"Sure! Didn't I see you move in? When my friend, Mrs. Leupp, seen your iron beds, she up and went to Macy's and bought one herself. What yer doing in there, anyway, with that printing-press? It gives me the trembles." Joe laughed heartily. "You feel the press in this house?" "First time, I thought it was an earthquake, Mr. Blaine." Joe was abashed. "How'd you know my name?" "Ast it off your landlady." "Well, you're wrong--I'm Mr. Joe." Mrs. Cassidy was hugely amused. "You're one grand fellow, let me tell you. But, oh, that black, thin one--he's creepy, Mr. Joe. But your mother--she's all right. I was telling Mrs. Rann so myself." Joe sighed tragically. "I suppose the whole neighborhood knows all my family secrets." "Pretty near," laughed Mrs. Cassidy. "Well, there's one thing you didn't know." "What's that?" "About my newspaper." "What about it?" "What paper do you take?" Mrs. Cassidy mentioned a daily penny paper. "Let's see," said Joe, "that's eleven cents a week, isn't it? Will you spend two cents more, and take _The Nine-Tenths_?" "_Yours_?" "It's a paper that tells about the rich and the poor, and what the poor ought to do to get more out of life. Here, take this copy, keep it; make Tim read it." Mrs. Cassidy was handed a neat little sheet, eight by twelve inches, clearly printed. There was something homely and inviting about it, something hospitable and honest. The woman fingered it curiously. "Ain't it cute?" she cried. "It's all written for just such people as you, and I want you to take it." "How much is it?" "Well, you pay twenty-five cents and get it for three months, once a week, and let Tim read it out loud. Say, don't you think Annie'd like to see the printing-press?" "'Deed she would!" And then Joe did the one thing that won. He seized up little Annie himself, and bore her down to the press-room, Mrs. Cassidy following, and mentally concluding that there was no one in the ward like Mr. Joe. Result: first subscription, and Joe elated with victory. All of which shows, it must be confessed, that Joe was considerable of a politician, and did not hesitate to adopt the methods of Tammany Hall. It was the next day, at a street corner, that, quite accidentally, Joe met Michael Dunan, truckman. "I've got a cigar," said Joe, "but I haven't a match." "I've got a match," said Michael, easily, "but I haven't a cigar." "My name's Joe Blaine," said Joe, handing over a panetela. "Mine's Mike Dunan," said Michael, passing a match. They lit up together. "The drinks are on me," murmured Michael. They stepped into the saloon at the corner--a bright, mirrory place, whose tiled floor was covered with sawdust, and whose bar shone like mahogany. "Two beers, Donovan." "Dark or light, Mike?" "Dark." They drank. Michael pounded the bar. "Joe Blaine, the times are hard." "How so, Michael?" "The rich are too rich, and the poor too poor. I'm tired of it!" "Then look this over."