Scene laid in District Grocery Store on Rhode Island Ave. The proprietor was arranging a display of food in his window, and among other things there was a flat square tray, divided into several compartments, in which were several items, including about 7 or 8 tomatoes; one compartment with ice cubes; and another with a dingy dish rag and some dirty dish water. The proprietor has a small cardboard sign reading "7c," attached to a sharpened wire, which he intends to stick in one of the tomatoes. He fears, however, that the sign will obscure people's view of some of the other articles on display, and asks me to go outside, look at the sign, and give him my opinion. I ask whether a sign is to be stuck into each tomato and he answers (somewhat impatiently) "No, no, only one." I therefore go outside, get down on my hands and knees on the cement sidewalk, and examine the display. (Only by thus prostrating myself can I properly judge the effect of the sign). My conclusion is that the sign, if properly placed, will not perceptibly obscure any other article -- in fact, it could be made to serve a useful purpose by largely concealing the dish rags and the dirty water which are more or less of an eye sore. I then go inside, intending to introduce my statement with the apothegm "Every loss has its compensation" and explain that though the sign may conceivably slightly obscure something in the window, covering of the dish water will more than compensate; in addition, all customers like to see the price of an article plainly shown, and here too the sing will act as an aid to salesmanship. I look around for the proprietor to tell him all this, even though it is clear that he is opposed to using the sign. He is now busy with a customer, and I am unable to find a convenient opening, and I debate myself whether or not to interrupt his conversation. It seems to me that it is proper for me to interrupt, as in cases of this kind it would be very unlikely that he would ask me for my opinion a second time -- i.e., custom decrees that I should speak my piece without additional request.  As I approach closer to him, I see that he is not the groceryman at all but Mr. Haas, the hardware man (the stout one of the 2 Haases). He is busy explaining to a customer how to repair a spray which the latter holds under one arm. The customer is a rather old man, judging by his scrawny, corded neck (I see him only from behind), but is spry enough. The spray consists of an egg shaped "body," jet black in color, about size of a large watermelon; from one end extends a short rubber tube with some sort of a brass piece (?nozzle) at distal end. There is a "fizzing" sound, caused by the leakage of air and liquid through the end of tube, and I am concerned lest the liquid should squirt on to my clothes.