I was very proud of my connection with the
public life of the beach. I admired greatly our shining soda fountain,
the rows of sparkling glasses, the pyramids of oranges, the sausage
chains, the neat white counter, and the bright array of tin spoons. It
seemed to me that none of the other refreshment stands on the
beach--there were a few--were half so attractive as ours. I thought my
father looked very well in a long white apron and shirt sleeves. He
dished out ice cream with enthusiasm, so I supposed he was getting rich.
It never occurred to me to compare his present occupation with the
position for which he had been originally destined; or if I thought
about it, I was just as well content, for by this time I had by heart my
father's saying, "America is not Polotzk." All occupations were
respectable, all men were equal, in America.
If I admired the soda fountain and the sausage chains, I almost
worshipped the partner, Mr. Wilner. I was content to stand for an hour
at a time watching him make potato chips. In his cook's cap and apron,
with a ladle in his hand and a smile on his face, he moved about with
the greatest agility, whisking his raw materials out of nowhere, dipping
into his bubbling kettle with a flourish, and bringing forth the
finished product with a caper. Such potato chips were not to be had
anywhere else on Crescent Beach. Thin as tissue paper, crisp as dry
snow, and salt as the sea--such thirst-producing, lemonade-selling,
nickel-bringing potato chips only Mr.
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