* * * * *

GENERAL POST.

Everything was just as usual. I caught my tram at the corner of the street.
It was the six o'clock car--I noticed the usual evening crowd, and they
were all as bored and cross and frigid as usual.

The old gentleman of the whiskers was, as usual, reading his evening paper.
He looked personally affronted as I sat down beside him. The elderly
relative--as I call her--was opposite to me. She had her small attaché-case
and her knitting as usual, and she made me feel at a glance that my face
bored her intolerably. For the rest, I saw the fat paterfamilias, the
wish-I-had-a-motor lady, the pert flapper and all the crew who travel with
dejected spirits to and fro on our suburban line.

So far all was in order. Then the conductress came round.

"Tuppenny," I murmured. "Albemarle Road."

"What's your town?" she asked, taking a pencil from behind her ear.

"Town? It's Albemarle Road I want."

"But what town do you choose for Post?" she asked. "You've all got to have
a town, you know. Don't make it too long. Hurry up! I've got to write you
all down, and it's time to begin."

"Pontresina," I gasped wildly. That seemed to be the only town I had ever