Which sealed it. The best people lived on Jefferson, and with proximity, Hugo could report back to his mother about their comings and goings, as she called them. The Avenue was paved with cedar blocks that were sealed together with pitch. A single ash from a prosperous cigar would set the whole street on fire. Hugo’s job was to sit at the corner with a bucket of water and keep an eagle eye. There was never a fire, but if he saw what looked like a spark, he was quick with his bucket. Sometimes, when a private car was driving by, he dumped water into the cedar as if he were Johnny-on-the-spot. Sometimes he received a dime. He told his mother whom he had seen, and her languid, fading smiles were the best part of working.

Detroit was blessed by a library constructed on the river during the height of the City Beautiful movement. Surrounded by lush gardens planted with every herb mentioned in Shakespeare (the histories only), the library had a dock so the upper caste could return their books by boat. If you returned a book by boat, the fines were waived. There were lectures on Sunday.

For Mr. Black, the idea of a lecture on Sunday at the library was as exciting as a barrel of whey. In this he was not alone. Sunday lectures were looked upon as enlightening and educational, and, regardless of what the “Comings and Goings” column in the Free Press said, the smart set was more likely to have claimed attendance than to have attended.

The Blacks were the only family to learn about travels to the Canary Islands by plank or errors in Athanasius Kircher’s description of the catotrophic lamp. And yet Mrs. Black was determined that culture would infuse her son. What the world had to offer would find its way into him even if someone had to use a hammer and stone chisel.

But the presentations of Mr. Burton Holmes were promising. He was the only lecturer in the United States since Stoddard to sometimes attract an audience. Clever, he did not use the words “educational” and “lecture.” His current lecture promised “Bilibid, Sing Sing of the Philippines.”

“That sounds interesting,” Mrs. Black said.

“It does not.” Then Mr. Black saw the rest of the advertisement. Below “Discus Catching with the Barmanou” and “Kongamato of Bangweulu” was an explanation that Mr. Holmes was bringing films. With a heretofore unseen projector. “Perhaps we should see these.”

Mrs. Black swung to a different column. Films played at nickelodeons. The working class, as any nine-year-old could tell you, used the darkness for illicit advances upon each other’s person. But Benguet… Mindanao … She wanted to be convinced otherwise. She read the text below:

Make no mistake, these are moving pictures. But I, Burton Holmes, your far-flung correspondent, bring you neither travel show nor monologue. It is described by a word I have created: the travelogue.