She has a little chair or stool before her, herself unostentatiously occupying the space in front of it on the floor. The real in silver, and six cents in tlacos for each "grinder," are laid in little piles, each one being named for the woman to whom it is to be paid. The patrona sits by and looks on serenely after counting over and over the piles, with satisfaction and self-importance emanating from her, and expressing in unspoken language—"You poor contemptible ”grinders” you have no position!"
Jay Gould, in his mansion on Fifth Avenue, when reflecting on his
A TORTILLA ESTABLISHMENT.
enormous investments, could not feel more remote from the toiling multitude in the street beneath him than the patrona of the tortilla establishment feels her superiority to her subordinates.
I never went into one of these places without being most cordially invited to be seated. On accepting the invitation, an animated conversation would follow, while eating the delicious hot tortillas, fresh from the smoking comal, and admiring the animated bronze statuettes that ambled and capered about without even the disguise of a fig leaf.
Invariably they desired to know my nationality. If I told them to
