eight o'clock
One evening Phil sat in the sorting-room of the General Post-Office with his hand to his head -- for the eight o'clock mail was starting ; his head , eyes , and hands had been unusually active during the past two hours , and when the last bundle of letters dropped from his fingers into the mail-bags , head , eyes , and hands were aching . A row of scarlet vans was standing under a platform , into which mail-bags , apparently innumerable , were being shot . As each of these vans received its quota it rattled off to its particular railway station , at the rate which used , in the olden time , to be deemed the extreme limit of `` haste , haste , post haste . '' The yard began to empty when eight o'clock struck . A few seconds later the last of the scarlet vans drove off ; and about forty tons of letters , etcetera , were flying from the great centre to the circumference of the kingdom . Phil still sat pressing the aching fingers to the aching head and eyes , when he was roused by a touch on the shoulder . It was Peter Pax , who had also , by that time , worked his way upwards in the service .