looking creatures crawled into the post-office and said they wanted
those three bags--"those bags, there in the corner"--which happened
to be nice, clean, respectable-looking bags, the sort of bags that
anyone might want. One of them produced a bit of paper, it is true,
which he said had been given to him as a receipt by the post-office
people at Constance. But in the lonely passes of the Tyrol one man,
set upon by three, might easily be robbed of his papers, and his body
thrown over a precipice. The chief clerk shook his head. He would
like us to return accompanied by someone who could identify us. The
hotel porter occurred to us, as a matter of course. Keeping to the
back streets, we returned to the hotel and fished him out of his box.

"I am Mr. J.," I said: "this is my friend Mr. B. and this is Mr. S."

The porter bowed and said he was delighted.

"I want you to come with us to the post-office," I explained, "and
identify us."

The hotel porter is always a practical man: his calling robs him of
all sympathy with the hide-bound formality of his compatriots. He
put on his cap and accompanied us back to the office. He did his
best: no one could say he did not. He told them who we were: they
asked him how he knew. For reply he asked them how they thought he
knew his mother: he just knew us: it was second nature with him.
He implied that the question was a silly one, and suggested that, as
his time was valuable, they should hand us over the three bags and
have done with their nonsense.

They asked him how long he had known us. He threw up his hands with