"Shall I? Shall I rouse 'em with the bell? Shall I break in on their peaceful lives?"
"Rouse away!" cried Myra. "Your hour has struck!"
He pulled the door, the bell rang sharply, and they stepped in. As of old, the tremble, the clatter, the flash of machines, the damp smell of printed sheets, swallowed them up—made them a quivering part of the place. And how little it had changed! They stood, almost choking with the unchanging change of things. As if the fire had never been! As if Tenth Street had never been!
Then at once the spell was broken. A pressman spied Joe and loosed a yell:
"It's the old man!"
His press stopped; his neighbors' presses stopped; as the yell went down the room, "Joe! Joe! The old man!" press after press paused until only the clatter and swing of the overhead belting was heard. And the men came running up.
"Mr. Joe! Mr. Joe! Shake! For God's sake, give me a grip! This is great for sore eyes! Where you been keeping yourself? Ain't he the limit? He's the same old penny! Look at him—even his hat's the same!"
Joe shook hand after hand, until his own was numb. They crowded about him, they flung their fondness at him, and he stood, his eyes blinded with tears, his heart rent in his breast, and a new color climbing to his cheeks.
Then suddenly a loud voice cried:
"What's the matter? What does this mean?"