“Do you always go to the post with the letters?”
“In corse.”
“Do you ever see any addressed to Mrs Cruden or Mr Cruden in London?”
“’Bout once a week. That there sekketery always gives ’em to me separate, and says I’m to be sure and post ’em.”
“Well, I say they’re not to be posted,” said Mr Medlock. “Here’s half a crown; and listen: next time you get any to post put them on one side; and every one you can show me you shall have sixpence for. Mind what you’re at, or he’ll flay you alive if he catches you. Off you go, there’s a good boy.”
And Love pocketed his half-crown greedily, and with a knowing wink at his employer sped back to the office.
That afternoon Reginald wrote a short polite note to the Rev. T. Mulberry, explaining to him the reason for any apparent delay in the execution of his order, and promising that he should duly receive it before Christmas. This was the only letter for the post that day, and Love had no opportunity of earning a further sixpence.
He had an opportunity of spending his half-crown, however, and when he returned from the post he was radiant in face and stouter under the waistcoat by the thickness of the coveted volume of the Newgate Calendar series.
With the impetuosity characteristic of his age, he plunged into its contents the moment he found himself free of work, and by the time Reginald returned from his short evening stroll he was master of several of its stories. Tim Tigerskin and The Pirate’s Bride were nothing to it. They all performed their incredible exploits on the other side of the world, but these heroes were beings of flesh and blood like himself, and, for all he knew, he might have seen them and talked to them, and have known some of the very spots in London which they frequented. He felt a personal interest in their achievements.
“Say, governor,” said he as soon as Reginald entered, “do you know Southwark Road?”