“He takes quite the paternal attitude toward me--looks after me as though I were four years old. The paternal attitude,”--Wayne repeated musingly--“odd phrase that, Paddock. When is it you want me to come to your joss-house?” “Why not to-night? The various sections are going to get together for the first time, and it will be interesting to see how they mix. Jim Balinski of Altoona will do a sparring stunt with Mike the motorman; songs and recitations will be provided and the girls’ cooking class will attend to the refreshments. I dare you to do better.” “I’m embarrassed,” laughed Wayne, lacing his fingers behind his head and sprawling out in his chair. “I’m due to sit in a poker game to-night with a few hardened veterans; but your programme appeals to me as more wholesome. I’ll come as long as it’s you, but with the distinct understanding that you don’t try to convert me. I’ll do it once for an old friend; our friendship will suffer if it ever happens again. But,” and he drew down his hands and squared himself in his chair, “but how about all these people you are working for down there? You are going to feed them on cakes and ale and make them dissatisfied, so that they will march into the East End some pleasant evening and tear the citizens from their homes and decorate the trolley poles with them. Your mission in life is pretty, but after all, Jimmy Paddock, can you stick a lever under the lower stratum of society and lift it?” He struck a match and lighted a cigarette.