The old post-boy was never married. Before the days of railways he was in constant request, but the whirligig of time brought about its changes that touched George Spurle to the quick, and thrust him from his seat.
He had begun life as a little urchin perched on the back of the waggon horse that had brought in the wheat at harvest, and this had so raised his ambition that nothing would content the child but becoming a post-boy. The scarlet of the Queen’s livery presented no attraction to him, nor the blue jacket of the navy. Nothing would do but the stable with the anticipation of wearing at some time the yellow jacket and white beaver. When not in the stable, he was to be found in the bar, where he told many a yarn. Here is one. “Gentlemen—I cannot tell you precisely the year, but it was at the very beginning of the century that there was a rather remarkable robbery of the mail, going from Exeter to Plymouth, near Haldon. A party of fellows with black over their faces sprang out of the bushes, and were all armed with pistols. They stayed the coach, and they got the letter-bags and carried them off. Now I was here—some fifteen miles away—and somehow I saw it all take place; I saw and counted the men—that is, in my dream, for I was sleepin’ in the little chamber over the stable; and I saw the men take the bags off to a quarry and there they ripped ’em open, and searched and took away some of the letters, and left the rest. I see’d it all distinct as daylight, though it took place in the night. Well, when I came down in the mornin’ and had washed at the pump, I went into the bar and I told Mary Foale about it; she was maid there then, and I was a bit sweet upon her. She laughed and thought nought on it. Then I went on and told the mistress of the inn, but, bless you! she gave no heed. Well—gentlemen, you may believe me or not, as you please; but it’s true enough, the mail had been robbed during the night, on Haldon, just as I had described, and we didn’t hear the news till the afternoon of the day—and I told all about it in the morning early. But that is not all. The mail-bags were not found for ten or twelve days, and they were in the old quarry just where I had seen the chaps cutting them open. That is a coorious story, ain’t it?”
“Indeed it is, George. It almost looks as if you had been riding that night and had been in it.”
“Ah! I’m not that sort of chap. Now there was a sequel to it.”
“What was that?”
“Why, a day or two arter I asked Mary Foale if she’d condescend to be Mrs. Spurle.”
“‘No thank y’, George,’ sez she; ‘you see too much to make it comfortable for me.’ And she didn’t take me, she took Jeremiah Ancker; and that just shows she didn’t see enough, for he turned out a drunken lout as whacked her.”
“Were you ever robbed on the road, George?”
“I’ve been stopped, but on that occasion things didn’t turn out as was intended.”