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 must have higher wages; he wasn't over strong and his mother said he
must lead an open-air life--that was why he had taken the place. To be
bearded thus in his own shop was too much for Mr. Farmiloe, he seized the
opportunity of giving his wrath full swing, and burst into a frenzy of
vilification.
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