that fusty, dingy little cafe came upon me.

A huge stove glowed red in one corner. On
the 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