The Nine-Tenths Part 20

"I suppose the whole neighborhood knows all my family secrets."

"Pretty near," laughed Mrs. Ca.s.sidy.

"Well, there's one thing you didn't know."

"What's that?"

"About my newspaper."

"What about it?"

"What paper do you take?"

Mrs. Ca.s.sidy 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. Ca.s.sidy 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. Ca.s.sidy 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, pa.s.sing 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."

Michael looked it over, and bubbled with joy.

"That's great. Did you spiel it out? Did you say this little piece? Joe, I want to join your union!"

Joe laughed; he sized up the little man, with his sparkling eyes, his open face, his fiery, musical voice, his golden hair. And he had an inspiration.

"Mike," he said, "I'm getting out this paper up the street. Have a press there and an office. Run in and see my mother. If you like her, tell me, and you can join the Stove Circle."

"And what may the Stove Circle be?"

"The get-together club--my advisory board."

"I'm on."

"See here, you," said a blunt, biting, deep-chested voice at their side.

"Let me get a look."

Joe turned and met Oscar Heming, delicatessen man, stumpy, bull-necked, with fierce bristling mustache, and clothes much too big for him. He was made a member at once of the Stove Circle.

That same evening Joe went down three steps into a little, low, cigar store, whose gas-blazing atmosphere reeked with raw and damp tobacco. He stepped up to the dusty counter.

"What's your best?"

The proprietor, a wise little owl of a man, with thin black hair, and untidy spade beard, and big round gla.s.ses enlarging his big brown eyes, placed a box before him.

"My own make--Underdogs--clear Havana--six cents apiece."

"I like the name. Give me ten. But explain!"