four and five every afternoon, except Sundays, it was the time-honored custom of the Mullenville population to assemble at the post-office, and there, under cover of waiting for the mail to be made up, relax themselves with friendly, business, or amorous conversation, as the case might be. The sight of the letters and newspapers popping into the various boxes seemed to assist ideas in popping into heads, and words in popping out. Certainly, at no time were the inhabitants of Mullenville more gay, social, talkative, and good-humored than at evening mail-time; and as for the lovers,—it is awful to think of what their predicament would have been in case the Mullenville post-office had not existed. In fact, if the persons who constructed the plans whereby Mullenville was built had been as wise in regard to human nature as to engineering, they would most undoubtedly have placed the post-office and the church side by side, and perhaps connected them with a covered passage.
On the 6th of August, 1867,—in matters like this it is well to be precise about the dates,—the usual genial assemblage was buzzing within the post-office walls. It is nearly five o'clock; the mail is well-nigh sorted. Hark!—the delivery-door is thrown open with a click-clack, and up surge the people like a wave, breaking against the door, and thence flowing off in a lengthened stream to the post-office entrance, and so out upon the steps, on which those who emerge first stand to watch the exit of those who come after. Among the former we notice at once the elegant figure of an aristocratic young fellow, with a handsome, enterprising countenance, and easy, confident bearing. Who is he? Why, young Ned Holland, from Cambridge, who has been sent up here to rusticate, having been detected in the execution of some tremendous practical joke upon the faculty. He is a talented, audacious sort of chap, popular among both men and women,—for there is a large amount of pure romance mingled with his composition, and an impetuosity and fertility of thought and action such as girls always like, and men too, unless they happen to be jealous. By the way, Sam Gumple, the town beau, hates Ned Holland with a deadly hatred, which logically proves him jealous; and, even as we speak, behold the cause!
Sweet, pretty, delicious little Nellie Swansdown is coming rosily out of the post-office door, and Sam Gumple, in an immature frock-coat and red-and-white check neck-tie, is stalking beside her, paying her compliments fragrant with the perfume of corned-beef, cabbage, and pomade. As they step out into the open air, Sam crooks his elbow and remarks, with a touch of that humor which he has made his own:—
"Now, then! hook on to my handle, Nell!"
It would be hard to say just how it was done. Nothing could have been neater, quicker, more complete. There was a graceful, rapid movement, a stern, decided "Stand aside, sir!" a gentle, caressing "Allow me, Miss Swansdown!"—and there stood Sam, alone, his face contorted with fury, mortification, conscious defeat; and moving away, arm-in-arm, a perfect picture of confiding affection on one side and loving protection on the other, the well-matched figures of Ned Holland and Nellie Swansdown. Nobody could help chuckling and feeling jolly about it: and Sam Gumple got no sympathy at all, either from the girls (for had he not neglected them for Nellie?), or from the boys (for was he not always bragging about the "gals that were sweet on" him?—and all the time it wasn't that they were sweet on him, but that their thrifty fathers and mothers were sweet on his bank account). So everybody looked with complacency on Sam's discomfiture, while the bold and successful young collegian was the favorite of the hour.
It is not necessary to go back and give a reason for all this; it is easy enough to imagine how, during the month of Ned Holland's presence in Mullenville, beauty and valor and prettiness and sweetness had mutually and irresistibly attracted each other, to the abandonment and oblivion of all beside; how, the day before the incident we have witnessed, the loving explanation had taken place, and Sam Gumple's final overthrow been agreed upon. No use going into the particulars of all that; what is to come is matter of even greater moment.