‘MR. O. GRAYE,
CLERK OF WORKS,
TOLCHURCH,
NEAR ANGLEBURY.’
The letter-box was scooped in an oak gate-post about a foot square. There was no slit for inserting the letters, by reason of the opportunity such a lonely spot would have afforded mischievous peasant-boys of doing damage had such been the case; but at the side was a small iron door, kept close by an iron reversible strap locked across it. One side of this strap was painted black, the other white, and white or black outwards implied respectively that there were letters inside, or none.
The postman had taken the key from his pocket and was attempting to insert it in the keyhole of the box. He touched one side, the other, above, below, but never made a straight hit.
‘Let me unlock it,’ said Manston, taking the key from the postman. He opened the box and reached out with his other hand for Owen’s letter.
‘No, no. O no—no,’ the postman said. ‘As one of—Majesty’s servants—care—Majesty’s mails—duty—put letters—own hands.’ He slowly and solemnly placed the letter in the small cavity.
‘Now lock it,’ he said, closing the door.
The steward placed the bar across, with the black side outwards, signifying ‘empty,’ and turned the key.
‘You’ve put the wrong side outwards!’ said the postman. ‘’Tisn’t empty.’
‘And dropped the key in the mud, so that I can’t alter it,’ said the steward, letting something fall.
‘What an awkward thing!’