“No, I do not,” replied Oliver. “Had I been able to finish here this morning I might have gone over this afternoon; it is too late now.”
“You had nothing to do all day yesterday,” growled his father.
“Oh, yes, I know. I am not grumbling.”
Mr. Preen put the letter into his pocket, gathered up the pile of other letters, handed half of them to his son, for it was a pretty good heap, and they started for the post, about three minutes’ walk.
The small shop containing the post-office at Duck Brook was kept by Mrs. Sym, who sold sweetstuff, also tapes and cottons. Young Sym, her son, a growing youth, delivered the letters, which were brought in by a mail-cart. She was a clean, tidy woman of middle age, never seen out of a muslin cap with a wide border and a black bow, a handkerchief crossed over her shoulders, and a checked apron.
Oliver, of lighter step than his father, reached the post-office first and tumbled his portion of the letters into the box placed in the window to receive them. The next moment Mr. Preen put his in also, together with the letter addressed to Mr. Paul.
“We are too late,” observed Oliver. “I thought we should be.”
“Eh?” exclaimed Mr. Preen, in surprise, as he turned round. “Too late! Why how can the afternoon have gone on?” he continued, his eyes falling on the clock of the little grey church which stood beyond the triangle of houses, the hands of which were pointing to a quarter past five.
“If you knew it was so late why did you not say so?” he asked sharply of his son.