And Marty Briggs emerged from the office.
"Hello, Marty!" cried Joe.
Marty stood dumfounded; then he came with a rush.
"Joe! You son-of-a-gun! Beg pardon, Miss! I ain't seen him for a lifetime!"
"And how goes it, Marty? How goes it, Marty?"
"Tip-top; busy as beavers. But, say," he leaned over and whispered,
"I've found a secret."
"What is it, Marty?"
"You can't run a business with your hands or lungs or your manners—you need gray stuff up here."
The reception was a great success, full of cross-questions, of bartered news—as the arrival of new babies christened Joe or Josephine, the passing of old babies in the last birth of all, the absence of old faces, the presence of new ones. Glad talk and rapid, and only cut short by the urgency of business.
They sang him out with a "He's a jolly good fellow," and he emerged on the street with Myra, his eyes dripping.