is 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.

"Your father lost an arm in the war. You can't expect to fight without
facing danger. And besides," she laughed easily, "you can always get a
job as a printer, Joe."

Joe paced up and down moodily, his hands clasped behind his back.

"If it was only myself--" he murmured, greatly troubled. "I wonder where
Sally is this morning."

"Didn't she come, Joe?"

"No. Not a word from her. I'd hate her to be sick."

"Hadn't you better send over and see?"

"I'll wait a bit yet. And yet--" he sighed, "I just need Sally now."

His mother glanced at him keenly.

"Sally's a wonder," she murmured.

"She is--" He spoke a little irritably. "Why couldn't she have come this
morning?"

There were quick steps, and Billy rushed in, his eyes large, his cheeks
pale.

"Mr. Joe!" he said breathlessly.

"Yes, Billy."

"There's a lot of men out on the street, and they're beginning to fire
snowballs!"

Nathan Slate came in, a scarecrow of fear, teeth chattering.

"Oh, Mr. Joe," he wailed. "Oh, Mr. Joe!"

Joe's mother rose, and spoke under her breath.

"Mr. Slate, sit down at once!"

Slate collapsed on a chair, trembling.

Joe felt as if a fork of lightning had transfixed him--a sharp white
fire darting from head and feet and arms to his heart, and whirling
there in a spinning ball. He spoke quietly:

"I'll go and see."

It seemed long before he got to the front window. Looking out through
the snow-dim pane, he saw the street filled with gesticulating men. He
saw some of the faces of the forty-four, but mingled with these were
other faces--the faces of toughs and thugs, ominous, brutal, menacing.
In a flash he realized that he had been making enemies in the district
as well as friends, and it struck him that these were the criminal
element in the political gang, hangers-on, floaters, the saloon
contingent, who were maddened by his attempt to lead the peo