Then one Sunday evening, Jurgis sat puffing his pipe by the kitchen stove, and talking with an old fellow whom Jonas had introduced, and who worked in the canning rooms at Durham’s; and so Jurgis learned a few things about the great and only Durham canned goods, which had become a national institution.  They were regular alchemists at Durham’s; they advertised a mushroom-catsup, and the men who made it did not know what a mushroom looked like.  They advertised “potted chicken,”—­and it was like the boardinghouse soup of the comic papers, through which a chicken had walked with rubbers on.  Perhaps they had a secret process for making chickens chemically—­who knows? said Jurgis’ friend; the things that went into the mixture were tripe, and the fat of pork, and beef suet, and hearts of beef, and finally the waste ends of veal, when they had any.  They put these up in several grades, and sold them at several prices; but the contents of the cans all came out of the same hopper.  And then there was “potted game” and “potted grouse,” “potted ham,” and “deviled ham”—­de-vyled, as the men called it.  “De-vyled” ham was made out of the waste ends of smoked beef that were too small to be sliced by the machines; and also tripe, dyed with chemicals so that it would not show white; and trimmings of hams and corned beef; and potatoes, skins and all; and finally the hard cartilaginous gullets of beef, after the tongues had been cut out.  All this ingenious mixture was ground up and flavored with spices to make it taste like something.  Anybody who could invent a new imitation had been sure of a fortune from old Durham, said Jurgis’ informant; but it was hard to think of anything new in a place where so many sharp wits had been at work for so long; where men welcomed tuberculosis in the cattle they were feeding, because it made them fatten more quickly; and where they bought up all the old rancid butter left over in the grocery stores of a continent, and “oxidized” it by a forced-air process, to take away the odor, rechurned it with skim milk, and sold it in bricks in the cities!  Up to a year or two ago it had been the custom to kill horses in the yards—­ostensibly for fertilizer; but after long agitation the newspapers had been able to make the public realize that the horses were being canned.  Now it was against the law to kill horses in Packingtown, and the law was really complied with—­for the present, at any rate.  Any day, however, one might see sharp-horned and shaggy-haired creatures running with the sheep and yet what a job you would have to get the public to believe that a good part of what it buys for lamb and mutton is really goat’s flesh!