at one time, so that a line had to be formed outside and an orderly entrance effected.  This caused a daily spectacle which, however, had become so common by repetition during a number of years that now nothing was thought of it.  The men waited patiently, like cattle, in the coldest weather-waited for several hours before they could be admitted.  No questions were asked and no service rendered.  They ate and went away again, some of them returning regularly day after day the winter through.

A big, motherly looking woman invariably stood guard at the door during the entire operation and counted the admissible number.  The men moved up in solemn order.  There was no haste and no eagerness displayed.  It was almost a dumb procession.  In the bitterest weather this line was to be found here.  Under an icy wind there was a prodigious slapping of hands and a dancing of feet.  Fingers and the features of the face looked as if severely nipped by the cold.  A study of these men in broad light proved them to be nearly all of a type.  They belonged to the class that sit on the park benches during the endurable days and sleep upon them during the summer nights.  They frequent the Bowery and those down-at-the-heels East Side streets where poor clothes and shrunken features are not singled out as curious.  They are the men who are in the lodging house sitting-rooms during bleak and bitter weather and who swarm about the cheaper shelters which only open at six in a number of the lower East Side streets.  Miserable food, ill-timed and greedily eaten, had played havoc with bone and muscle.  They were all pale, flabby, sunken-eyed, hollow-chested, with eyes that glinted and shone and lips that were a sickly red by contrast.  Their hair was but half attended to, their ears anemic in hue, and their shoes broken in leather and run down at heel and toe.  They were of the class which simply floats and drifts, every wave of people washing up one, as breakers do driftwood upon a stormy shore.

For nearly a quarter of a century, in another section of the city, Fleischmann, the baker, had given a loaf of bread to any one who would come for it to the side door of his restaurant at the corner of Broadway and Tenth Street, at midnight.  Every night during twenty years about three hundred men had formed in line and at the appointed time marched past the doorway, picked their loaf from a great box placed just outside, and vanished again into the night.  From the beginning to the present time there had been little change in the character or number of these men.  There were two or three figures that had grown familiar to those who had seen this little procession pass year after year.  Two of them had missed scarcely a night in fifteen years.  There were about forty, more or less, regular callers.  The remainder of the line was formed of strangers.  In times of panic and unusual hardships there were seldom more than three hundred.  In times of prosperity, when little is heard of the unemployed, there were seldom less.  The same number, winter and summer, in storm or calm, in good times and bad, held this melancholy midnight rendezvous at Fleischmann’s bread box.