Then, after all, being alone was a very wonderful thing compared with
having parents who might beat and starve him and take the last penny he
earned, not leaving enough to keep him from being hungry half the time.

When Mickey looked at some of the other boys, and heard many of them talk,
he almost forgot the hourly hunger for his mother, in thankfulness that he
did not have a father and that his mother had been herself. Mickey felt
sure that if she had been any one of the mothers of most other boys he
knew, he would not have gone home at all. He could endure cold, hunger,
and loneliness, but he felt that he had no talent for being robbed,
beaten, and starved; while lately he had fully decided upon a dog for
company, when he could find the right one.

Mickey unlocked his door, entering for his water bucket. Such was his
faith in his environment that he relocked the door while he went to the
water tap. Returning to the room he again turned the key, then washed his
face and hands. He looked at the slip nailed on the wall where she had put
it. He knew every word of it, but always it comforted him to see her
familiar writing, to read aloud what to do next as if it were her voice
speaking to him. Evening: "Make up your bed." Mickey made his. "Wash any
dirty dishes." He had a few so he washed them. "Sweep your floor." He
swept. "Always prepare at least one hot thing for supper." He shook the
gasoline tank to the little stove. It sounded full enough, so he went to
the cupboard his mother had made from a small packing case. There were
half a loaf of bread wrapped in its oiled paper, with two bananas
discarded by Joe of the fruit stand. He examined his pocket, although he
knew perfectly what it contained. Laying back enough to pay for his stock
the next day, then counting in his twenty-five cents, he had forty cents
left. He put thirty in the rent box, starting out with ten. Five paid for
a bottle of milk, three for cheese, two for an egg for breakfast.