‘That there was something wrong in the postal regulations at Emu Bay was pretty certain. Jones suggested that the post-box might have a hole in the bottom, and a tiger-cat or something had chawed the papers up. But as the box was bran-new, most of us thought the old woman was collaring the stamps, but none of us dare say so, and I am certain that there was not one of us durst go and tell her so.
‘“Let’s try once again,” was a suggestion which met with general approval. To be quite sure that all the papers were posted, we all went again in a lump to the box. I’ll never forgot that night; it was raining and blowing a bit. Six of us had shoved our papers in, and Bob bad got two of his in, when he says, “Why, hang it, the blessed box is full!” “Full?” says we. “Yes, full,” says he—and I’m blowed if it wasn’t full. Do what we could, no more papers would go in. We could take two or three out, but it was no good trying to get any more in—it was just chock-a-block.
‘Suddenly Bill says, “I don’t think the box has ever been cleared.” And that was just it. There was we posting and posting for three weeks, at a box that was never cleared. When they opened it they found our 114 papers and about 200 letters and parcels.
‘We felt such fools about that box and our 114 papers that we daren’t say much—but I think the old woman might have put up a notice that the box wasn’t working.’
I returned from Emu Bay to Latrobe by the same road as that on which I had come. The essential difference between the two journeys was, that while one had been performed during the night, and without any particular incidents, the return journey was performed during the day, and was accompanied by an incident known to colonials as being ‘stuck up.’
When I got up to start on this journey it was quite dark, and the rain was pouring down in bucketfuls. Before we were under way day had dawned, and the rain had changed to a cold drizzle. The coach was of the ordinary type; that is to say, very like an old stagecoach or a modern drag. I was the only passenger, and sat outside with the driver, who had before him a spiked team—or in other words, a leader and two pole-horses. The driver was a young man of some eighteen summers, and, as I subsequently discovered, was learning his profession. For the first eight miles or so, which we ran in an hour, everything went along satisfactorily. The scenery was charming, the pace of the horses good, and the only thing to complain about was the drizzle and the cold. Shortly, however, the road became hilly, and the horses, which had hitherto run remarkably well, suddenly became obstinate, and, in spite of the thrashing administered to them by the driver, they refused to move. In time, young Jehu’s arm became tired, and there was no help for it but to descend and let me take the reins, while he encouraged them and ran by their side. The result of this was that the horses started off, leaving Jehu behind, and leaving me in charge of the coach. With the help of the brake I eventually stopped them, but no sooner had Jehu mounted on the box than they again refused to move. There was no help for it but for him to descend once more and let me take control.
This method of intermittent progress was clearly unsatisfactory, and something different must be attempted.
‘I’ll change a pole-horse for the leader,’ said Jehu.
After half an hour or so this was accomplished; but no sooner did Jehu attempt to drive them, than such violent kicking and rearing took place that we felt ourselves in danger either of rolling over a precipice, or else having the coach kicked to pieces.