uneasily, "drop your triangles a bit and listen. Would you think it dishonest to keep a thing secret that ought to be known?"

"That depends a good deal on what the secret is, and what I have got to do with it," replied Phil. "But why do you ask?"

"Because I've been keeping a secret a long time--much against my will-- an' I can stand it no longer. If I don't let it out, it'll bu'st me-- besides, I've got leave to tell it."

"Out with it, then, Pax; for it's of no use trying to keep down things that don't agree with you."

"Well, then," said Pax.