Evening journal., 1918-02-20
BY GEORGE RANDOLPH CHESTER
AND LILLIAN CHESTER.
1913

can realize the depth Of that calamity.
War bread had long since replaced
the flaky white buns and rolls and
various bakery delights in which the
French and their visitors reveled
alike, but there had been no com
plant. The pangs Of that deprivation
could be alleviated a nice little gateau
with the afternoon tea or coffee Now
what was TO be done
The tea hour was an institution and
the cake its bulwark Did Paris NOPE
and close its tearooms and cafes? No.
The Frenchman is very fond Of his
cafe. 10 is more than a feeding place /,
IL is a place for the meeting Of friends,
which is why luncheon needs an hour
and a half and dinner for two 10 two
and half hours. Not food occupies all
the time, but the indulgence Of a
pleasure which this nation Of all 9th
ers has not lost; the JOY Of converse
tion.
So Paris has its afternoon tea or
coffee just the same, and without
even a crust Of bread, makes up i'm
gaiety what it lacks in cakes
"Mais, oui, c'est la guerre"
It is the war That Is the catch-word
OF Paris; one hears IL everywhere 1t Is
the excuse for everything, particularly
for a deprivation.
The next place we heard it was at
dinner, when the lights winked at 9i5.
There came an immediate lull in the
chatting vivacity. 70 was at that de-
lightful coffee period Of the dinner,
when the long cigars are lighted, and
the human system is full Of peace, and
the conversation. however serious IL
might have been before, turns TO droll-
cry.
For a moment after the lights wink
ed, there was a silence almost glum,
then the shrug Of the shoulders and
the cheerful smile. Checks were paid,
wraps were donned, and chatter was
resumed as we all filed out.
At $50 every dinner place in town
was empty-for gendarmes stood at
the door to see that they We're cmpl~
Outside we met our friend, the lanky
American, and he was grouped defect
edly with three Of the boys, wondering
what next to do.
Hello" we hailed him. How do
you like Gay P'ree?"
"Why, this is the most respectable
town on earthl" he complained. We've
just been up TO the Monimartre, and
It's dead as a doornail. I guess the
town isn't what it used TO be. It's the
war"
"Yes," was the admission. "The war
hasn't stopped gay Paris, but it has
stopped Cay P'ree.' il by that you
mean certain scandalous places where
the French never 60"
They grinned sheepishly, and shifted
TO the other foot
"But tell me; you know New York,
don't your"
The glummest one Of The quartet did.
"Well, would you call Singer Ma
guire's fake Chinatown representative
OF New York life?"
He wasn't old enough 20 remember
"Stinger" Mcguire, but he was willing
20 listen. Singer was the unappreciat-
ed genius who framed New York's first
"yapp thrillers": and his best bit un-
til a knife which was tossed into his
spine from a pell-st window brought
TO an end his brief success, was a long
funeral, with wax corpse more than
life-like in its lurid shiveriness.
SINGERS audience, mostly curious
souls from Squeedunk and Huskville,
viewed the sacred secret ceremonies, i'm
breathless silence and at a dollar a
throw, through the slit Of a curtain on
a balcony. At the proper moment, each
night, the members Of am opposing
tong broke In, their faces distorted
with bloodthirsty fury. Shrill impreca-
tions filled the air, the corpse was
OVERTURNED, the lights went out, the
furnitufe clattered and crashed, six
punches OF flrecrackers were let of in