“Can you give me some paper,” I said, “to wrap them up in?”
The sausage-man looked at me in surprise. “Bless my buttons,” he said,—“paper?”
I perceived that I was betraying myself. So I turned quickly away, and seeing the policeman at that moment, I handed him my check. Then I scrambled up on the box once more, and devoured the sausages. I thereupon moved into a corner of the box, wrapped myself up close in my mantle, and fell asleep. A tremendous uproar awoke me. The train had arrived; the cabs from the right and left were set in rattling motion; in the portico stood a man bellowing, “One thousand two hundred and thirty-two,” at the top of his voice. He seemed to have been occupied in this way for some time, for his face was purple with the exertion.
“Very good,” I said, smiling to myself; “there is a passenger who can’t find his cab; probably it will come to an altercation between him and the driver, and some of the most characteristic of Berlin phrases and expressions will come to light. Novelist, prick up your ears; don’t let anything escape you.”
“IN THE PORTICO STOOD A MAN BELLOWING, ‘ONE THOUSAND TWO HUNDRED AND THIRTY-TWO!’”
“One thousand two hundred and thirty-two!” called out the man once more. I looked at him closely; he seemed to be a travelling merchant; a medley of trunks, bandboxes, and travelling-bags were lying about him on the ground.
I looked about me smiling. “One thousand two hundred and thirty-two seems to be sleeping as sweetly as need be,” I said to myself.
At that moment a voice struck my ear: “Twelve thirty-two—what’s the matter, old noodle-head? Are you sitting on your ears?”
Quick as a flash I turned around. One of the small boys that hang around stations to help passengers find their cabs had pulled open the door of my cab.