"I think you will find me a hard brick," I replied, at a venture, for I had no idea of the technical significance of the terms he used.
"Capital! That's a Chicago brick. Did you come from the country?"
"I came from St. Louis."
"Capital, still! You don't smell of mullein and cornstalks. Here's a good pen. Just enter these items, and give me a bill of them," he rattled on, taking a memorandum book from his side pocket. "A Chicago brick! That's the brick for me."
I took the pen, and stood at the desk.
"I can break you in before Whippleton gets here. Now, charge, F. P. Moleuschott—got that down?"
"Yes."
"Capital! The point of your pen is greasy. But I'll bet a quarter you didn't spell the man's name right," he added, looking at the page of the sales book where I had entered it. "'Pon my word you did, though! These Dutchmen's names bothered me so that I used to get almost choked to death before I could speak one of them."
I had always been a diligent student of the literature of the sign-boards, and I was tolerably familiar even with German proper names. It is a good plan for a young man who is going into business to read the signs in the streets as he passes along.
Mr. Land Limpedon rattled off a long bill of small items, and jumbled in the technical terms of the trade, with the evident intention of bothering me; but I was posted, and did not have to ask him to repeat a single item. I entered the charge, and made out the bill.