The Quebec letters fly under their fingers and leap into
the docketed racks, while both captains and Mr. Geary satisfy
them selves that the coach is locked home. A clerk passes the
way-bill over the hatch coaming. Captain Purnall thumb-marks and
passes it to Mr. Geary. Receipt has been given and taken.
"Pleasant run," says Mr. Geary, and disappears through the door
which a foot high pneumatic compressor locks after him.
"A-ah!" sighs the compressor released. Our holding-down clips
part with a tang. We are clear.
Captain Hodgson opens the great colloid underbody porthole
through which I watch over-lighted London slide eastward as the
gale gets hold of us. The first of the low winter clouds cuts off
the well-known view and darkens Middlesex. On the south edge of
it I can see a postal packet's light ploughing through the white
fleece. For an instant she gleams like a star ere she drops
toward the Highgate Receiving Towers. "The Bombay Mail," says
Captain Hodgson, and looks at his watch. "She's forty minutes
late.
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