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144 pages, Hardcover
First published January 1, 1925
On my way out, I decided that it was not the thing to leave Luna Park without even trying a single amusement. They were all the same to me, and I began a melancholy slinging of rings at the twirling figures of dolls.
Up until one o’clock, typewriters chatter, jacketless people sweat, columns of figures lengthen on paper.
At one o’clock comes a break: an hour for the office workers, and fifteen minutes for the laborers.
Lunch.
Everyone’s lunch is dependent on the weekly wage. The fifteen-dollar people buy a dry snack in a paper bag for a nickel and munch away with the full zest of youth.
The thirty-five-a-week lot go to a huge mechanized eating point. Having shoved in their five cents, they press a knob, and an exactly measured quantity of coffee splashes out into a cup. And for another two or three nickels they can open one of the little glass doors to the sandwiches on the huge shelves piled with comestibles.
The sixty-dollar types eat gray pancakes with golden syrup and eggs in the countless Childses-Rockefeller cafés—as white as any bathroom.
The hundred-dollar-and-plus people go to restaurants of all the nationalities—Chinese, Russian, Assyrian, French, Hindu—anywhere except the tasteless American ones which guarantee you gastritis with Armour tinned meat that’s been lying around almost since the War of Independence.