Moreover, his
accounts were not in perfect order. This, he had to hear, was emphatically
unbusinesslike, and, in brief, would not do.
'It shall not occur again, sir,' mumbled the unhappy man. 'But, if you
consider my position--'
'Mr. Farmiloe, allow me to tell you that this is a matter for your _own_
consideration, and no one else's.'
'True, sir, quite true. Still, when you come to think of it--I assure
you--'
'The only assurance I want is that the business of the post-office will be
properly attended to, and that assurance I must have. I shall probably call
again before long. Good morning.'
It was always with a savage satisfaction that Mr. Farmiloe heard the clock
strike eight on Saturday evening. His shop remained open till ten, but at
eight came the end of the post-office business. If, as happened, any one
entered five minutes too late, it delighted him to refuse their request.
These were the only moments in which he felt himself a free man. After
eating his poor supper, he smoked a pipe or two of cheap tobacco, brooding;
or he fingered the pages of his menacing account-books; or, very rarely, he
walked about the dark country roads, asking himself, with many a
tragi-comic gesture and ejaculation, why he could not get on like other
men.
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