“I dunno nothin’ ’bout that,” he grunted, flicking his whip.  “My orders was to drive you to Warren’s Copse.”

“I don’t care in the least what your orders were,” I answered.  “You can either go to the post-office or else you can go to the Devil.  There are plenty of other traps in Tilbury.”

He was evidently unused to this crisp style of dialogue, for after glaring at me for a moment in a sort of apoplectic amazement he jerked his horse round and proceeded slowly down the street.

“’Ave it yer own way,” he muttered.

“I intend to,” I said cheerfully.

We pulled up at the post-office, a large red-brick building in the main street, and leaving my disgruntled friend sitting in the trap, I jumped out and pushed open the swing door.  Except for an intelligent-looking clerk behind the counter the place was empty.

“Good-morning,” I said.  “I wonder if you could help me out of a slight difficulty about my letters?”

“What sort of a difficulty?” he inquired civilly.

“Well, for the next week or two,” I said, “I shall be living in a little hut on the marshes about two miles to the east from here, and quite close to the sea-wall.  I am making a few chemical experiments in connection with photography” (a most useful lie this), “and I’ve told my friends to write or send telegrams here—­to the post-office.  I wondered, if anything should come for me, whether you had a special messenger or any one who could bring it over.  I would be delighted to pay him his proper fee and give him something extra for his trouble.  My name is Nicholson—­Mr. James Nicholson.”

The man hesitated for a moment.  “I don’t think there will be any difficulty about that—­not if you leave written instructions.  I shall have to ask the postmaster when he comes in, but I’m pretty certain it will be all right.”

I thanked him, and after writing out exactly what I wanted done, I returned to my friend in the trap, who, to judge from his expression, did not appear to have benefited appreciably from my little lesson in patience and politeness.  Under the circumstances I decided to extend it.

“I am going across the street to get some things I want,” I observed.  “You can wait here.”

He made an unpleasant sound in his throat, which I think he intended for an ironical laugh.  “Wot you want’s a bus,” he remarked; “a bus an’ a bell an’ a ruddy conductor.”

I came quite close and looked up into his face, smiling.  “What you want,” I said quietly, “is a damned good thrashing, and if I have any more of your insolence I’ll pull you down out of the trap and give you one.”

I think something in my voice must have told him I was speaking the literal truth, for although his mouth opened convulsively it closed again without any audible response.

I strolled serenely across the road to where I saw an “Off-Licence.”  I had acted in an indiscreet fashion, but whatever happened I was determined to put up with no further rudeness from anybody.  I had had all the discourtesy I required during my three years in Princetown.