nine o'clock
At nine o'clock of a gusty winter night I stood on the lower stages of one of the G. P. O. outward mail towers . My purpose was a run to Quebec in `` Postal Packet 162 or such other as may be appointed '' ; and the Postmaster-General himself countersigned the order . This talisman opened all doors , even those in the despatching-caisson at the foot of the tower , where they were delivering the sorted Continental mail . The bags lay packed close as herrings in the long gray under-bodies which our G. P. O. still calls `` coaches . ''