The man ran up the steps, posted his letter, which had missed the mail—though he did not appear to care for that—and returned.
Although we have spoken of this man as a confirmed drunkard, it must not be supposed that he had reached the lowest state of degradation. Like George Aspel, he had descended from a higher level in the social scale. Of course, his language proved that he had never been in the rank of a gentleman, but in manners and appearance he was much above the unhappy outcasts amongst whom he dwelt. Moreover, he had scarcely reached middle life, and was, or had been, a handsome man, so that, when he chose to dress decently and put on a sanctimonious look (which he could do with much facility), he seemed quite a respectable personage.
“Now, guv’nor, I’m at your sarvice,” he said. “This is my way. Is it yours?”
“Yes—any way will do,” continued Aspel. “Now let me hear about you. I owe you some sort of reparation for that blow. Have you dined?—will you eat?”
“Well, no; thank ’ee all the same, but I’ve no objection to drink.”
They chanced to be near a public-house as he spoke. It would be difficult in some thoroughfares of London to stop without chancing to be near a public-house!
They entered, and Aspel, resolving to treat the man handsomely, called for brandy and soda. It need scarcely be said that at that hour the brandy and soda was by no means the first of its kind that either of the men had imbibed that day. Over it they became extremely confidential and chatty. Mr Bones was a lively and sensible fellow. It was noticeable, too, that his language improved and his demeanour became more respectful as the acquaintance progressed. After a time they rose. Aspel paid for the brandy and soda, and they left the place in company.
Leaving them, we shall return to St. Martin’s-le-Grand, and follow the footsteps of no less a personage than Miss Lillycrop, for it so happened that that enthusiastic lady, having obtained permission to view the interior of the Post-Office, had fixed on that evening for her visit. But we must go back a little in time—to that period when the postal jaws were about to open for the reception of the evening mail.
Ever since Miss Lillycrop’s visit to the abode of Solomon Flint, she had felt an increasing desire to see the inside and the working of that mighty engine of State about which she had heard so much. A permit had been procured for her, and her cousin, May Maylands, being off duty at that hour, was able to accompany her.
They were handed over to the care of a polite and intelligent letter-sorter named Bright. The sorter seemed fully to appreciate and enter into Miss Lillycrop’s spirit of inquiry. He led her and May to the inside—the throat, as it were—of those postal jaws, the exterior aspect of which we have already described. On the way thither they had to pass through part of the great letter-sorting hall. It seemed to Miss Lillycrop’s excited imagination as if she had been suddenly plunged over head and ears into a very ocean of letters. From that moment onwards, during her two hours’ visit, she swam, as it were, among snowy billows of literature.