"That makes no difference, no difference whatever," replied the clerk
with the importance and obtuseness of the bureaucrat. "The ordinance
requires that there be a stall for one."
Another of the thousand instances of official barbarity was perpetrated
at our expense while Sanchez de Toca was Alcalde. This gentleman is a
Siamese twin of Maura's when it comes to garrulousness and muddy
thinking, and he had resolved to do away with the distribution of bread
by public delivery, and to license only deliveries by private bakeries.
The order was arbitrary enough, but the manner in which it was put into
effect was a masterpiece. It was reported that plates bearing license
numbers would be given out at the _Ayuntamiento_ to the delivery
men from the bakeries. So we repaired to the _Ayuntamiento_ and
questioned a clerk:
"Where do they give out the numbers?
"There are no numbers."
"What will happen tomorrow then, when we make our deliveries?"
"How do I know?"
The next day when the delivery men began their rounds, a policeman
accosted them:
"Have you your numbers?"
"No, sir; they are not ready yet."
"Well, come with me then, to the police station."
And that was the last of our bread.
The Caid of Mechuar in Morocco favoured his subjects in some such
fashion several years since, but the Moors, being men of spirit, fell on
him one day, and left him at death's door on a dung heap.
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