In 1905 I was in Mexico. I had crossed the Atlantic in the warmth of summer, had travelled in tropical heat beneath banana trees in the South, and was to return to England in time for Christmas Day. I waited in Mexico City until the last minute, because I wanted to see General Diaz elected President for the seventh time. Then I remembered my big sledging coat was in London, and three thousand miles of the Atlantic had to be crossed in mid-winter, even after traversing as many more miles by land to reach New York. I wired for the coat to meet me in New York. Seven feet of snow lay piled along the sides of the streets of that city when I arrived, and chunks of ice floated down the Hudson, icicles hung from the sky-scrapers; everyone shivered out of doors, and baked, or rather stewed, inside the houses. “Where is my fur coat?” I asked. “It has not arrived,” was the answer. Distressed and surprised, I went off the next day to the Steamship Office to demand the coat. From White Star to Cunard, from Cunard to White Star, backwards and forwards I trudged. At last a package securely sewn up and sealed was found. Was that it? Really I could not say, as I had never seen the parcel before; but, as my name was on it, I presumed it was. Would the clerk kindly look inside and see if it was a blue cloth coat with a fur lining and sable collar? The clerk regretted, but he dared not open it, and suggested my filling in a sheet of paper. “Certainly, I would fill in anything to get my coat.” So I began. They have a way in America of asking the most irrelevant questions. Your age?—Parents?—Probable length of sojourn?—What illnesses have you had?—If you are a cripple?—What languages you speak?—and generally end up by enquiring of first-class passengers if they have ever been in prison. I answered reams of such-like questions, as far as I can remember; swore to all sorts of queer things, and against “Value” put forty or fifty pounds, which was what the coat had originally cost. The clerk took the paper, read it slowly through, appeared to juggle with figures, and then said calmly: “The duty will be twenty-three pounds!” ($115.) “The what?” I exclaimed. “The duty——” “What duty? It is a very old coat; it has been in Iceland, Lapland, Russia, and other countries with me, and it is not for sale. It is my own coat.” “I quite understand all that,” he replied, “but you said its value was forty or fifty pounds, and we charge sixty per cent on the value.” I nearly had a fit. I was sailing next day; I had no twenty-three pounds in cash to pay with, and I absolutely declined to disburse anything. He simply refused to disgorge. Deadlock.