The Argosy — page 129: what you’re looking at

Machine-transcribed from the original scan — historical spelling and the odd misread are preserved.

II4 A Tragedy. ‘Vou had nothing to do all day yesterday,” growled his father. “Oh, yes, 1 know. Iam not grumbling.” Mr. Preen put the letter into his pocket, gathered up the pile of other letters, handed half of them to his son, for it was a pretty good heap, and they started for the post, about three minutes’ walk. The small shop containing the post office at Duck Brook was kept by Mrs. Sym; she sold sweetstuff, also tapes and cottons. Young Sym, her son, a growing youth, delivered the letters, which were brought in by a mail-cart. She was a clean, tidy woman of middle age ; who was never seen out of a muslin cap with a wide border and a black bow, a handkerchief crossed over her shoulders, and a checked apron. Oliver, of lighter step than his father, reached the post-office first and tumbled his portion of the letters into the box placed in the window to receive them. The next moment Mr. Preen put his in also, together with the letter addressed to Mr. Paul. ‘‘We are too late,” observed Oliver. ‘I thought we should be.” “Eh?” exclaimed Mr. Preen, in surprise, as he turned round. ““'Too late! Why how can the afternoon have gone on!” he con- tinued, his eyes falling on the clock of the little grey church which stood beyond the triangle of houses, the hands of which were point- ing to a quarter past five. ‘Tf you knew it was so late why did you not say so?” he asked sharply of his son. ‘‘T was not sure until I saw the clock; I only thought it must be late by the time we had been at work,” replied Oliver. ‘““T might have sent you over with that letter as you suggested, had I known it would not go to-night. I wonder whether Dame Sym would give it back to me.” He dived down the two steps into the shop as he spoke, Oliver fol- lowing. Dame Sym—so Duck Brook called her—stood knitting behind the little counter, an employment she took up at spare moments. “Mrs. Sym, T’ve just put some letters into the box, not perceiving that it was past five o’clock,” began Mr. Preen civilly. ‘‘ I suppose they'll not go to-night ?” ‘‘Can’t sir,” replied the humble post-mistress. ‘‘ The bag’s made up.” ‘““'There’s one letter that will hardly bear delay. It is for Mr. Paul of Islip. If you can return it me out of the box I will send it over by hand at once ; my son will take it.” - ‘“ But it is not possible, sir. Once a letter is put into the box I dare not give it back again,” remonstrated Mrs. Sym, gazing amiably at Mr. Preen through her spectacles, whose round glasses had a trick of glistening when at right angles with the light. “You might stretch a point for once, to oblige me,” returned Mr. Preen, fretfully. “And I’m sure I’d not need to be pressed to do it, sir, if I could,” ECORNICMOOOKS (Ee)