Chapter 22—The House in South Halsted Street
On the 1st of June the door of No. 3997, South Halsted Street, Chicago, opened at eight o’clock in the morning to a young man carrying a painter’s knapsack on his shoulder and followed by a young n***o, bag in hand.
What was the surprise and also the joy of Madame Real when her dear son entered the room and she could clasp him in her arms.
“You, Max—what—is it you?”
“In person, mother.”
“And you are at Chicago instead of being —”
“At Richmond?” said Max Real. “Be easy, mother, I have time to get to Richmond, and as Chicago was on my road, I thought I was entitled to stay a few days here and spend them with you.”
“But, my dear boy, you are running the risk of a failure —”
“Well, I should not always fail to embrace you on my way dear mothe
