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.” [Illustration: “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. 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.