But even at that perfervid period of his life Joe was saved from being a John Brown by his sense of humor. This was the imp in him that always poked a little doubt into his heart and laughed at his ignorance and innocence. By next morning Joe was smiling at himself. Nevertheless, he was driven ahead. He called for Marty Briggs and they went to lunch together. Third Avenue lay naked to the rain, which swept forward in silvery gusts, dripping, dripping from the elevated structure, and the pattering liquid sound had a fresh mellow music. Here and there a man or woman, mush-roomed by an umbrella, dashed quickly for a car, and the trolleys, gray and crowded, seemed to duck hurriedly under the downpour. The faces of Joe and Marty were fresh-washed and spattering drops; they laughed together as they walked. "I've some business to talk over with you," explained Joe, and they finally went into a little restaurant on Third Avenue. The stuffy little place, warm and damp with the excluded rain, and odorous with sizzling lard and steaming coffee and boiling cabbage, was crowded with people, but Joe and Marty took a little table to themselves in the darkest corner. They sat against the dirty rear wall, whose white paint was finger-marked, fly-specked, and food-spotted, and in which a shelf-aperture furnished the connection with the kitchen. To this hole in the wall hurried the three waitresses, shrieking their orders above the din of many voices and the clatter and clash of plates and utensils. "One ham--and!" A monstrous greasy cook peered forth, shoving out a plate of fried eggs and echoing huskily: "Ham--and!" "Corn-beef-an'-cabbage!" "One harf-an'-harf!" "Make a sunstroke on the hash!" and other pleasing chants of the noon. "What'll yer have?" A thin and nervous young woman swooped between them and mopped off the sloppy, crumby table with her apron. "What's good?" asked Joe. The waitress regarded Joe with half-shut eyes. "_You_ want veal cutlets." And she wafted the information to the cook. "Well, Joe," said the practical Briggs, unable to hold in his excitement any longer, "let's get down to business." Joe leaned forward. "I'm thinking of starting up the printery, Marty." Marty flushed, choked, and could hardly speak. "I _knew_ you would, Joe." "Yes," Joe went on, "but I'm not going to go on with it." Marty spoke sharply: "Why not?" "I'll tell you later, Marty." "Not--lost your nerve? The fire?" Joe laughed softly. "Other reasons--Marty." "Retire?" Marty's appetite was spoiled. He pushed the veal cutlet from him. He was greatly agitated. "Retire--_you_? I can see you doing nothing, blamed if I can't. Gettin' sporty, Joe, in your old age, aren't you? You'll be wearing one of these dress-suits next and a flasher in yer chest. Huh!" he snorted, "you'd make a good one on the shelf!" Joe laughed with joy. "With my flunkies and my handmaids. No, Marty, I'm going into another business." "What business?" "Editing a magazine."