experienced friend.

At last the wicket is suddenly opened. A peremptory official demands of
him "name and address." Not expecting the question, he is a little
doubtful of his address, and has to correct himself once or twice. The
official eyes him suspiciously.

"Name of mother?" continues the official.

"Name of what?"

"Mother!" repeats the official. "Had a mother of some sort, I suppose."

He is a man who loved his mother sincerely while she lived, but she has
been dead these twenty years, and, for the life of him he cannot
recollect her name. He thinks it was Margaret Henrietta, but is not at
all sure. Besides, what on earth has his mother got to do with this
registered letter that he wants to send to his partner in New York?

"When did it die?" asks the official.

"When did what die? Mother?"

"No, no, the child."

"What child?" The indignation of the official is almost picturesque.

"All I want to do," explains your friend, "is to register a letter."

"A what?"

"This letter, I want--"

The window is slammed in his face. When, ten minutes later he does reach
the right wicket--the bureau for the registration of letters, and not the
bureau for the registration of infantile deaths--it is pointed out to him
that the letter either is sealed or that it is not sealed.

I have never been able yet to solve this problem. If your letter is
sealed, it then appears that it ought not to have been sealed.

If, on the other hand, you have omitted to seal it, that is your fault.
In any case, the letter cannot go as it is. The continental official
brings up the public on the principle of the nurse who sent the eldest
girl to see what Tommy was doing and tell him he mustn't. Your friend,
having wasted half an hour and mislaid his temper for the day, decides to
leave this thing over and talk to the hotel porter about it. Next to the
Burgomeister, the hotel porter is the most influential man in the
continental town: maybe because he can swear in seven different
languages. But even he is not omnipotent.

The Traveller's one Friend.

Three of us, on the point of starting for a walking tour through the
Tyrol, once sent on our luggage by post from Constance to Innsbruck. Our
idea was that, reaching Innsbruck in the height of the season, after a
week's tramp on two flannel shirts and a change of socks, we should be
glad to get into fresh clothes before showing ourselves in civilized
society. Our