One day an admirer approached Harte under this very misapprehension. "My dear Mr. Harte," she raved, "I am so delighted to meet you. I want to tell you how much I loved reading 'Little Breeches.'"
"Thank you, madam," Harte replied, "but I have to tell you that you have put the little breeches on the wrong man!"
["Harte, in a mild and colorless way, was that kind of man," Mark Twain once declared. "That is to say he was a man without a country; no, not a man -- man is to strong a term; he was an invertebrate without a country."]