Standing on Washington Heights—that hump on northwestern Manhattan Island—gazing, say, from a window of the City College whose gray and quaint cluster fronts the morn as on a cliff above the city—one sees, at seven of a sharp morning, a low-hung sun in the eastern skies, a vast circle and lift of mild blue heavens, and at one's feet, down below, the whole sweep of New York from the wooded ridges of the Bronx to the Fifty-ninth Street bridge and the golden tip of the Metropolitan Tower. It is a flood of roofs sweeping south to that golden, flashing minaret, a flood bearing innumerable high mill chimneys, church steeples, school spires, and the skeleton frames of gas-works. Far in the east the Harlem River lies like a sheet of dazzling silver, dotted with boats; every skylight, every point of glass or metal on the roofs, flashes in the sun, and, gazing down from that corner in the sky, one sees the visible morning hymn of the city—a drift from thousands of house chimneys of delicate unraveling skeins of white-blue smoke lifting from those human dwellings like aerial spirits. It is the song of humanity rising, the song of the ritual of breaking bread together, of preparation for the day of toil, the song of the mothers sending the men to work, the song of the mothers kissing and packing to school the rosy, laughing children.

It might be hard to imagine that far to the south in that moving human ocean, a certain Joe Blaine, swallowed in the sea, was yet as real a fact as the city contained—that to himself he was far from being swallowed, that he was, in fact, so real to himself that the rest of the city was rather shadowy and unreal, and that he was immensely concerned in a thousand-flashing torrent of thoughts, in a mix-up of appetite and desires, and in the condition and apparel of his body. That as he sat at his desk, for instance, it was important to him to discover how he could break himself of a new habit of biting the end of his pen-holder.

And yet, under that flood of roofs, Joe was struggling with that crucial problem. He finally settled it by deciding to smoke lots of cigars, and proceeded to light one as a beginning. He smoked one, then a second, then a third—which was certainly bad for his health. He was in the throes of a violent reaction.

Several days of relentless activity had followed the moving in. There was much to do. The four rooms became immaculately clean—sweetened up with soap and water, with neat wallpaper, with paint and furniture. Even the dark inner bedrooms contrived to look cozy and warm and inviting. Joe's mother was a true New England housekeeper, which meant scrupulous order, cleanliness, and brightness. The one room exempt from her rule was Joe's. After the first clean-up, his mother did not even try to begin on it.

"You're hopeless, Joe," she laughed, "and you'll ruin faster than I can set right."

And so that editorial office soon became a nest of confusion. The walls were lined with bookshelves and a quaint assortment of books, old and new, populated not only these, but the floor, the two tables, the roll-top desk, and here and there a chair. White paper began to heap up in the corners. Magazines—"my contemporaries," said the proud editor—began their limitless flood. And the matting on the floor was soon worn through by Joe's perpetual pacing.

The whole home, however, began to have atmosphere—personality. There was something open, hospitable, warm about it—something comfortable and livable.

Among the first things Joe did was to procure two assistants. One was the bookkeeper, Nathan Slate, a lean and dangling individual, who collapsed over his high desk in the corner like a many-bladed penknife. He was thin and cadaverous, and spoke in a meek and melancholy voice, studied and slow. He dressed in black and tried to suppress his thin height by stooping low and hanging his head. The other addition was Billy, the office-boy, a sharp, bright youth with red hair and brilliant blue eyes.

There was much else to do. For instance, there were the money affairs to get in shape. Joe secured a five-per-cent mortgage with his capital. Marty Briggs paid down two thousand cash and was to pay two thousand a year and interest. So Joe could figure his income at somewhat over six thousand dollars, and, as he hoped that he and his mother would use not more than fifteen hundred a year, or, at the most, two thousand, he felt he had plenty to throw into his enterprise.

Among the first things that Joe discovered was a gift of his own temperament. He was a born crowd-man, a "mixer." He found he could instantly assume the level of the man he talked with, and that his tongue knew no hindrance. Thought flowed easily into speech. This gave him a freedom among men, a sense of belonging anywhere, and singled him out from the rest. It gave him, too, the joy of expression—the joy of throwing out his thought and getting its immediate reaction in other lives. Yet he understood perfectly the man who seemed shy and recluse, who was choked-off before strangers, and who yet burned to be a democrat, to give and take, to share alien lives, to be of the moving throng of life. Such a man was the victim either of a wrong education, an education of repression that discouraged any personal display, or he had a twist in his temperament. Joe, who began to be well aware of his gift, used it without stint and found that it had a contagious quality—it loosened other people up; it unfolded their shy and secret petals like sun heat on a bud; it made the desert of personality blossom like the rose. He warmed the life about him because he could express himself.

So it was not hard for Joe to shift to this new neighborhood and become absorbed in its existence. Tradespeople, idlers, roomers and landlady in the house accepted him at once and felt as if they had known him all their lives. By a power almost of intuition he probed their obscure histories and entered into their destinies.

However, in spite of these activities and all the bustle and stir of fresh beginnings, Joe, that sunny morning, was suffering a sharp reaction. In the presence of Nathan Slate and Billy he was pretending to work, but his brain was as dry as a soda-cracker. It was that natural revulsion of the idealist following the first glow. Here he was, up against a reality, and yet with no definite plan, not even a name for his paper, and he had not even begun to penetrate the life about him. The throbbing moment had arrived when he must set his theories into motion, drive them out into the lives of the people, and get reactions. But how? In what way? His brain refused to think, and he felt nothing save a misery and poverty of the spirit that were unendurable.

It seemed to him suddenly as if he had hastily embarked on a search for the fountain of eternal youth—a voyage that followed mirages, and was hollow and illusory. Beginnings, after the first flush, always have this quality of fake, and Joe was standing in the shadow-land between two lives. The old life was receding in the past; the new life had not yet appeared. Without training, without experience, without definite knowledge of the need to be met, with only a strong desire and a mixed ideal, and almost without his own volition, he found himself now sitting at a desk in West Tenth Street, with two employees, and nothing to do. How out of this emptiness was he to create something vital?

This naturally brought a pang he might have anticipated. He had a sudden powerful hankering for the old life. That at least was man-size—his job had been man's work. He looked back at those fruitful laborious days, with their rich interest and absorbing details, their human companionships, and had an almost irrepressible desire to rush out, take the elevated train, go down East Eighty-first Street, ascend the elevator, ring the bell, and enter his dominion of trembling, thundering presses. He could smell the old smells, he could see the presses and the men, he could hear the noise. That was where he belonged. Voluntarily he had exiled himself from happiness and use. He wanted to go back—wanted it hard, almost groaned with homesickness.

Such struggles are death throes or birth throes. They are as real as two men wrestling. Joe could sit still no longer, could mask no longer the combat within him. So he rose hastily and went out and wandered about the shabby, unfriendly neighborhood. He had a mad desire, almost realized, to take the car straight to Eighty-first Street, and only the thought of Marty Briggs in actual possession held him back. Finally he went back and took lunch, and again tried the vain task of pretending to work.

It was three o'clock when he surrendered. He strode in to his mother.

"Mother," he said, "isn't there something we can do together?"

"In what way?"

"Any way. I've been idling all day and I'm half dead." He laughed strangely. "I believe I'm getting nerves, mother."

"Nerves!" She looked at him sharply. "What is it, Joe?"

"Oh! It's in-betweenness."

"I see." She smiled. "Well, there's some shopping to do—"

"Thank Heaven!"

So they went out together and took the Sixth Avenue car to Thirty-fourth Street. Their shopping took them to Fifth Avenue, and then, later, up Broadway to Forty-second Street. It was a different New York they saw—in fact, the New York best known to the stranger. The gorgeous palaces of trade glittered and sparkled, shimmered and flashed, with jewels and silver, with silks and knick-knacks. The immense and rich plenty of earth, the products of factories and mills, were lavishly poured here, gathered in isles, about which a swarming sea of well-dressed women pushed and crowded. The high ceilings were hung with glowing moons of light; the atmosphere was magic with confused talk, shuffling footsteps, and all the hum and stir of a human hive. Up and down Fifth Avenue swept a black thick stream of motors and carriages in which women and men lounged and stared. The great hotels sucked in and poured out tides of jeweled and lace-wrapped creatures, and in the lighted interiors of restaurants were rouged cheeks and kindled eyes.

As Joe and his mother reached Forty-second Street, that whirlpool of theaters released its matinee crowds, a flood of youth, beauty, brightness, and luxury.

And it seemed to Joe, seeing all this life from a Tenth Street viewpoint, that here was a great city of wealth and idleness. Evidently a large population had nothing to do save shop and motor, eat and idle. How could he from shabby Tenth Street send out a sheet of paper that would compete with these flashing avenues?

The sight depressed him. He said as much to his mother.

"This is New York," he said, "barbaric, powerful, luxuriant. These people are the power of the city—the mighty few—these are the owners. What can we do with them?"

His mother sensed then the struggle in his mind.

"Joe," she cried, "isn't there any place where we can see—the other people?"

There was. They took the car down to Eighth Street, they walked east, and entered little Washington Park, with its monumental arch, and its shadowy trees, its wide and curving walks—its general sense of being a green breathing-space in the sweep of streets. As they walked through the sharp wintry air in the closing sunlight, what time the blue electric lights gleamed out among the almost naked boughs, the six-o'clock whistles began blowing from factories all about them—a glad shriek that jumped from street to street over the city—and at once across the eastern plaza of the park streamed the strange torrent of the workers—a mighty, swift march of girls and boys, women and men, homeward bound, the day's work ended—a human stream, in the gray light, steeped in an atmosphere of accomplishment, sweet peace, solution. All life seemed to touch a moment of harvest.

Joe's mother was thrilled, and in spite of himself Joe felt his heart clutched, as it were, in a vise. He felt the strange, strong, human grip. It was a marvelous spectacle, though common, daily, and cheap as life.

Joe's mother whispered, in a low voice:

"Joe, this is the real New York!"

And then again:

"Those others are only a fraction—these are the people."

"Yes," murmured Joe, his blood surging to his cheeks, "these are the nine-tenths."

They went closer to that mighty marching host—they saw the cheap garments—baggy trousers, torn shoes, worn shirts; they saw the earnest, tired faces, the white and toil-shrunk countenances, the poverty, the reality of pain and work, all pressing on in an atmosphere of serious progress, as if they knew what fires roared, what sinews ached down in the foundations of the world where the future is created. And Joe realized, as never before, that upon these people and their captains, their teachers and interpreters, rested the burdens of civilization; that the mighty city was wrought by their hands and those who dreamed with them, that the foam and sparkle of Broadway and Fifth Avenue bubbled up from that strong liquor beneath. And he believed that the second-generation idlers had somehow expropriated the toilers and were living like drones in the hive, and he felt that this could not be forever, and he was seized by the conviction that a change could only come through the toilers themselves. Could these pale people but know their power, know their standing, know the facts of this strange double life, and then use their might wisely and well, constructively, creatively, to build up a better and fairer world, a finer justice, a more splendid day's work, a happier night's home! These that created a great city could, if trained, create a higher life in that city!

Surely the next few ages of the future had their work cut out for them—the most stupendous task the race had ever undertaken.

Then, after all, he was right. All who could must be dedicated to the work of sowing enlightenment, of yeasting the crowds with knowledge and love and light—all who could. Then he, too, could do his share; he, too, could reach this crowd. And these people—they were reachable. No theaters and restaurants competed with him here. Their hearts and minds were open. He could step in and share their lives. He had done so in his shop, and these were of the same human nature.

Power returned to him.

"Mother," he said, his eyes flashing, "it's all right. Now I'm ready to begin! I'm for the nine-tenths."

They turned, walking home in silence, and as they went the phrase "nine-tenths," which Joe must have picked up in some book on socialism or some sociological study, kept haunting his mind. The new power released in him made his brain work like lightning—creatively. Thoughts crowded, combinations sprung up; he began to actively dream and scheme.

"I've got it!" he cried. "Why not call my paper The Nine-Tenths?"

"Good!"

He began to plan aloud as the quick thoughts flashed.

"An eight-page paper—weekly. An editorial, giving some of the plain facts about civilization—simple stuff to teach the people what industry means, what their work means, what they ought to be doing. Then news—news about all movements toward freedom—labor, strikes, reform, new laws, schools—news of all the forces working for betterment—a concrete statement of where the world stands to-day and what it is doing. But a fair sheet, mother. No railing, no bitterness, no bomb-throwing. Plenty of horse sense, plenty of banking the fires, of delaying wisely. No setting class against class. No under-rating of leaders and captains. Justice, but plenty of mercy. Facts, but plenty of philosophy to cool 'em off. Progress all the time, but no French revolutions. And when sides must be taken, no dishonest compromises, no cowardly broad—mindedness—but always with the weakest, the under dog, whenever their cause is good. That's my programme; that's The Nine-Tenths."

"Of course," said his mother, "you'll see things clearer as you do them.
There'll be changes."

"Surely!" His mind was already miles ahead. "Mother, I've got it now, for sure!"

"What now?" She laughed, enthusiastically.

"Isn't this a whopper? No ads."

"But why not, Joe? That would support the paper."

"No, not a line. I don't expect the paper to pay. That's where our money comes in. We mustn't carry a line. Don't you see? There's hardly a paper in the land that is free. They're influenced by their advertising—that's their bread and butter. And even if they're not influenced, people suspect they are. We must be free even of that suspicion. We can be free—utterly so—say what we please—speak our minds out—and nothing to hinder us. That will be unique—that will be something new in magazines. We'll go the limit, mother."

His mother laughed.

"I guess you're right, Joe. It's worth trying. But how are you going to circulate the paper?"

"How?" Again his mind jumped forward. "House-to-house canvass—labor unions—street corners. I'm going to dig in now, get acquainted with the people round about, spread it any old way. And I'm going to start with the idea of a big future—twenty thousand copies finally. You see, it'll be a sort of underground newspaper—no publicity—but spreading from group to group among the workers. Broadway and up-town will never see a copy."

So the new life started, started in full swing. Joe worked late that very night putting his plans on paper, and the next morning there was plenty of activity for everybody. Joe bought a rebuilt cylinder press for fifteen hundred dollars and had it installed in the basement. Then he had the basement wired, and got an electric motor to furnish the power. John Rann and his family were moved down to a flat farther west on Tenth Street, and a feeder, a compositor, and a make-up man were hired along with him. In the press-room (the basement) was placed a stone—a marble-top table—whereon the make-up man could take the strips of type as they came from the compositors, arrange them into pages, and "lock them up" in the forms, ready to put on the presses.

Then Joe arranged with a printery to set up the type weekly; with a bindery to bind, fold, bundle, and address the papers; and with Patrick Flynn, truckman, to distribute the papers to newsdealers.

Next Joe made a tour of the neighborhood, spoke with the newsdealers, told them that all they would have to do was to deliver the papers to the addresses printed upon them. He found them willing to thus add to their income.

Thus he made ready. But he was not yet prepared to get subscriptions (one dollar a year or twenty-five cents a quarter), feeling that first he must have a sample paper to show.

The labor on that first number was a joy to him. He would jump up in the middle of the night, rush into the office, light the gas, and get to work in his nightgown. He was at it at all hours. And it proved to be an enormous task. Eight pages eight by twelve do not read like a lot, but they write like a very great deal. There was an editorial, "Greetings to You," in which Joe set forth in plain words the ideas and ideals of the paper, and in which he made clear the meaning of the phrase "nine-tenths." Then he found that there were two great strikes in progress in the city. This amazed him, as there was no visible sign of such a condition. The newspapers said nothing of it, and peace seemed to brood over the city's millions. Yet there were thousands of cloak-makers out, and over in Brooklyn the toilers in the sugar refineries were having little pitched battles with strike-breakers in the streets. Three men had been killed and a score wounded.

Joe dug into these strikes, called at the union headquarters, spoke with the men, even called on some of the cloak-makers' bosses and learned their grievances. Then he wrote accounts of the strike without taking sides, merely reporting the facts as fairly as he could.

In this way, and with the aid of clippings, and by printing that poem by Lowell which was his mother's favorite, wherein was the couplet already quoted,

"They are slaves who dare not be
In the right with two or three,"

he made up a hodge-podge of a magazine.

Up in the corner of the editorial page he ran the following, subject to change:

THE NINE-TENTHS

A WEEKLY WORD ABOUT MEN, WOMEN, AND CHILDREN

* * * * *

MY MOTTO

I ACCEPT LIFE LARGELY, BUT NOT IN DETAILS

* * * * *

SOME OF THE DETAILS NOT ACCEPTED ARE

Anything that prevents a child from being well born
and from fulfilling its possibilities.

Anything that prevents a woman or man from using
every good side of her or his nature.

ABOUT THESE DETAILS NO DOUBT:

DISEASE EXCESS WANT OVERWORK CHILD LABOR

And let's avoid jealousy, quarrels, ridicule, meanness,
and the rest of the mosquito things.

Otherwise: what a glorious world.

This didn't please him altogether, but he wanted to be definite and simple, and he wanted to show that he wasn't a narrow partisan.

Thus the first number came to be. As he turned it out, Billy rushed it in batches to the compositors, and when finally it all came back in strips of type, it was hurried down to the idlers in the basement. At ten-thirty that chilly, dust-blowing morning, when the sun-stricken air glittered with eddies of motes, Joe, sitting at his desk, had the exquisite rapture of feeling the building tremble.

He rushed to his mother, and exulted.

"Can't you feel the press going? Listen!"

Truly the new life had begun—the vision was beginning to crystallize in daily living.

"We're in the fight now, mother!" he cried. "There's something doing!"

And later, when Joe stood at the back of the press and that first complete sheet came through, he picked it up as if it were a new-born child, as indeed it was, wet, drippy, forlorn, and weird, and yet a wonder and a miracle. Joe looked on his own creation—the little sheets—the big, black The Nine-Tenths—the clear, good type. He was awed and reduced almost to tears.

He mailed a copy to Myra with a brief note:

DEAR MYRA,—Here's the answer to your question.
I'm doing the inclosed, and doing it in West Tenth
Street. Do you know the neighborhood? Old Greenwich
Village, red, shabby, shoddy, common, and vulgar.
Mother and I are as happy as children. How are you?
Your letter is splendid. I am sure you will come to
understand. When are you returning to New York?

As ever,

JOE BLAINE.

And he thought, "Now I have something to show Sally Heffer!"