a fact. Just when he was beginning to
look about him with a new air of confidence, the solicitors who were
managing the little affair for him drily acquainted him with the fact that
his relative's will was contested by other kinsfolk whom the old woman had
passed over, on the ground that she was imbecile and incapable of
conducting her affairs. There followed a law-suit, which consumed many
months and cost a good deal of money; so that, though he won his case, Mr.
Farmiloe lost all satisfaction in his improved circumstances, and was only
more embittered against the world at large.

Then, no sooner had he purchased his business, than he learnt from smiling
neighbours that he had paid considerably too much for it. His predecessor,
beyond a doubt, would have taken very much less; had, indeed, been on the
point of doing so just when Mr. Farmiloe appeared. This kind of experience
is a trial to any man. It threw Mr. Farmiloe into a silent rage, with the
result that two or three customers who chanced to enter his shop declared
that they would never have anything more to do with such a surly creature.

And now began his torment--a form of exasperation peculiar to his dual
capacity of shopkeeper and manager of a post-office. All day long he stood
on the watch for customers--literally stood, now behind the counter, now in
front of it, his eager and angry eyes turning to the door whenever the
steps of a passer-by sounded without. If the door opened his nerves began
to tingle, and he straightened himself like a soldier at attention. For a
moment he suffered an agony of doubt. Would the person entering turn to the
counter or to the post-office? And seldom was his hope fulfilled; not one
in four of the people who came in was a genuine customer; the post-office,
always the post-office. A stamp, a card, a newspaper wrapper, a
postal-order, a letter to be registered--anything but an honest purchase
across the counter or the blessed tendering of a prescription to make up.
From vexation he passed to annoyance, to rage, to fury; he cursed the
post-office, and committed to eternal perdition the man who had waxed
eloquent upon its advantages.

Of course, he had hired an errand-boy, and never had errand-boy so little
legitimate occupation. Resolved not to pay him for nothing, Mr. Farmiloe
kept him cleaning windows, washing bottles, and the like, until the lad
fairly broke into rebellion. If this was the sort of work he was engaged
for he mus