'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.' 'A damned bad way, let me tell you. I advise you to get out of it.' 'I'm sorry--' 'So you should be.' And the tradesman walked off, only half appeased. Mr. Farmiloe could have shed tears in his mortification, and for some minutes he stood looking at a bottle of laudanum, wishing he had the courage to have done with life. Plainly he could not live very long unless things improved. His ready money was coming to an end, rents and taxes loomed before him. An awful thought of bankruptcy haunted him in the early morning hours. The most frequent visitor to the post-office was a well-dressed, middle-aged man, who spoke civilly, and did his business in the fewest possible words. Mr. Farmiloe rather liked the look of him, and once or twice made conversational overtures, but with no encouraging result. One day, feeling bolder than usual the chemist ventured to speak what he had in mind. After supplying the grave gentleman with stamps and postal-orders, he said, in a tone meant to be conciliatory-- 'I don't know whether you ever have need of mineral waters, sir?' 'Why, yes, sometimes. My ordinary tradesman supplies them.' 'I thought I'd just mention that I keep them in stock.' 'Ah--thank you--' 'I've noticed,' went on the luckless apothecary, his bosom heaving with a sense of his wrongs, 'that you're a pretty large customer of the post-office, and it seems to me'--he meant to speak jocosely--'that it would be only fair if you gave _me_ a turn now and then. I get next to nothing out of _this_, you know. I should be much obliged if you--' The man of few words was looking at him, half in surprise, half in indignation, and when the chemist blundered into silence he spoke:-- 'I really have nothing to do with that. As a matter of fact, I was on the point of making a little purchase in your shop, but I decidedly object to this kind of behaviour, and shall make my purchase elsewhere.' He strode solemnly into the street, and Mr. Farmiloe, unconscious of all about him, glared at vacancy. Whether from the angry tradesman, or from some lady with whom Mr. Farmiloe had been abrupt, a complaint did presently reach the postal authorities, with the result that an official called at the chemist's shop. The interview was unpleasant. It happened that Mr. Farmiloe (not for the first time) had just then allowed himself to run out of certain things always in demand by the public--halfpenny stamps, for instance. 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--'