The new-comer was a short, stooping individual of above five-and-forty, laden on both sides with leather bags large and small, and carrying a little lantern strapped to his breast, which cast a tiny patch of light upon the road ahead.
‘A tryen mornen for travellers!’ the postman cried, in a cheerful voice, without turning his head or slackening his trot.
‘It is, indeed,’ said Manston, stepping out abreast of him. ‘You have a long walk every day.’
‘Yes—a long walk—for though the distance is only sixteen miles on the straight—that is, eight to the furthest place and eight back, what with the ins and outs to the gentlemen’s houses, it makes two-and-twenty for my legs. Two-and-twenty miles a day, how many a year? I used to reckon it, but I never do now. I don’t care to think o’ my wear and tear, now it do begin to tell upon me.’
Thus the conversation was begun, and the postman proceeded to narrate the different strange events that marked his experience. Manston grew very friendly.
‘Postman, I don’t know what your custom is,’ he said, after a while; ‘but between you and me, I always carry a drop of something warm in my pocket when I am out on such a morning as this. Try it.’ He handed the bottle of brandy.
‘If you’ll excuse me, please. I haven’t took no stimmilents these five years.’
‘’Tis never too late to mend.’
‘Against the regulations, I be afraid.’
‘Who’ll know it?’