named. By the time of Mickey's advent Sunrise Alley was as much a part of
the map of Multiopolis as Biddle Boulevard, and infinitely more pleasing
in name. He began climbing interminable stairs. At the top of the last
flight he unlocked his door to enter his happy home; for Mickey had a
home, and it was a happy one. No one else lived in it, while all it
contained was his.

Mickey knew three things about his father: he had had one, he was not
square, and he drank himself to death. He could not remember his father,
but he knew many men engaged in the occupation of his passing, so he well
understood why his mother never expressed any regrets.

Vivid in his mind was her face, anxious and pale, but twinkling; her body
frail and overtaxed, but hitting back at life uncomplainingly. Bad things
happened, but she explained how they might have been worse; so fed on this
sop, and watching her example, Mickey grew like her. The difficult time
was while she sat over a sewing machine to be with him. When he grew
stout-legged and self-reliant, he could be sent after the food, to carry
the rent, and to sell papers, then she could work by the day, earn more,
have better health, while what both brought home paid the rent of the top
room back, of as bad a shamble as a self-respecting city would allow; kept
them fed satisfyingly if not nourishingly, and allowed them to slip away
many a nickel for the rainy day that she always explained would come. And
it did.

One morning she could not get up; the following Mickey gave all their
savings to a man with a wagon to take her to a nice place to rest. The man
was sure about it being a nice place. She had told Mickey so often what to
do if this ever happened, that when it did, all that was necessary was to
remember what he had been told. After it was over and the nice place had