He left them and made madly for the door.  The men were chaotic with rage; they arose; their voices went sharp and wild.

“What does that Joe Blaine mean?  He takes the bread out of our mouths!  He makes fools of us!  He ought to be shot!  I spit on him!  Curse him!”

One man arose on a chair.

“You fools—­you listened to that man, and went on strike—­and now you come back, and he makes you lose your jobs.  Are you going to be fools now?  Are you going to let him get the best of you?  He is laughing at you, the pig.  The girls are laughing at you.  Come on!  We will go down and show him—­we will assemble before his place and speak to him!”

The men were insane with rage and demon-hate.  Vehemently shouting, they made for the stairs, rushed pell-mell down, and sought the street, and turned south through the snow.  There were few about to notice them, none to stop them.  Policemen were in doorways and odd shelters.  And so, unimpeded, the crazed mob made its way.

In the mean time Marrin had come out in his heavy fur coat and stepped into his closed automobile.  It went through the storm, easily gliding, turned up West Tenth Street, and stopped before Joe’s windows.  Marrin hurried in and boldly opened the office door.  Billy jumped up to intercept him.

“Mr. Blaine—­” he began.

“Get out of my way!” snapped Marrin, and stepped up to Joe.

Joe was brooding at his desk, brooding and writing, his dark face troubled, his big form quite stoop-shouldered.

“Well,” said Joe, “what’s the matter, Mr. Marrin?”

Marrin tried to contain his rage.  He pointed his cane at Joe.

“You’ve made a mistake, Mr. Blaine.”

“It isn’t the first one.”

“Let me tell you something—­”

“I will let you.”

Marrin spoke with repression.

“Next time—­don’t attack both the boss and the men.  It’s bad policy.  Take sides.”

“Oh, I did take sides,” said Joe, lightly.  “I’m against anything treacherous.”

Marrin exploded.

“Well, you’ll get yours!  And let me tell you something!  I’ve a good mind to sue you for libel and shut up your shop.”

Joe rose, and there was a dangerous light in his eyes.  His hands were open at his sides, but they twitched a little.

“Then,” said Joe, “I’ll make it worth your while.  If you don’t want to be helped out, get out!”

“Very well,” sputtered Marrin, and turned, twirling his cane, and made an upright exit.

The sad Slate was paralyzed; Billy was joyous.

But Joe strode into the kitchen, where his mother was quietly reading at the window.

“What is it, Joe?”

“Mother,” he said, “that fellow Marrin was in threatening to sue me for libel.”

“Could it hurt you?”

“It might.  Speaking the truth is always libelous.”

Joe’s mother spoke softly.