Tables and diners loomed up at every turn, on every street, from
Michigan Avenue's rose-shaded Louis the Somethingth palaces, where
every waiter owns his man, to the white tile mausoleums where every
man is his own waiter. Everywhere there were windows full of lemon
cream pies, and pans of baked apples swimming in lakes of golden
syrup, and pots of baked beans with the pink and crispy slices of
pork just breaking through the crust. Every dairy lunch mocked one
with the sign of "wheat cakes with maple syrup and country sausage,
20 cents."
There are those who will say that for cases like Jennie's
there are soup kitchens, Y. W. C. A.'s, relief associations,
policemen, and things like that. And so there are. Unfortunately,
the people who need them aren't up on them. Try it. Plant
yourself, penniless, in the middle of State Street on a busy day,
dive into the howling, scrambling, pushing maelstrom that hurls
itself against the mountainous and impregnable form of the crossing
policeman, and see what you'll get out of it, provided you have the
courage.
Desperation gave Jennie a false courage. On the strength of
it she made two false starts. The third time she reached the arm
of the crossing policeman, and clutched it. That imposing giant
removed the whistle from his mouth, and majestically inclined his
head without turning his gaze upon Jennie, one eye being fixed on
a red automobile that was showing signs of sulking at its enforced
pause, the other being busy with a cursing drayman who was having
an argument with his off horse.
Pages:
100
101
102
103
104
105
106
107
108
109
110
111
112
113
114
115
116
117
118
119
120
121
122
123
124