To be sure, he puts my temper on the rack by standing with his hands in his pockets, or by looking meek, or, likely as not, peering into the shop-door after me with great staring eyes and parted lips; and this is the most provoking of all. If there is anything vulgar, slipshod, and shiftless, it is a man lounging about with his hands in his pockets. If you have paws, stow them away; but if you are endowed with hands, learn to carry them properly, or else cut them off. Nor can I abide a man's looking as if he were under control. I want him to _be_ submissive, but I don't want him to look so. I want him to do just as he is bidden, but I want him to carry himself like the man and monarch he was made to be. I want him to stay where he is put, yet not as if he were put there, but as if he had taken his position deliberately. But, of all things, to have a man act as if he were a clod just emerged for the first time from his own barnyard! Upon this occasion, however, I was too much absorbed in my errand to note anybody's demeanor, and I threaded straightway the crowd of customers, went up to the counter, and inquired in a clear voice,-- "Have you lace nightcaps?" The clerk looked at me with a troubled, bewildered glance, and made no reply. I supposed he had not understood me, and repeated the question. Then he answered, dubiously,-- "We have breakfast-caps." It was my turn to look bewildered. What had I to do with breakfast-caps? What connection was there between my question and his answer? What field was there for any further inquiry? "Have you ox-bows?" imagine a farmer to ask. "We have rainbows," says the shopman. "Have you cameo-pins?" inquires the elegant Mrs. Jenkins. "We have linchpins." "Have you young apple-trees?" asks the nursery-man. "We have whiffle-trees." If I had wanted breakfast-caps, shouldn't I have asked for breakfast-caps? Or do the Boston people take their breakfast at one o'clock in the morning? I concluded that the man was demented, and marched out of the shop. When I laid the matter before Halicarnassus, the following interesting colloquy took place. I. "What do you suppose it meant?" H. "He took you for a North American Indian." I. "What do you mean?" H. "He did not understand your _patois_." I. "What _patois_?" H. "Your squaw dialect. You should have asked for a _bonnet de nuit_." I. "Why?" H. "People never talk about nightcaps in good society." I. "Oh!" I was very warm, and Halicarnassus said he was tired; so we went into a restaurant and ordered strawberries,--that luscious fruit, quivering on the border-land of ambrosia and nectar. "Doubtless," says honest, quaint, delightful Isaac,--and he never spoke a truer word,--"doubtless, God might have made a better berry than a strawberry, but, doubtless, God never did." The bill of fare rated their excellence at fifteen cents. "Not unreasonable," I pantomimed. "Not if I pay for them," replied Halicarnassus.