Our post-office is to be found taking cover in one corner of the
village's general shop. Poetically it may be described as between the
lard and the lingerie. In prose the most interesting thing to be said
of it is that I was there this morning.
It was while I was buying a box of matches that the thought came to me
that I might as well enjoy myself thoroughly and have some stamps as
well. There was quite a crowd in the shop at the time, and we both
moved to the postal counter together. She, however, got in the first
word.
"One stamp, please," she demanded, and went on, "You'll never guess
what I want it for."
"Isn't it for a letter, then?" asked the post-mistress, as if, for
instance, stamps might be used for holding down the butter while the
bread is rubbed against it.
"Yes, but who to? That's the point. Our George!"
To me there did not seem much in this to cause a sensation, but it
did. Question and answer flew backwards and forwards as thick as
reminiscences at a regimental dinner.
"Not young George?"
"Yes, old George. We had a letter from him last week. First we'd heard
for six years."
"Lordy, lordy," said the post-mistress, "it only seems yesterday that
he went away. I remember----" and she proved it by doing so for ten
minutes with a volubility that would have made the fortune of a patter
comedian. At the first sign of a pause I found the courage to ask for
my stamps, but quite in vain. The conversation was only getting its
second wind.
"Young George, to be sure! And how is he? Tell me all about him."
I gathered that George was in the best of health and in America, was
unmarried and umpired out in a recent baseball match and wanted----"
["A dozen stamps, please." This from me.] a photograph of the old
people and his brothers and sisters. From this the transition was
easy to an uncle of the post-mistress's who went----" ["A dozen
stamps."]--to foreign parts. He always was a rolling stone, he was.
Never gathered no moss. On the other hand, there were no flies on him.
Did very well for himself, he did, and when he died----"
But it was at this point that the moisture from the margarine cask
against which I had been leaning began to make its presence felt, and,
stampless, I left the shop.
At the edge of the village I met our policeman.
"Go quickly," I implored him; "there's a hold-up at the post-office."
Perhaps "quickly" is not quite the right word, but, at any rate, he
went. I doubt if he will get promotion over the job, but I am sure he
too will like to hear about our George, if there's anything left to
say by the time he gets there.
* * * * *