“I’ve got a match,” said Michael, easily, “but I haven’t a cigar.”

“My name’s Joe Blaine,” said Joe, handing over a panetela.

“Mine’s Mike Dunan,” said Michael, passing a match.

They lit up together.

“The drinks are on me,” murmured Michael.

They stepped into the saloon at the corner—­a bright, mirrory place, whose tiled floor was covered with sawdust, and whose bar shone like mahogany.

“Two beers, Donovan.”

“Dark or light, Mike?”

“Dark.”

They drank.  Michael pounded the bar.

“Joe Blaine, the times are hard.”

“How so, Michael?”

“The rich are too rich, and the poor too poor.  I’m tired of it!”

“Then look this over.”

Michael looked it over, and bubbled with joy.

“That’s great.  Did you spiel it out?  Did you say this little piece?  Joe, I want to join your union!”

Joe laughed; he sized up the little man, with his sparkling eyes, his open face, his fiery, musical voice, his golden hair.  And he had an inspiration.

“Mike,” he said, “I’m getting out this paper up the street.  Have a press there and an office.  Run in and see my mother.  If you like her, tell me, and you can join the Stove Circle.”

“And what may the Stove Circle be?”

“The get-together club—­my advisory board.”

“I’m on.”

“See here, you,” said a blunt, biting, deep-chested voice at their side.  “Let me get a look.”

Joe turned and met Oscar Heming, delicatessen man, stumpy, bull-necked, with fierce bristling mustache, and clothes much too big for him.  He was made a member at once of the Stove Circle.

That same evening Joe went down three steps into a little, low, cigar store, whose gas-blazing atmosphere reeked with raw and damp tobacco.  He stepped up to the dusty counter.

“What’s your best?”

The proprietor, a wise little owl of a man, with thin black hair, and untidy spade beard, and big round glasses enlarging his big brown eyes, placed a box before him.

“My own make—­Underdogs—­clear Havana—­six cents apiece.”

“I like the name.  Give me ten.  But explain!”

“Well”—­Nathan Latsky (for so he proved to be) shrugged his shoulders—­“I’m one myself.  But—­what’s in a name?”

“He’s a red revolutionist!” said a voice, and Joe, turning, noticed two men leaning beside him at the counter; one, a fine and fiery Jew, handsome, dark, young; the other, a large and gentle Italian, with pallid features, dark hair sprinkled with gray, and a general air of largeness and leadership about him.  The Jew had spoken.

“Why a red?” asked Joe.

“Oh,” said Latsky, quietly, “I come from Russia, you know!”

“Well, I’m a revolutionist myself,” said Joe.  “But I haven’t any color yet.”

“Union man?” asked the Italian.

“Not exactly.  I run a radical newspaper.”