give even an approximately complete
inventory of the representative places of the Village. I have had to
content myself with some dozen or so examples,--recorded almost
haphazard, for the most part, but as I believe, more or less typical,
take them all in all, of the Village eating place in its varied and
rather curious manifestations.

Then there is a charming shop presided over by a pretty girl with the
inevitable smock and braided hair, where tea is served in order to
entice you to buy carved and painted trifles.

And then there is, or was, the place kept by Polly's brother, which
was heartlessly raided by the police, and much maligned, not to say
libelled, by the newspapers.

And then there was and is the "Hell Hole." Its ancient distinction
used to be that it was one of the first cheap Bohemian places where
women could smoke, and that it was always open. When all the other
resorts closed for the night you repaired to the "Hell Hole." As to
the smoking, it has taken a good while for New York to allow its
Bohemian women this privilege, though society leaders have enjoyed it
for ages. We all know that though most fashionable hotels permitted
their feminine guests to smoke, the Haymarket of dubious memory always
tabooed the custom to the bitter end!

The "Hell Hole" has always stoutly approved of cigarettes, so all
honour to it! And many a happy small-hours party has brought up there
to top off the night in peace without having to keep an eye on the
clock.

There is a little story told about one of these restaurants of which I
have been writing--never mind which. A visiting Englishman on his way
from his boat to his hotel dropped in at a certain place for a drink.
He found the company congenial and drifted into a little game which
further interested him. It was a perfectly straight game, and he was a
perfectly good sport. He stayed there two weeks. No: I shall _not_
state what the place was. But I think the story is true.

Personally, I don't blame the Englishman. Even shorn of the charm of a
game of chance, there is many a place in Greenwich Village which might
easily capture a susceptible temperament--not merely for weeks, but
for years!

The last of the tea shops is the "Wigwam," in which, take note, it is
the Indian game that is played. Its avowed aim is "Tea and Dancing,"
and it is exceedingly proud of its floor. It lives in the second story
of what, for over fifty years, has been the old Sheridan Square