Now!  The church clock had struck one.  Barring accidents, the cart was at its goal; and in imagination he saw the junction as clearly as if he had been standing at Perkins’ elbow.  There was the train for London already arrived—­steam rising in a straight jet from the engine, guard and porter with lanterns, and a flood of orange light streaming from the open doors of the noble Post Office coach.  Perkins hands in his up bag, receives a bag in exchange, and half his task is done.  Forty minutes to wait before he can perform the other half of it.  Then, having passed over the metals with the cart, he will attend to the down train; hand in his other bag, receive the London bag; and, as soon as the people in the signal-box will release the crossing-gates, he may come home.

Dale knew now that he would not sleep until the cart returned.

When the church clock struck the half-hour after two, he lay straining his ears to catch the sound of the horse’s hoofs.  Finally it came to him, immensely remote, a rhythmic plod, plod, plod.  Then in a few more minutes the cart was at rest under his window again; they were taking in the bags; bolts shot into their fastenings, a key turned in a lock, and the clerk went back to bed at the top of the house.  All was over now.  Nothing more would happen until the other clerk came down in a couple of hours’ time, until the bags were opened, until Ridgett came yawning from his hired bedroom at the saddler’s across the street, and the new day’s work began.  And Dale would be shut out of the work—­a director who might not even assist, a master superseded, a general under arrest in the midst of his army.

He gulped and grew hot.  “By Jupiter!  I’ll have to tell them what I think of them up there, and please the pigs!”

Then he remembered the pleadings of his wife.  She had implored him to keep a tight hold of himself; and in fairness to her he must exercise discretion.  She and he were one.  With extraordinary tenderness he mentally framed the words that by custom he employed when speaking of her.  “She is the wife of my boosum.”

For a little while he calmed himself by thinking only of her.  Then, tossing and turning and perspiring again, he began to think of his whole life, seeing it as a pageant full of wonder and pathos.  Holy Jupiter! how hard it had been at its opening!  Everything against him—­just a lout among the woodside louts, an orphan baited and lathered by a boozy stepfather, a tortured animal that ran into the thickets for safety, a thing with scarce a value or promise inside it except the little flame of courage that blows could not extinguish!  And yet out of this raw material he had built up the potent, complex, highly-dowered organism known to the world as Mr. Dale of Rodchurch.  There was the pride and glory—­from such a start to have reached so magnificent a position.  But he could not have done it—­not all of it—­without Mavis.