There is the post-office," and it seemed that I
had hardly escaped collision with it. But this was the beginning, not
the end, of my troubles. When I showed my card to the _poste restante_
clerk, he went carefully through the letters bearing the initial of my
name and denied that there was any for me. We entered into reciprocally
bewildering explanations, and parted altogether baffled. Then, at the
hotel, I consulted with a capable young office-lady, who tardily
developed a knowledge of English, and we agreed that it would be well to
send the _chico_ to the post-office for it. The _chico,_ corresponding
in a Spanish hotel to a _piccolo_ in Germany or a page in England, or
our own now evanescing bell-boy, was to get a _peseta_ for bringing me
the letter. He got the _peseta,_ though he only brought me word that the
axithorities would send the letter to the hotel by the postman that
night. The authorities did not send it that night, and the next morning
I recurred to my bankers. There, on my entreaty for some one who could
meet my Spanish at least half-way in English, a manager of the bank came
out of his office and reassured me concerning the letter which I had now
begun to imagine the most important I had ever missed. Even while we
talked the postman came in and owned having taken the letter back to the
office.
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