This was exceedingly vexatious. He blamed himself bitterly, resettled himself in his chair, rearranged the curtains, and glared intently. But although Mr Blurt could fix his eyes he could not chain his thoughts. These unruly familiars ere long began to play havoc with their owner. They hurried him far away from rats and ornithological specimens, carried him over the Irish Channel, made him look sadly down on the funnels of the Royal Mail steamer, plunged him under the waves, and caused him to gaze in fond regret on his lost treasures. His thoughts carried him even further. They bore him over the sea to Africa, and set him down, once more, in his forsaken hut among the diamond-diggers. From this familiar retreat he was somewhat violently recalled by a scratching sound. He glared at the pelican of the wilderness. The little stars reappeared. They increased in size. They became unbearable suns. They suddenly approached. As suddenly Mr Blurt rose to fight or fly—he could scarce tell which. It did not matter much, because, next instant, he fell headlong to the floor, dragging the curtains down, and forming a miscellaneous avalanche with the chair and packing-boxes.
The unfortunate man had fallen asleep, and the rats, which had in truth ventured out, fled to their homes as a matter of course.
But Mr Blurt had resolved to go through with it. Finding that he was unhurt, and that the household had not been disturbed, he rebuilt his erection and began his watch over again. The shock had thoroughly roused him. He did not sleep again. Fortunately London rats are not nervous. Being born and bred in the midst of war’s alarms they soon get over a panic. The watcher had not sat more than a quarter of an hour when the stars appeared once again. The Pyramid of Cheops is not more immovably solid than was Mr Blurt. A sharp nose advanced; a head came out; a body followed; a tail brought up the rear, and the pelican of the wilderness looked with calm indifference on the scene.
The rat was an old grey one, and very large. It was followed by a brown one, nearly as large. There was an almost theatrical caution in their movements at first, but courage came with immunity from alarm. Six letters, that had been thrust through the slit by the evening postman, lay on the floor. To these the grey rat advanced, seized one in its teeth, and began to back out, dragging the letter after it. The brown rat followed the grey rat’s example. While thus engaged, another brown rat appeared, and followed suit. Nothing could have been more fortunate. Mr Blurt was charmed. He could afford to let the grey rat well out of sight, because the two brown rats, following in succession, would, when he sprang on them, leave a trail of letters to point the direction of their flight.
Just as the third rat dragged its missive behind the pelican of the wilderness the watcher leaped upon them, and in his haste consigned the pelican to all but irretrievable destruction! The rats vanished, but left the tell-tale letters, the last two forming pointers to the first, which was already half dragged through a slit between the skirting and the wall. At the extremity of this slit yawned the gateway to the rats’ palace.
Mr Blurt rubbed his hands, chuckled, crowed internally, and, having rescued the letters, went to bed.
Next morning, he procured a crowbar, and, with the able assistance of George Aspel, tore off the skirting, uprooted a plank, and discovered a den in which were stored thirty-one letters, six post-cards, and three newspapers. (See Postmaster-General’s Report for 1877, page 13.)
The corners of the letters, bearing the stamps, were nibbled away, showing that gum—not money or curiosity—was the occasion of the theft.
As four of these letters contained cheques and money-orders, their discovery afforded instant relief to the pressure which had been gradually bearing with intolerable weight on the affairs of Messrs Blurt and Company.