Years flew by. The daily routine at St. Martin’s-le-Grand went on; the mails departed and came in with unvarying regularity; in the working of the vast machine good men and boys rose to the surface, and bad ones went down. Among the former were Phil Maylands and Peter Pax.

 

The latter, in course of time, rose to the rank of Inspector, in which condition he gradually developed a pretty pair of brown whiskers and a wonderful capacity for the performance of duty. He also rose to the altitude of five feet six inches, at which point he stuck fast, and continued the process of increase laterally. Pax, however, could not become reconciled to city life. He did his work cheerfully and with all his might, because it was his nature so to do, but he buoyed up his spirits—so he was wont to say—by fixing his eye on the Postmaster-Generalship and a suburban villa on the Thames.

 

His friend Phil, on the contrary, was quite pleased with city life, and devoted himself with such untiring energy to his work, and to his own education, that he came ere long to be noted as the youth who knew everything. Faults he had, undoubtedly, and his firm, severe way of expressing his opinions raised him a few enemies in the Post-Office, but he attained at last to the condition of being so useful and so trustworthy as to make men feel that he was almost indispensable. They felt as if they could not get on without him.

 

When man or boy comes to this point, success is inevitable. Phil soon became a favourite with the heads of departments. The Chief of the Post-Office himself at last came to hear of him, and, finding that he was more than capable of passing the requisite examinations, he raised him from the ranks and made him a clerk in the Savings-Bank Department.

 

Having attained to this position, with a good salary for a single man, and a prospect of a steady rise, Phil set about the accomplishment of the darling wish of his heart. He obtained leave of absence, went over to the west of Ireland, and took Rocky Cottage by storm.

 

“Mother dear,” he said, almost before he had sat down, “I’m promoted. I’m rich—comparatively. I’ve taken a house—a small house—at Nottinghill, and your room in it is ready for you; so pack up at once, for we leave this to-morrow afternoon.”

 

“You jest, Phil.”

 

“I’m in earnest, mother.”

 

“But it is impossible,” said the good lady, looking anxiously round; “I cannot pack up on so short notice. And the furniture—”

 

“It’s all arranged, mother,” said Phil, stroking the curls of a strapping boy who no longer went by the name of Baby, but was familiarly known as Jim. “Being aware of your desire to get rid of the furniture, I have arranged with a man in Howlin’ Cove to take it at a valuation. He comes out to value it this evening, so you’ve nothing to do but pack up your trunks. With the aid of Madge and Jim we’ll manage that in no time.”

分享到：