“I was not sure until I saw the clock; I only thought it must be late by the time we had been at work,” replied Oliver.
“I might have sent you over with that letter as you suggested, had I known it would not go to-night. I wonder whether Dame Sym would give it back to me.”
He dived down the two steps into the shop as he spoke, Oliver following. Dame Sym—so Duck Brook called her—stood knitting behind the little counter, an employment she took up at spare moments.
“Mrs. Sym, I’ve just put some letters into the box, not perceiving that it was past five o’clock,” began Mr. Preen, civilly. “I suppose they’ll not go to-night?”
“Can’t, sir,” replied the humble post-mistress. “The bag’s made up.”
“There’s one letter that will hardly bear delay. It is for Mr. Paul of Islip. If you can return it me out of the box I will send it over by hand at once; my son will take it.”
“But it is not possible, sir. Once a letter is put into the box I dare not give it back again,” remonstrated Mrs. Sym, gazing amiably at Mr. Preen through her spectacles, whose round glasses had a trick of glistening when at right angles with the light.
“You might stretch a point for once, to oblige me,” returned Mr. Preen, fretfully.
“And I’m sure I’d not need to be pressed to do it, sir, if I could,” she cried in her hearty way. “But I dare not break the rules, sir; I might lose my place. Our orders are not to open the receiving box until the time for making-up, or give a letter back on any pretence whatever.”
Mr. Preen saw that further argument would be useless. She was a kindly, obliging old body, but upright to the last degree in all that related to her place. Anything that she believed (right or wrong) might not be done she stuck to.