first time he goes out to post a letter, say. He
advances towards the post-office a breezy, self-confident gentleman,
borne up by pride of race. While mounting the steps he talks airily of
"just getting this letter off his mind, and then picking up Jobson and
going on to Durand's for lunch."

He talks as if he had the whole day before him. At the top of the steps
he attempts to push open the door. It will not move. He looks about
him, and discovers that is the door of egress, not of ingress. It does
not seem to him worth while redescending the twenty steps and climbing
another twenty. So far as he is concerned he is willing to pull the
door, instead of pushing it. But a stern official bars his way, and
haughtily indicates the proper entrance. "Oh, bother," he says, and down
he trots again, and up the other flight.

"I shall not be a minute," he remarks over his shoulder. "You can wait
for me outside."

But if you know your way about, you follow him in. There are seats
within, and you have a newspaper in your pocket: the time will pass more
pleasantly. Inside he looks round, bewildered. The German post-office,
generally speaking, is about the size of the Bank of England. Some
twenty different windows confront your troubled friend, each one bearing
its own particular legend. Starting with number one, he sets to work to
spell them out. It appears to him that the posting of letters is not a
thing that the German post-office desires to encourage. Would he not
like a dog licence instead? is what one window suggests to him. "Oh,
never mind that letter of yours; come and talk about bicycles," pleads
another. At last he thinks he has found the right hole: the word
"Registration" he distinctly recognizes. He taps at the glass.

Nobody takes any notice of him. The foreign official is a man whose life
is saddened by a public always wanting something. You read it in his
face wherever you go. The man who sells you tickets for the theatre! He
is eating sandwiches when you knock at his window. He turns to his
companion:

"Good Lord!" you can see him say, "here's another of 'em. If there has
been one man worrying me this morning there have been a hundred. Always
the same story: all of 'em want to come and see the play. You listen
now; bet you anything he's going to bother me for tickets. Really, it
gets on my nerves sometimes."

At the railway station it is just the same.

"Another man who wants to g