osity 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. Say, I ain't bothering about maymeys from Cuba. A couple of
hot murphies from Ireland, served with a lump of butter, would look good
enough to me."

"Do you suppose any one buys them?" marveled Jennie.

"Surest thing you know. Some rich dame coming by here, wondering what
she can have for dinner to tempt the jaded palates of her dear ones, see?
She sees them Cuban maymeys. 'The very thing!' she says. 'I'll have 'em
served just before the salad.' And she sails in and buys a pound or two.
I wonder, now, do you eat 'em with a fruit knife, or with a spoon?"

Jennie took one last look at the woven basket with its foreign contents.
Then she moved on, slowly. She had been moving on for hours--weeks.

Most people have acquired the habit of eating three meals a day. In a
city of some few millions the habit has made necessary the establishing
of many thousands of eating places. Jennie would have told you that
there were billions of these. To her the world seemed composed of one
huge, glittering restaurant, with myriads of windows through which one
caught maddening glimpses of ketchup bottles, and nickel coffee heaters,
and piles of doughnuts, and scurrying waiters in white, and people
critically studying menu cards. She walked in a maze of restaurants,
cafes, eating-houses. 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, police