"There'll be a hot time in the old town to-night," sang the voice.
Over a cross street Sam went into Michigan Avenue, faced by a long narrow
park and beyond the railroad tracks by the piles of new earth where the
city was trying to regain its lake front. In the cross street, standing in
the shadow of the elevated railroad, he had passed a whining, intoxicated
old woman who lurched forward and put a hand upon his coat. Sam had flung
her a quarter and passed on shrugging his shoulders. Here also he had
walked with unseeing eyes; this too was a part of the gigantic machine
with which the quiet, competent men of growth worked.
From his new quarters in the top floor of the hotel facing the lake, Sam
walked north along Michigan Avenue to a restaurant where Negro men went
noiselessly about among white-clad tables, serving men and women who
talked and laughed under the shaded lamps had an assured, confident air.
Passing in at the door of the restaurant, a wind, blowing over the city
toward the lake, brought the sound of a voice floating with it. "There'll
be a hot time in the old town to-night," again insisted the voice.
After dining Sam got on a grip car of the Wabash Avenue Cable, sitting on
the front seat and letting the panorama of the town roll up to him.
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