“Well!  Well!” cried Joe.

“Who do you love most?” asked the seven-year-old.

“The one who loves me most!” said Joe.

“I do!” they both shrieked.

“Now leave Mr. Joe be,” warned the father.  “Such tomboys they’re getting to be, there’s no holdin’ ’em in!”

At once in the half-curtained doorway to the next room appeared a stocky little woman, whose pale face was made emphatic by large steel-rimmed glasses that shrank each eye-pupil to the size of a tack-head.  Her worried forehead smoothed; she smiled.

“I knew it was Mr. Joe,” she said, “by the way those gals yelled.”

Joe spoke eagerly: 

“I just had to run in, Mrs. Rann, to ask how the baby was.”

“He’s a sight better.  Mrs. Smith, who lives third floor front, had one just like him sick a year ago come Thanksgiving, and he died like that.  But the doctor you sent over is that kind and cute he’s got the little fellow a-fightin’ for his life.  He’s a big sight better.  Want to see him?”

Joe gave a kiss each way, set down two reluctant women-to-be, and followed Mrs. Rann to the inner room.  In a little crib a youngster, just recovered from colic, was kicking up his heels.  Joe leaned over and tickled the sole of one foot.

“Well, Johnny boy!”

“Unc!  Unc!” cried the infant.

The mother purred with delight.

“He’s trying to say Uncle Joe.  Did you ever hear the likes?”

Joe beamed with pride.

“Well, your uncle hasn’t forgotten you, old man!”

And he produced from his pocket a little rubber doll that whistled whenever its belly was squeezed.

John Rann appeared behind them.

“Say, Mr. Joe, you haven’t had your supper yet.”

“Not hungry!” muttered Joe.

“G’wan!  Molly, put him up a couple of fried eggs, browned on both, and a cup of coffee.  I won’t take no, either.”

Joe laughed.

“Well, perhaps I’d better.  I’m ashamed to ask for anything home this hour—­in fact, I’m scared to.”

So he got his fried eggs and coffee, and the family hung around him, and Joe, circled with such warm friendliness, was glad to be alive.  He was especially pleased with Mrs. Rann’s regard.  But Joe was always a favorite with mothers.  Possibly because he was so fond of their babies.  Possibly because mothers love a good son, wherever they find one.  Possibly because his heart was large enough to contain as something precious their obscure lives.  Just before he left John asked him: 

“Will the printery soon be running, Mr. Joe?”

“Tell you later,” murmured Joe, and went out.  But he was sorely troubled.