Post Haste | Page 2

angry sea, cutting the foam in flecks from the waves, and whistling, as if in baffled fury, among the opposing crags.
"Isn't it a grand sight?" said Phil, as they sought shelter under the lee of a projecting rock.
"Glorious! I never look upon that sight," said Aspel, with flashing eyes, "without wishing that I had lived in the days of the old Vikings."
The youth traced his descent from the sea-kings of Norway--those tremendous fellows who were wont in days of yore to ravage the shores of the known and unknown world, east and west, north and south, leaving their indelible mark alike on the hot sands of Africa and the icebound rocks of Greenland. As Phil Maylands knew nothing of his own lineage further back than his grandfather, he was free to admire the immense antiquity of his friend's genealogical tree. Phil was not, however, so completely under the fascination of his hero as to be utterly blind to his faults; but he loved him, and that sufficed to cover them up.
"Sure, they were a wild lot, after all?" he said in a questioning tone, as he looked up at the glowing countenance of his friend, who, with his bold mien, bulky frame, blue eyes, and fair curls, would have made a very creditable Viking indeed, had he lived in the tenth century.
"Of course they were, Phil," he replied, looking down at his admirer with a smile. "Men could not well be otherwise than wild and warlike in those days; but it was not all ravage and plunder with them. Why, it is to them and to their wise laws that we owe much of the freedom, coupled with the order, that prevails in our happy land; and didn't they cross the Atlantic Ocean in things little better than herring-boats, without chart or compass, and discover America long before Columbus was born?"
"You don't mean that?" said Phil, with increased admiration; for the boy was not only smitten by his friend's physical powers, but by his supposed intellectual attainments.
"Yes, I do mean that," returned Aspel. "If the Norsemen of old did mischief, as no one can deny, they were undoubtedly grand old scoundrels, and it is certain that they did much good to the world, whether they meant it or not."
Phil Maylands made no reply, but continued to look meditatively at his friend, until the latter laughed, and asked what he was thinking about.
"It's thinking I am, what I wouldn't give if my legs were only as long as yours, George."
"That they will soon be," returned George, "if they go on at the rate they've been growing of late."
"That's a true word, anyhow; but as men's legs don't go on growing at the same rate for ever, it's not much hope I have of mine. No, George, it's kind of you to encourage me, but the Maylands have ever been a short-legged and long-bodied race. So it's said. However, it's some comfort to know that short men are often long-headed, and that many of them get on in the world pretty well."
"Of course they do," returned Aspel, "and though they can't grow long, they never stop short in the race of life. Why, look at Nelson--he was short; and Wellington wasn't long, and Bonny himself was small in every way except in his intellect--who's that coming up the hill?"
"It's Mike Kenny, the postman, I think. I wonder if he has brought a letter from sister May. Mother expects one, I know."
The man who had attracted their attention was ascending towards them with the slow, steady gait of a practised mountaineer. He was the post-runner of the district. Being a thinly-peopled and remote region, the "runner's walk" was a pretty extensive one, embracing many a mile of moorland, vale and mountain. He had completed most of his walk at that time, having only one mountain shoulder now between him and the little village of Howlin Cove, where his labours were to terminate for that day.
"Good-evening, Mike," said George Aspel, as the man approached. "Any letters for me to-night?"
"No, sur, not wan," answered Mike, with something of a twinkle in his eye; "but I've left wan at Rocky Cottage," he added, turning to Philip Maylands.
"Was it May's handwriting?" asked the boy eagerly.
"Sure I don't know for sartin whose hand it is i' the inside, but it's not Miss May's on the cover. Niver a wan in these parts could write like her--copperplate, no less."
"Come, George, let's go back," said Phil, quickly, "we've been looking out for a letter for some days past."
"It's not exactly a letter, Master Phil," said the post-runner slowly.
"Ah, then, she'd never put us off with a newspaper," said Phil.
"No, it's a telegram," returned Mike.
Phil Maylands looked thoughtfully at the ground. "A telegram," he said, "that's strange. Are ye sure, Mike?"
"Troth