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?"