From both sides of the street peeped the famous Jewish noses. The second-hand clothing shops parade. How droll to see those noses shrivelling like a lobster!
Madge’s father owns a despicable restaurant with only four eating tables. Mamma cooks, while she sits on the counter.
When I appeared, she shot out, greeting me: “Hello, Morning Glory!”
“Awfully glad to see you! I have come to help you, haven’t I?”
I was ready to strip off my jacket and wind myself in her apron.
Her papa was dumbfounded by my sudden action.
The outside board with the bill of fare was scraped out by this morning’s rain. It looked as miserable as an Italian vegetable wagon under the rain.
My first work was to rewrite it.
I saw a Jew at a neighbouring door striving with one about the value of pants. A shoemaker’s “pan, pan” hammered on my head from the opposite house.
Mission Street is the street of horse-dung.