“No, cousin, I won’t.”
“Sure, if ye don’t, I will,” said Phil.
“Well then, I will tell you a very little just to save you from Phil, who, if he once begins, will kill you with his calculations. But you can’t appreciate what I say. Let me see. The total number of telegraphic messages forwarded by our offices in the United Kingdom during the last twelve months amounted to a little more than twenty-two millions.”
“Dear me!” said Miss Lillycrop, with that look and tone which showed that if May had said twenty-two quintillions it would have had no greater effect.
“There, that’s enough,” said May, laughing. “I knew it was useless to tell you.”
“Ah, May!” said Phil, “that’s because you don’t know how to tell her.—See here now, cousin Sarah. The average length of a message is thirty words. Well, that gives 660 millions of words. Now, a good average story-book of 400 pages contains about ninety-six thousand words. Divide the one by the other, and that gives you a magnificent library of 6875 volumes as the work done by the Postal Telegraphs every year. All these telegrams are kept for a certain period in case of inquiry, and then destroyed.”
“Phil, I must put on my things and go,” exclaimed Miss Lillycrop, rising. “I’ve had quite as much as I can stand.”
“Just cap it all with this, ma’am, to keep you steady,” interposed Solomon Flint;—“the total revenue of the Post-Office for the year was six millions and forty-seven thousand pounds; and the expenditure three millions nine hundred and ninety-one thousand. Now, you may consider yourself pretty well up in the affairs of the Post-Office.”
The old ’ooman, awaking at this point with a start, hurled the cat under the grate, and May laughingly led Miss Lillycrop into her little boudoir.