When, by rare luck, he had a prescription to dispense (the hideous
scrawl of that pestilent Dr. Bunker) in came somebody with letters and
parcels which he was requested to weigh; and his hand shook so with rage
that he could not resume his dispensing for the next quarter of an hour.
People asked extraordinary questions, and were surprised, offended, when he
declared he could not answer them. When could a letter be delivered at a
village on the north-west coast of Ireland? Was it true that the
Post-Office contemplated a reduction of rates to Hong-Kong? Would he
explain in detail the new system of express delivery? Invariably he
betrayed impatience, and occasionally he lost his temper; people went away
exclaiming what a _horrid man_ he was!
'Mr. What's-your-name,' said a shopkeeper one day, after receiving a short
answer, 'I shall make it my business to complain of you to the
Postmaster-General. I don't come here to be insulted.'
'Who insulted you?' returned Farmiloe like a sullen schoolboy.
'Why, you did. And you are always doing it.'
'I'm not.'
'You are.'
'If I did'--terror stole upon the chemist's heart--'I didn't mean it, and
I--I'm sure I apologise. It's a way I have.
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