Joe’s mother was thrilled, and in spite of himself Joe felt his heart clutched, as it were, in a vise.  He felt the strange, strong, human grip.  It was a marvelous spectacle, though common, daily, and cheap as life.

Joe’s mother whispered, in a low voice: 

“Joe, this is the real New York!”

And then again: 

“Those others are only a fraction—­these are the people.”

“Yes,” murmured Joe, his blood surging to his cheeks, “these are the nine-tenths.”

They went closer to that mighty marching host—­they saw the cheap garments—­baggy trousers, torn shoes, worn shirts; they saw the earnest, tired faces, the white and toil-shrunk countenances, the poverty, the reality of pain and work, all pressing on in an atmosphere of serious progress, as if they knew what fires roared, what sinews ached down in the foundations of the world where the future is created.  And Joe realized, as never before, that upon these people and their captains, their teachers and interpreters, rested the burdens of civilization; that the mighty city was wrought by their hands and those who dreamed with them, that the foam and sparkle of Broadway and Fifth Avenue bubbled up from that strong liquor beneath.  And he believed that the second-generation idlers had somehow expropriated the toilers and were living like drones in the hive, and he felt that this could not be forever, and he was seized by the conviction that a change could only come through the toilers themselves.  Could these pale people but know their power, know their standing, know the facts of this strange double life, and then use their might wisely and well, constructively, creatively, to build up a better and fairer world, a finer justice, a more splendid day’s work, a happier night’s home!  These that created a great city could, if trained, create a higher life in that city!

Surely the next few ages of the future had their work cut out for them—­the most stupendous task the race had ever undertaken.

Then, after all, he was right.  All who could must be dedicated to the work of sowing enlightenment, of yeasting the crowds with knowledge and love and light—­all who could.  Then he, too, could do his share; he, too, could reach this crowd.  And these people—­they were reachable.  No theaters and restaurants competed with him here.  Their hearts and minds were open.  He could step in and share their lives.  He had done so in his shop, and these were of the same human nature.

Power returned to him.

“Mother,” he said, his eyes flashing, “it’s all right.  Now I’m ready to begin!  I’m for the nine-tenths.”

They turned, walking home in silence, and as they went the phrase “nine-tenths,” which Joe must have picked up in some book on socialism or some sociological study, kept haunting his mind.  The new power released in him made his brain work like lightning—­creatively.  Thoughts crowded, combinations sprung up; he began to actively dream and scheme.