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Jimmy was not in sight.
"Got _him_ to dodge now," he muttered. "If he ever gets a grip on me he'll
hammer me meller! I'm going to have a bulldog if I half starve to buy it.
Maybe the pound would give me one. I'll see to-morrow."
He looked long, then started homeward, which meant to jump on a car and
ride for miles, then follow streets and alleys again. Finally he entered a
last alley that faced due east. A compass could not have pointed more
directly toward the rising sun; while there was at least half an hour each
clear morning when rickety stairs, wavering fire-escapes, flapping washes,
and unkept children were submerged in golden light. Long ago it had been
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.


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