wall behind the stove
was suspended a wooden rack, black with age, its compartments holding
German, Austrian and Hungarian newspapers. Against the opposite wall
stood an ancient walnut mirror, and above it hung a colored print
of Bismarck, helmeted, uniformed, and fiercely mustached. The clumsy
iron-legged tables stood in two solemn rows down the length of the
narrow room. Three or four stout, blond girls plodded back and forth,
from tables to front shop, bearing trays of cakes and steaming cups of
coffee. There was a rumble and clatter of German. Every one seemed to
know every one else. A game of chess was in progress at one table, and
between moves each contestant would refresh himself with a long-drawn,
sibilant mouthful of coffee. There was nothing about the place or its
occupants to remind one of America. This dim, smoky, cake-scented cafe
was Germany.

"Time!" said Blackie. "Here comes Rosie to take our order. You can take
your choice of coffee or chocolate. That's as fancy as they get here."

An expansive blond girl paused at our table smiling a broad welcome at
Blackie.

"Wie geht's, Roschen?" he greeted her. Roschen's smile became still more
pervasive, so that her blue eyes disappeared in creases of good humor.
She wiped the marble table top with a large and careless gesture that
precipitated stray crumbs into our laps. "Gut!" murmured she, coyly, and
leaned one hand on a portly hip in an attitude of waiting.

"Coffee?" asked Blackie, turning to me. I nodded.

"Zweimal Kaffee?" beamed Roschen, grasping the idea.

"Now's your time to speak up," urged Blackie. "Go ahead an' order all
the cream gefillte things that looked good to you out in front."

But I leaned forward, lowering my voice discreetly. "Blackie, before I
plunge in too recklessly, tell me, are their prices very--"

"Sa-a-ay, child, you just can't spend half a dollar here if you try.
The flossiest kind of thing they got is only ten cents a order. They'll
smother you in whipped cream f'r a quarter. You c'n come in here an' eat
an' eat an' put away piles of cakes till you feel like a combination
of Little Jack Horner an' old Doc Johnson. An' w'en you're all through,
they hand yuh your check, an', say--it says forty-five cents. You can't
beat it, so wade right in an' spoil your complexion."

With enthusiasm I turned upon the patient Rosie. "O, bring me some of
those cunning little round things with the cream on 'em, you know--two
of those, eh