But Joe strode into the kitchen, where his mother was quietly reading at the window. "What is it, Joe?" "Mother," he said, "that fellow Marrin was in threatening to sue me for libel." "Could it hurt you?" "It might. Speaking the truth is always libelous." Joe's mother spoke softly. "Your father lost an arm in the war. You can't expect to fight without facing danger. And besides," she laughed easily, "you can always get a job as a printer, Joe." Joe paced up and down moodily, his hands clasped behind his back. "If it was only myself--" he murmured, greatly troubled. "I wonder where Sally is this morning." "Didn't she come, Joe?" "No. Not a word from her. I'd hate her to be sick." "Hadn't you better send over and see?" "I'll wait a bit yet. And yet--" he sighed, "I just need Sally now." His mother glanced at him keenly. "Sally's a wonder," she murmured. "She is--" He spoke a little irritably. "Why couldn't she have come this morning?" There were quick steps, and Billy rushed in, his eyes large, his cheeks pale. "Mr. Joe!" he said breathlessly. "Yes, Billy." "There's a lot of men out on the street, and they're beginning to fire snowballs!" Nathan Slate came in, a scarecrow of fear, teeth chattering. "Oh, Mr. Joe," he wailed. "Oh, Mr. Joe!" Joe's mother rose, and spoke under her breath. "Mr. Slate, sit down at once!" Slate collapsed on a chair, trembling. Joe felt as if a fork of lightning had transfixed him--a sharp white fire darting from head and feet and arms to his heart, and whirling there in a spinning ball. He spoke quietly: "I'll go and see."