from me, just for fun, to help the game along?"

"We don't accept ads."

"Oh, I know! But if I contribute handsomely! I'd like to show it around to my friends a bit. Come, come, don't be unreasonable, Mr. Blaine."

Sally shuffled about, coughed, arose, sat down again, and Joe laughed.

"Can't do it. Not even Rockefeller could buy a line of my paper."

"Do you _mean_ it?"

"Absolutely--flatly."

"Well, what a shame! But never mind. Some other time. Tell me, Mr.

Blaine"--he leaned forward--"what are you? One of these b.l.o.o.d.y socialists?"

"No, I'm not a socialist."

"What d'ye call yourself, then--Republican?"

"No."

"Democrat?"

"No."

"Insurgent?"

"No."

Marrin was horror-stricken.

"Not a blooming anarchist?"

Joe laughed.

"No, not an anarchist."

"What are you, then? Nothing?"

"I can tell you what I'm not," said Joe.

"What?"

"I'm not any kind of an _ist_."

"A fine fellow!" cried Marrin. "Why, a man's got to stand for something."

"I do," said Joe, "I stand for human beings--and sometimes," he chuckled, "I stand for a whole lot!"

Marrin laughed, so did Sally.

"Clever!" cried Marrin. "d.a.m.ned clever! You're cleverer than I thought--hide your scheme up, don't you? Well! well! Let me see your plant!"

Joe showed him about, and Marrin kept patting him on the back: "Delightful! Fine! You're my style, Mr. Blaine--everything done to a nicety, no frills and feathers. Isn't New York a great town? There are things happening in it you'd never dream of."

And when he left he said:

"Now, if there's anything I can do for you, Mr. Blaine, don't hesitate to call on me. And say, step up and see my shop. It's the finest this side of Paris. I'll show you something you've never seen yet! Good-by!"

And he was whisked away, a quite self-satisfied human being.

That very evening Marrin's name came up again. It was closing-up time, Billy and Slate had already gone, and the room was dark save for the shaded lights over Joe's desk and Sally's table. The two were working quietly, and outside a soft fall of snow was m.u.f.fling the noise of the city. There only arose the mellowed thunder of a pa.s.sing car, the far blowing of a boat-whistle, the thin pulse of voices. Otherwise the city was lost in the beautiful storm, which went over the gas-lamps like a black-dotted halo. In the rear room there was a soft clatter of dishes.

The silence was rich and full of thought. Joe scratched on, Sally puzzled over reports.

Then softly the door opened, and a hoa.r.s.e voice said:

"Joe? You there?"

Sally and Joe turned around. It was Izon, dark, handsome, fiery, m.u.f.fled up to his neck, his hat drawn low on his face, and the thin snow scattering from his shoulders and sleeves.

"Yes, I'm here," Joe said in a low voice. "What is it?"

Izon came over.

"Joe!"--his voice was pa.s.sionate--"there's trouble brewing at Marrin's."

"Marrin? Why, he was here only to-day!"

Izon clutched the back of a chair and leaned over.

"Marrin is a dirty scoundrel!"

His voice was hoa.r.s.e with helplessness and pa.s.sion.

Joe rose.

"Tell me about this! Put it in a word!"

Tears sprang to Izon's eyes.

"You know the cloak-makers' strike--well! Some manufacturer has asked Marrin to help him out--to fill an order of cloaks for him."

"And Marrin--" Joe felt himself getting hot.

"Has given the job to us men."

"How many are there?"