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 ning; two or three people were getting out at a tiny station with blinking lights behind which was an unknown and foggy darkness. They told Prokop that he could only get to Tynice by a postwagon, if there was still room in it. The postwagon proved to consist of a coach-box behind which was a trough for packages, and the postman and some passenger or other had already taken their seats.

“Will you take me to Tynice, please?” said Prokop.

The postman shook his head in infinite dejection. “Can’t be done,” he answered after a moment.

“Why how is that?”

“There’s no more room,” said the postman, having considered the matter.

Tears of self-pity came into Prokop’s eyes. “How far is it on foot?”

The postman reflected sympathetically. “Well, an hour,” he said.

“But I can’t walk it! I’ve got to get to Dr. Thomas’s!” protested Prokop, crushed.

The postman thought for a moment. “Are you going  asa patient?”

“I feel bad,” mumbled Prokop; actually, he was trembling with weakness and fever.

The postman again considered the matter and shook his head. “But it can’t be done,” he said finally.

“If only you could make a little room”

On the coach-box there was no sound. The postman pulled at his beard; then, without saying a word, he got down, did something at the side and