Boys have good legs and lungs; and William scarcely slackened speed until he gained the post-office, not far short of a mile. Dropping the letter into the box, he stood against the wall to recover breath. A clerk was standing at the door whistling; and at that moment a gentleman, apparently a stranger, came out of a neighbouring hotel, a letter in hand.
"This is the head post-office, I believe?" said he to the clerk.
"Yes."
"Am I in time to post a letter for Bristol?"
"No, sir. The bags for the Bristol mail are made up. It will be through the town directly."
William heard this with consternation. If it was too late for this gentleman's letter, it was too late for Mr. Ashley's.
He said nothing to any one that night; but he lay awake thinking over what might be the consequences of his forgetfulness. The letter might be one of importance; Mr. Ashley might discharge him for his neglect—and the weekly four shillings had grown into an absolute necessity. William possessed a large share of conscientiousness, and the fault disturbed him much.
When he came down at six, he found his mother up and at work. He gave her the history of what had happened. "What can be done?" he asked.
"Nay, William, put that question to yourself. What ought you to do? Reflect a moment."
"I suppose I ought to tell Mr. Ashley."