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“Whatever happens, Whiskers, the Post Office goes on,” said the lad proudly. “No bit of an earthquake can alter that.”

The aproned individual turned to smile upon the lad. He was a corpulent man who had lost his home and his razor in the disaster, and he seemed little troubled thereby. The recent beard, which earned him his soubriquet, grew in small patches of varied tints and was a marvel to behold.

“They’ve been stringing you, son,” he grinned. “Who learned you that piece of poetry?”

“It’s the slogan of the service, Whiskers.”

“Is it? You don’t say! Well, the Post Office can keep on going on, son. I don’t know any James ’Arley—or Harley—in this town; and I know most of the people what’s left in it.”

He turned to his blackboard again.

“’Ow do you spell ‘lentils’?” he asked.

“What are lentils?”

“Just lentils. ’Alf-brothers to split peas.”

“Well, put ‘peas.’”

“Boy,” chided the writer severely, “this ain’t a cheap eating ’ouse. All society comes ’ere with their little tin plates. We’ve got to be posh, boy, posh. It’s got to be lentils.”

“Here. Give me the chalk.”

The lad took the chalk and wrote “Pax Vobiscum” on the line devoted to soup; and, having written, he departed hurriedly.

The aproned individual understood neither the words nor the allusion.

“Hm!” he mused, squinting at the bold script. “We’re getting a bit uppish when we ’as our menus in French. No wonder the Post Office keeps going on.”

He wiped out the words with his apron and wrote “Pea.”

****

James Harley was on the hill.