“I?” Joe laughed harshly.  “What if it’s you?  But don’t let’s quarrel. 
We’ve been together too long.  Only, let’s both remember.  That’s all,
Marty!”

All of which didn’t mend matters.  It was that strangest of all the twists of human nature—­the man rising from the ranks turning against his fellows.

On Friday night Joe climbed the three flights of the stuffy Eightieth Street tenement and had supper with the Ranns.  That family of five circled him with such warmth of love that the occasion burst finally into good cheer.  The two girls, seated opposite him, sent him smiling and wordless messages of love.  Not a word was said of the fire, but John kept serving him with large portions of the vegetables and the excellent and expensive steak which had been bought in his honor; and John’s wife kept spurring him on.

“I’m sure Mr. Joe could stand just a weeny sliver more.”

“Mrs. Rann”—­Joe put down knife and fork—­“do you want me to burst?”

“A big man like you?  Give him the sliver, John.”

“John, spare me!”

“Mr. Joe”—­John waved his hand with an air of finality—­“in the shop what you says goes, but in this here home I take my orders from the old lady.  See?”

“Nellie—­Agnes—­” he appealed, despairingly, to his little loves, “you save me!  Don’t you love me any more?”

This set Nellie and Agnes giggling with delight.

“Give him a pound, a whole pound!” cried Agnes, who was the elder.

A nice sliver was waved dripping on Joe’s plate, which Joe proceeded to eat desperately, all in one mouthful.  Whereupon the Ranns were convulsed with joy, and John kept “ha-ha-ing” as he thumped the table, and went to such excesses that he seemed to put his life in peril and Mrs. Rann and the girls had to rise and pound him until their hands hurt.

“Serves you right, John,” said Joe, grimly.  “Try it again, and you’ll get a stroke.”

“Ain’t he the limit?” queried John, gasping.

Then Mrs. Rann went mysteriously to the cupboard, and the girls began to whisper together and giggle.  And then Mrs. Rann brought something covered with a napkin, and then the napkin was removed.  It was pie.

Joe pretended that he didn’t know the secret, and leaned far over and gazed at it.

“It’s—­well, what is it?”

Mrs. Rann’s voice rang with exultation.

“Your favorite, Mr. Joe.”

“Not—­raisin pie?”

A shout went up from all.  Then real moisture came stealthily to Joe’s eyes, and he looked about on those friendly faces, and murmured: 

“Thoughtful, mightily thoughtful!”

There was a special bottle of wine—­rather cheap, it is true, but then it was served with raisin pie and with human love, which made it very palatable.  Mrs. Rann fixed John with a sharp glance through her glasses and cleared her throat several times, and finally Agnes gave him a poke in the ribs, whispering: