Then they stood a moment before the dirty door, and Joe said: 

“Shall I?  Shall I rouse ’em with the bell?  Shall I break in on their peaceful lives?”

“Rouse away!” cried Myra.  “Your hour has struck!”

He pulled the door, the bell rang sharply, and they stepped in.  As of old, the tremble, the clatter, the flash of machines, the damp smell of printed sheets, swallowed them up—­made them a quivering part of the place.  And how little it had changed!  They stood, almost choking with the unchanging change of things.  As if the fire had never been!  As if Tenth Street had never been!

Then at once the spell was broken.  A pressman spied Joe and loosed a yell: 

“It’s the old man!”

His press stopped; his neighbors’ presses stopped; as the yell went down the room, “Joe!  Joe!  The old man!” press after press paused until only the clatter and swing of the overhead belting was heard.  And the men came running up.

“Mr. Joe!  Mr. Joe!  Shake!  For God’s sake, give me a grip!  This is great for sore eyes!  Where you been keeping yourself?  Ain’t he the limit?  He’s the same old penny!  Look at him—­even his hat’s the same!”

Joe shook hand after hand, until his own was numb.  They crowded about him, they flung their fondness at him, and he stood, his eyes blinded with tears, his heart rent in his breast, and a new color climbing to his cheeks.

Then suddenly a loud voice cried: 

“What’s the matter?  What does this mean?”

And Marty Briggs emerged from the office.

“Hello, Marty!” cried Joe.

Marty stood dumfounded; then he came with a rush.

“Joe!  You son-of-a-gun!  Beg pardon, Miss!  I ain’t seen him for a lifetime!”

“And how goes it, Marty?  How goes it, Marty?”

“Tip-top; busy as beavers.  But, say,” he leaned over and whispered, “I’ve found a secret.”

“What is it, Marty?”

“You can’t run a business with your hands or lungs or your manners—­you need gray stuff up here.”

The reception was a great success, full of cross-questions, of bartered news—­as the arrival of new babies christened Joe or Josephine, the passing of old babies in the last birth of all, the absence of old faces, the presence of new ones.  Glad talk and rapid, and only cut short by the urgency of business.

They sang him out with a “He’s a jolly good fellow,” and he emerged on the street with Myra, his eyes dripping.

Myra spoke softly.

“Joe.”

“Yes, Myra.”

“There’s one more thing I want you to do for me.”

“Name it.”

“I want to walk with you in the Park.”

He looked at her strangely, breathlessly.

“In the Ramble, Myra?”

She met his gaze.

“In the Ramble, Joe.”