Except for the chaos of nationalities and types on the Zone,
enumerating would have become more than monotonous. But the
enumerated took care to break the monotony. There was the wealth
of nomenclature for instance. What more striking than a shining-
black waiter strutting proudly about under the name of Levi
McCarthy? There was no necessity of asking Beresford Plantaganet
if he were a British subject. Naturally the mother of Hazarmaneth
Cumberbath Smith, baptized that very week, had to claw out the
family Bible from among the bed-clothes and look up the name on
the fly-leaf.

To the enumerator, who must set down concise and exact answers to
each of his questions, fifty or sixty daily scenes and replies
something like these were delightful;

Enumerator (sitting down on the edge of a barrel): "How many
living in this room?"

Explosive laughter from the buxom, jet-black woman addressed.

Enumerator (on a venture): "What's the man's name?"

"He name 'Rasmus Iggleston."

"What's his metal-check number?"

"Lard, mahster, ah don' know he check number."

"Haven't you a commissary-book with it in?"