“Mr. Joe, is it true what the fellows say?”

“Yes, Tom.”

“Going to leave us, Mr. Joe?”

“Going, Tom.”

“Got to go?”

“I’m afraid I have to.”

“I’ll hate to go home and tell my wife, Mr. Joe.  She’ll cry her head off.”

“Oh, come! come!”

“Say—­we men, Mr. Joe—­”

But Tom would say no more, and go off miserably; only to be replaced by Eddie or Mack or John, and then some such dialogue would be repeated.  Under the simple and inadequate words lurked that sharp tragedy of life, the separation of comrades, that one event which above all others darkens the days and gives the sense of old age.  And the men seemed all the closer to Joe because of the tragedy of the fire.  All these conversations told on Joe.  He went defiantly about the shop, but invariably his spoken orders were given in a humble, almost affectionate tone, as (with one arm loosely about the man): 

“Say, Sam, don’t you think you’d better use a little benzine on that?”

And Sam would answer solemnly: 

“I’ve always done as you’ve said, Mr. Joe—­since the very first.”

His men succeeded in this way in making Joe almost as miserable as when he had parted from Myra; and indeed a man’s work is blood of his blood, heart of his heart.

Possibly one thing that hurt Joe as much as anything else was a curious change in Marty Briggs.  That big fellow, from the moment that Joe had handed over the business, began to unfold hitherto unguessed bits of personality.  He ceased to lament Joe’s going; he went about the shop with a certain jaunty air of proprietorship; and the men, for some unknown reason, began to call him Mr. Briggs.  He even grew a bit cool toward Joe.  Joe watched him with a sad sort of mirth, and finally called him into the office one morning.  He put his hands on the big man’s shoulders and looked in his face.

“Marty,” he said, “I hope you’re not going to make an ass of yourself.”

“What do you mean?” murmured Marty.

Joe brought his face a little nearer.

“I want to know something.”

“What?”

Joe spoke slowly: 

“Are you Marty Briggs now or are you Martin Briggs?”

Marty tried to laugh; tried to look away.

“What’s the difference?” he muttered.

“Difference?” Joe’s voice sank.  “Marty, I thought you were a bigger man.  It’s only the little peanut fellows who want to be bossy and holier-than-thou. Don’t make any mistake!”

“I guess,” muttered Marty, “I can steer things O.K.”

“You’d better!” Joe spoke a little sharply.  “Our men here are as big as you and I, every one of them.  My God! you’ll have to pay the price of being a high muck-a-muck, Marty!  So, don’t forget it!”

Marty tried to laugh again.

“You’re getting different lately,” he suggested.