Fast Times

Mark Twain reflecting on the Federal Express of his day:

There was no idling time for a pony rider on duty. He rode fifty miles without stopping, by daylight, moonlight, starlight, or through the blackness of darkness – just as it happened. He rode a splendid horse that was born for a racer and fed and lodged like a gentleman; kept him at his utmost speed for ten miles, and then, as he came crashing up to the station where stood two men holding fast a fresh, impatient steed, the transfer of rider and mailbag was made in the twinkling of an eye, and away flew the eager pair and were out of sight before the spectator could get hardly the ghost of a look. Both rider and horse went “flying light.” The rider’s dress was thin, and fitted close; he wore a “roundabout,” and skull-cap, and tucked his pantaloons into his boot tops like a race rider. He carried no arms – he carried nothing that was not absolutely necessary, for even the postage on his literary freight was worth five dollars a letter.