Lady Hickory gave one cry: 

“There he is!”

She pushed Billy aside and rolled over into the visitor’s chair.

“Oh, Mr. Joe!”

Joe turned.

“What’s up?” he asked.

“Everything’s up—­I’m dying, Mr. Joe—­I need help—­I must get to the hospital—­”

“Sick?”

“Gallopin’ consumption!”

Joe sniffed.

“It doesn’t smell like consumption,” he said with a sigh.  “It smells like rum!”

He hustled her out rather roughly, Nathan Slate regarding him with mournful round eyes.  Twenty minutes later Nathan came over and sat down.

“Mr. Joe.”

“Yes, Nathan.”

“There’s something troubles my conscience, Mr. Joe.”

“Let her rip!”

“Mr. Joe—­”

“I’m waiting!”

Nathan cleared his throat.

“You say you’re a democrat, Mr. Joe, and you’re always saying, ’Love thy neighbor,’ Mr. Joe.”

“Has that hit you, Nathan?”

Nathan unburdened, evading this thrust.

“Why, then, Mr. Joe, did you turn that woman away?”

Joe was delighted.

“Why?  I’ll tell you!  Suppose that I know that the cucumber is inherently as good as any other vegetable, does that say I can digest it?  Cucumbers aren’t for me, Nathan—­especially decayed ones.”

Nathan stared at him disconsolately, shook his head, and went back to puzzle it out.  It is doubtful, however, that he ever did so.

Besides such visitors, there were still others who came to him to arbitrate family disputes—­which constituted him a sort of Domestic Relations Court—­and gave him an insight into a condition that surprised him.  Namely, the not uncommon cases of secret polygamy and polyandry.

In short, Joe was busy.  His work was established in a flexible routine—­mornings for writing; afternoons for callers, for circulation work, and for special trips to centers of labor trouble; evenings for going about with Giotto to see the Italians, or paying a visit, say, to the Ranns, or some others, or meeting at Latsky’s cigar store with a group of revolutionists who filled the air with their war of the classes, their socialist state, their dreams of millennium.

He gave time, too, to his mother—­evening walks, evening talks, and old-fashioned quiet hours in the kitchen, his mother at her needlework, and he reading beside her.  One such night, when his mother seemed somewhat fatigued, he said to her: 

“Don’t sew any more, mother.”

“But it soothes me, Joe.”

“Mother!”

“Yes.”

Joe spoke awkwardly.

“Are you perfectly satisfied down here?  Did we do the right thing?”

His mother’s eyes flashed, as of old.

“We did,” she cried in her youthful voice.  “It’s real—­it’s absorbing.  And I’m very proud of myself.”

“Proud?  You?”

“Yes, proud!” she laughed.  “Joe, when a woman reaches my age she has a right to be proud if young folks seek her out and talk with her and make her their confidante.  It shows she’s not a useless incumbrance, but young!”