And carpers, to a certainty, do exist in Little Arcady.
One Westley Keyts, for example, lounging in the doorway of his meat-shop, renewed acquaintance with the wanderer, who remembered him as a glum-faced but not bad-hearted chap.

Names recalled and hands shaken, Mr.Keyts began to lament the simple ways of an elder day, glancing meanwhile with honest disapproval at a newly installed competitor across the street.

The shop itself was something of an affront, its gilt name more--"The Bon Ton Market." Mr.Keyts pronounced "Bon Ton" in his own fashion, but his contempt was ably and amply expressed.
"Sounds like one of them fancy names for a corset or a patent lamp," he complained.

"It's this here summer business that done it.

They swarm in here with their private hacks and their hired help all togged out till you'd think they was generals in the army, and they play that game of sissy-shinny (drop-the-handkerchief for mine, if _I_ got to play any such game), and they're such great hands to kite around nights when folks had ought to be in their beds.