“I’ve got summat for ’ee to-day, Mrs. Stuckhey. Noos fro’ the front; a letter fro’ the soldier.”
“Ah!” exclaimed Susan, and her small black eyes twinkled as she thrust forward an eager hand.
The postman detached one letter from the packet which he drew forth from his bag, and, after it had passed from his possession, proceeded to tighten the string which was tied round the remainder, his teeth coming very deftly to the assistance of his fingers.
“He be with Buller, bain’t he?” he inquired, casting a sidelong glance at the mother as she hastily unfastened the envelope.
“E-es, he’s wi’ Mr. Buller,” corrected Mrs. Stuckhey.
“Mr. Buller! Be that what ye d’ call him?” and the postman’s keen eyes twinkled.
“Well, it do seem more respectful like for I. Joe, he do say the General; but it seems more natural for me to say Mr. Buller.”
“I thought it was Lord Buller,” observed Mrs. Blanchard doubtfully.
“Well, never mind; Buller’s enough for I,” said the postman. “Does your son chance to say if they’re pretty near Ladysmith now?”
His much-frayed string seemed somewhat knotted, and opportunities of hearing news direct from the front were sufficiently rare to justify a little extra care in disentangling it.