The clerk made a polite gesture, asking Rex to wait until he had finished telegraphing. At that moment the postillion’s horn heralded the coming of the mail coach, and that meant the speedy arrival of the last western train. Rex forgot Sir Griffin and strolled over to the post office to watch the distribution of the letters and to get his own.
A great deal of flopping and pounding seemed to be required as a preliminary to postal distribution. First the mail bags seemed to be dragged all over the floor, then came a long series of thumps while the letters were stamped, finally the slide was raised and a face the color of underdone pie crust, with little angry eyes, appeared. The owner had a new and ingenious insult for each person who presented himself. The Tweelers were utterly routed and went away not knowing whether there were any letters for them or not. Several valets and ladies’ maids exchanged lively but ineffectual compliments with the face in the post office window. Then came Sir Griffin. Rex looked on with interest. What the ill-natured brute behind the grating said, Rex couldn’t hear, but Sir Griffin burst out with a roar, “Damnation!” that made everybody jump. Then he stuck his head as far as he could get it in at the little window and shouted—in fluent German, awfully pronounced—“Here! You! It’s enough that you’re so stupid you don’t know what you’re about. Don’t you try to be impudent too! Hand me those letters!” The official bully handed them over without a word.
Rex took advantage of the lull and stepped to the window. “Any letters for Mr Gethryn?”
“How you spell him?” Rex spelled him.
“Yet once again!” demanded the intelligent person. Rex wrote it in English and in German script.
“From Trauerbach—yes?”
“Yes.”
The man went away, looked through two ledgers, sent for another, made out several sets of blanks, and finally came back to the window, but said nothing.
“Well?” said Rex, pleasantly.
“Well,” said the man.