for months. I said:

"You think I write these letters--these short stories, these three-
act plays--on purpose to annoy you. Do let me try to get the idea
out of your head. Personally, I hate work--hate it as much as you
do. This is a pleasant little town of yours: given a free choice, I
could spend the whole day mooning round it, never putting pen to
paper. But what am I to do? I have a wife and children. You know
what it is yourself: they clamour for food, boots--all sorts of
things. I have to prepare these little packets for sale and bring
them to you to send off. You see, you are here. If you were not
here--if there were no post-office in this town, maybe I'd have to
train pigeons, or cork the thing up in a bottle, fling it into the
river, and trust to luck and the Gulf Stream. But, you being here,
and calling yourself a post-office--well, it's a temptation to a
fellow."

I think it did good. Anyhow, after that he used to grin when I
opened the door, instead of greeting me as formerly with a face the
picture of despair. But to return to our inexperienced 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?"