Ten Years Among the Mail Bags: Or, Notes from the Diary of a Special Agent of the Post-Office DepartmentHolbrook, James
History
Ten Years Among the Mail Bags: Or, Notes from the Diary of a Special Agent of the Post-Office Department
Holbrook, James
Postal service -- United States
As she approached, for a time there appeared no perceptible change in
her course, but when nearly opposite the landing, she suddenly veered
toward us, and in a moment her guards were chafing against the ends of
the pier; and without waiting for the gang-plank, we were on board
before the wheels had fairly ceased their motion. The engineer's bell
sounded the signal for going ahead; and we about the same time
commenced our search through the floating palace.
As we progressed through the spacious cabins, a chorus of discordant
sounds saluted us from their sleeping occupants.
It is curious, by the way, to see how the levelling influence of sleep
shows itself in establishing a sort of equality between different
individuals, in respect of the noise they make in the world. Your
modest man, who, in his waking moments, avoids all display of his
vocal or other powers, no sooner comes under the influence of the
drowsy god, than his modesty deserts him; he blows his trumpet with as
much sonorousness as the most impudent of mankind. The most retiring
person I ever knew, was remarkable for being outrageously vociferous
in his slumbers.
The redoubtable Pat, however, was guiltless of contributing to the
volume of sound aforesaid; nor was his physiognomy discoverable among
the sleeping or waking occupants of the cabins, so far as we could
see. And as for any discoveries we made that night, or any good that
our trusty arms did us, we might as well have been encircled in the
"arms of Morpheus." At one time, however, we thought our night's work
would prove a successful one, for on hastily consulting the clerk as
we boarded the steamer, he informed us that a man answering tolerably
well the description of the object of our search, had paid his fare to
Albany, and was snugly stowed away in berth No. 54, in the forward
cabin.
The revolvers and "ornaments" were hastily examined, and the plan
adopted of delegating one of the trio to proceed quietly to No. 54,
and, under the pretence that its occupant was in possession of the
wrong berth, to ascertain, first, if he was really the veritable Pat.
As I was the only one who could readily identify him, this duty fell
upon me; and leaving my fearless associates at the top of the stairs,
with instructions to rush to my aid, in case I took off my hat, with
almost breathless anxiety I made a descent into the cabin, and in a
few seconds stood in front of the berth designated by the clerk.
"Hallo, stranger," I called out, at the same time gently shaking him,
"haven't you got the wrong pew?"
An inhuman sort of a grunt was all the reply I could at first obtain,
but after repeating the inquiry, and increasing the force of the
punch, he leisurely turned over.
"And what the d--l do you want?" says the lodger, "bothering a
gentleman in this way? Is it my pocket-book, or my boots, you're
after?"
Public-domain text, read in full here on John Shaqi.
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