It doesn't really matter, anyway. The fact
is enough. If you really demand to know you might inquire of Mr.
Felix Klein. You will find him in a mahogany office on the sixth
floor. The door is marked manager. It was his idea to import
Scotch lassies from Dunfermline for his Scotch linen department.
The idea was more fetching than feasible.
There are people who will tell you that no girl possessing a
grain of common sense and a little nerve need go hungry, no matter
how great the city. Don't you believe them. The city has heard
the cry of wolf so often that it refuses to listen when he is
snarling at the door, particularly when the door is next door.
Where did we leave Jennie? Still standing on the sidewalk
before the fruit and fancy goods shop, gazing at the maymeys from
Cuba. Finally her Scotch bump of curiosity could stand it no
longer. She dug her elbow into the arm of the person standing next
in line.
"What are those?" she asked.
The next in line happened to be a man. He was a man without
an overcoat, and with his chin sunk deep into his collar, and his
hands thrust deep into his pockets. It looked as though he were
trying to crawl inside himself for warmth.
"Those? That sign says they're maymeys from Cuba."
"I know," persisted Jennie, "but what are they?"
"Search me.
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