My stars! It occurred to me then that I myself was number one thousand two hundred and thirty-two.
Before I had time to reprove the impudent lad, the passenger, who was quite blue in the face, began to fly at me.
“Look ye here,” he cried in a loud voice, “it’s likely you left your ears at home! Here I’ve been standing an hour injuring my lungs by yelling out your confounded number!”
I was trembling with rage. “Sir,” I said, inclining my head to him from my box, “I must politely request you to address me in a more befitting manner!”
“I don’t want any of your impudence,” bellowed the azure-hued merchant. “It’s your business to prick up your ears, that’s all; and if you don’t do it, I’ll ask you to accompany me to the police-station!”
My blood was boiling with indignation, and, what was worse, I dared not reply, for fear my language would betray me.
“Boys, fetch my things!” the merchant called out to the lads who were clustering about, and all the trunks, handbags, and bandboxes were set in motion.
Meanwhile my colleagues—as many of them as had not driven away—gathered about us, and I now heard my fill of the peculiarities of the Berlin vernacular that I had previously longed for.
“Better put your spectacles on your ears, so you’ll hear better,” cried one.
I tried to keep silent—but could I let such a brutal speech pass unchallenged? “It is very bad taste,” I replied with dignity, “to reproach a person for physical infirmities; if my near-sightedness enjoins the necessity of wearing spectacles——”