The cunning and the strong would secure the best cards.

The weak and courteous be left with pictures of post offices and railway stations.

Torn and dishevelled, the crowd would rush back to the hotel, sweep crockery from the table, and--sucking stumpy pencils--write feverishly.

A hurried meal would follow.

Then the horses would be put to again, the German tourists would climb back to their places and be driven away, asking of the coachman what the name of the place they had just left might happen to be.
The Postcard as a Family Curse.
One presumes that even to the patient German the thing grew tiresome.