140 ON THE TRACK OF THE MAIL-COACH 



Penzance in the early sixties still possessed a 

 postmistress who, from the yet earlier twenties, 

 assisted by postwomen fully six feet high, had ruled 

 her office with a hand of steel not always hidden by 

 the velvet glove. Two of her rules of official life 

 admitted of no exception. When ' Box Closed,^ ' Mail 

 not Arrived,' or ' Mail not Sorted,' was placarded 

 on the square foot of hinged office-window, no appeal 

 could induce her to open it, nor would she ever give 

 change. 



Once a traveller, staying at the Union Hotel close 

 by, publicly wagered that he would break through the 

 blockade. His plan was to knock persistently at the 

 little wmdow when ' Box Closed ' was notified. At 

 length, the pane of glass being reluctantly opened, he 

 victoriously thrust in his bundle of letters, and, as he 

 thought, won the day. But he reckoned without the 

 postmistress; for my stout-hearted colleague, I rejoice 

 to say, as promptly flung back his letters mto the 

 street. 



The fame of this exploit being noised abroad, a 

 certain army Colonel undertook to sap the post- 

 mistress's position on the giving-of-change question. 

 He had better luck. Presenting himself at the 

 wmdow, he tendered a half-crown, requesting to be 

 supplied with a shilling's worth of postage-stamps. 

 ' I give no change,' said the lady. ' Oh, very well !' 

 replied the Colonel. 



\Yith military strategy, he withdrew for the moment 

 to his base of operations ; then, returnmg armed with 



