BOOK V

COMRADE YETTA

[Illustration: Logo]

THE MACMILLAN COMPANY

NEW YORK · BOSTON · CHICAGO

DALLAS · SAN FRANCISCO

MACMILLAN & CO., LIMITED

LONDON · BOMBAY · CALCUTTA

MELBOURNE

THE MACMILLAN CO. OF CANADA, LTD.

TORONTO

COMRADE YETTA

BY

ALBERT EDWARDS

AUTHOR OF "A MAN'S WORLD"

New York

THE MACMILLAN COMPANY

1913

_All rights reserved_

COPYRIGHT, 1913,

BY THE MACMILLAN COMPANY.

Set up and electrotyped. Published February, 1913.

Norwood Press

J. B. Cushing Co.--Berwick & Smith Co.

Norwood, Mass., U.S.A.

CONTENTS

BOOK I

CHAPTER PAGE

I. BENJAMIN'S BOOK-STORE 1

II. YETTA'S GIRLHOOD 12

III. THE SWEAT-SHOP 23

IV. LIFE CALLS 34

V. HARRY KLEIN 48

VI. THE PIT'S EDGE 60

BOOK II

VII. THE SKIRT-FINISHERS' BALL 75

VIII. NEW FRIENDS 89

IX. YETTA ENLISTS 106

X. THE W. T. U. L. 122

XI. MABEL'S FLAT 131

XII. YETTA'S GOOD-BY 142

BOOK III

XIII. THE STRIKE 153

XIV. ARREST 166

XV. THE WORKHOUSE 185

XVI. CARNEGIE HALL 199

XVII. THE OPERATING ROOM 216

XVIII. WALTER'S FAREWELL 226

BOOK IV

XIX. YETTA'S WORK 243

XX. ISADORE BRAUN 263

XXI. _THE STAR_ 274

XXII. WALTER'S RETURN 295

XXIII. THE PALACE OF DREAMS 312

XXIV. THE CRASH 330

BOOK V

XXV. ISADORE'S MEDICINE 344

XXVI. _THE CLARION_ 356

XXVII. NEW WORK 370

XXVIII. YETTA TAKES HOLD 383

XXIX. WALTER'S HAVEN 401

XXX. EVALUATION 409

XXXI. YETTA FINDS HERSELF 423

XXXII. OLD FRIENDS MEET--AND PART 435

COMRADE YETTA

BOOK I

CHAPTER I

BENJAMIN'S BOOK-STORE

The girlhood of Yetta Rayefsky was passed in her father's second-hand

book-store on East Broadway. In the late nineties the fame of his kindly

philosophy had attracted a circle of followers, and the store became

almost prosperous.

It was in a basement--four steps down from the sidewalk. The

close-packed cases around the walls were filled with the wildest

assortment of second-hand English books. You were likely to find a novel

of Laura Jean Libby cheek by jowl with "The Book of Mormon," between two

volumes of "Browning's Poems." The tables in the centre were piled

chaotically with books and periodicals in Russian and Hebrew.

Every night in the week you would have found Benjamin Rayefsky and his

little daughter Yetta perched on high stools back of the desk to the

left of the door. He would have greeted you with his sad, wistful smile,

and would have gotten down to shake hands with you. It would have

surprised and hurt him if you had asked at once for a book, paid for it,

and gone out. It was customary to take plenty of time and to make quite

sure that he did not have in stock some book you would prefer to the one

you had come after.

When he had succeeded in making you feel at home, he would have returned

to his desk, and Yetta would have gone on reading aloud to him. Very

likely you would have wanted to laugh at the discussions they had over

how various English words should be pronounced. When they could not

agree, Benjamin would write down the word on a slip of paper for Yetta

to take to school in the morning and submit to the teacher. You would

have wondered with amusement how much the little lassie understood of

the ponderous tomes she read in her high-pitched uncertain voice.

But you would not have wanted to laugh at the memory you carried away of

the couple. More than one Gentile who had dropped into the store by

chance went away racking their brains to recall the Holy Picture the

Rayefskys suggested. It was what the psychologists call "inverse

association." The Father and Daughter inevitably called to mind the

Mother and Son.

Benjamin resembled--except for an ugly scar on his forehead--Guido

Reni's "Christ." There was the same poignant sadness about his mouth,

the same soft beard and sensitive nose; there was the same otherworldly

kindliness in his eyes and his every gesture. And little Yetta was very

like the Child Mary in Titian's "Presentation."

Towards nine o'clock the little shop began to fill up. First of the

regulars was a consumptive lad whose attention had been caught by an

advertisement asserting that a certain encyclopædia was worth a

university education. Lacking money to go to college or to acquire so

large a set of books, he was reading one of these compendiums in

Rayefsky's Book-store. He had reached the letter "R," and considered

himself a junior. There were others who came for regular reading, but

more came to talk--and to listen to Benjamin. At ten he would close

Yetta's book and, putting his arm about her shoulders, begin his evening

discourse. Generally his text was some phrase from his reading which had

impressed him during the day. Before long the little girl's eyes would

close and her head fall over on her father's shoulder.

But one night he kept her awake. There was a wedding in progress across

the street. It was his custom to talk directly to some one person of his

audience, and this night he addressed himself to Yetta. With poetic

imagination he paraphrased the idyll of Ruth, Naomi, and Boaz, making of

the story an interpretation of marriage for his daughter's guidance.

Some time in the years to come a Man would claim her, and against that

time he taught her the vow that Ruth made to Naomi.

"Whither thou goest, I will go; where thou lodgest, I will lodge: thy

people shall be my people, and thy God my God: where thou diest will I

die, and there will I be buried: the Lord do so to me, and more also, if

aught but death part thee and me."

He made her repeat the vow over and over again in Hebrew until she knew

it by heart.

"It is with these words, my daughter," he said, "that you must greet the

Bridegroom."

Much of the gentle wisdom which her father preached to the little

shopful of listeners Yetta did not fully understand. But for nine

years, from the time she was six till she reached fifteen, it was the

lullaby to which, every night, she fell asleep, perched on her high

stool, her head on his shoulder. Much of it sank in.

This is to be the story of how little Yetta Rayefsky grew up into useful

happiness. But her father's influence was the thing, more than all else,

that differentiated her from thousands of other East Side girls. Without

Benjamin's story, hers would be incomprehensible.

His father had been a man of means in the Russian town of Kovna. But

Benjamin, the only son, had no talent for trade; he was of the type of

Jews who dream. And he loved books. The library facilities of the Kovna

Ghetto were limited, but he read everything on which he could lay hands.

From his youth up he knew and loved the Psalms and the more poetic

sections of the Prophets. The age-old beauty of the Hebrew literature

was a never failing spring at which he refreshed his soul. He had also

read the novels of Gogol, Korolenko, and Dostoiefsky, and the few books

he could find on history and science.

A strange sort of cosmography had grown out of this ill-assorted

reading. He took the Prophecies seriously and looked forward with

abiding faith to the coming of the Kingdom of God on earth. Like most

deeply religious people he was not strictly orthodox. He scrupulously

observed the forms of Hebraic ritualism, but his real inspiration came

from King David rather than from scribes who compiled the Talmud or the

Rabbis who minutely interpreted the Torah. He had much sympathy with the

Zionists, for they also had ardent faith in the Promises, but he took no

interest in the geographical aspects of their aspirations. The Messiah,

when he came, would establish His reign over all the earth. He also

believed, as did the Zionists, that the Jews were the light-bearers of

the human family, but he considered them a People chosen for special

service--not for peculiar favors.

Added to this hoary mysticism was a very disjointed idea of world's

history and a crude conception of Evolution. He believed that God's

purpose with the Race was being worked out through the development of

Democracy--which he understood to be another word for loving-kindness

and brotherhood. He had never seen Democracy. He knew nothing of the

crimes committed in its name; he had no conception of the modern

Plutocracy, which is everywhere in a life-and-death struggle with

Democracy--and as often as not seems to be winning the fight.

This vague idealization of Democracy was stimulated by the rare letters

from his sister Martha in New York. While Benjamin was still a lad she

had married David Goldstein, a ne'er-do-weel of the community, and with

her dowry they had emigrated. The poor woman could hardly be blamed if

she hid from her family the cruel realities of her life. She wrote what

she thought would please them. As her imagination was limited, she

borrowed her metaphors from the Scriptures and had milk and honey

flowing down the Bowery. Benjamin often illuminated his talks on the

Promised Land by references to the freedom and justice of America. It

was not hard for him to believe in a Utopia. It did not seem too much to

ask that all men should be as unselfish and gentle as himself.

Living thus in his dreams he grew to manhood. In the early twenties he

married. His wife, fortunately, had common sense enough for two, and

protected his patrimony from waste. The first child they named Benjamin,

and a few years later Yetta was born.

The father held a privileged position in the Jewish community. His pure,

unworldly life, his ever ready sympathy, his learning and homely wisdom,

had earned him the rank of a saint. There were some, of course, who

shook their heads over his dreamings. With so much money to start with,

they said, he might have become rich--perhaps a "merchant of the first

class." But every one loved him. The women came to him with their

troubles, and even the busiest, most careworn men liked to sit for a

while and hear him recite the sonorous prophecies and talk of the

Kingdom which is to come.

It was in 1890 that Benjamin and his daughter were torn loose from their

anchorage. The affair lacked the proportions of the later and more

formal Jew-killings of Kishineff and Odessa. The cause of the outbreak

was never explained, but we, who lynch negroes on so slight provocation,

may not throw stones. Unexpectedly a mob--the scum of the Christian

quarter--rushed into the Ghetto. At first they were intent on loot, but

the hooligans had had to drink much vodka to generate sufficient courage

to attack the defenceless Jews. Passions so stimulated cannot be

controlled, and soon the mob was engaged in murder and rape. Benjamin

went out on the street to reason with them. They left him for dead.

It was several weeks before he regained his consciousness. An ugly scar

stretched from above his left eye to his ear. Many of his friends held

that he never quite recovered from that wound, for as long as he lived

he sometimes spoke of his wife and his son Benjamin as though they were

still alive. But such lapses of memory happened rarely; generally he

remembered that they had been buried while he was in the hospital. He

had only Yetta left. He would surely have gone mad if he had lived on

among the memories of Kovna. So he had emigrated to join his sister in

the Happy Valley of America.

There was wonderful vitality to Benjamin's dreams. Even the tangible

realities of Orchard Street could not obliterate them.

Many hideous things which he saw he did not understand. Among such

phenomena was his brother-in-law. In the social organization of the

Kovna Ghetto, David Goldstein had found no place. The opportunities for

viciousness were too limited for him; he had been only a shiftless

misfit. But on the East Side of New York his distorted talents found a

market. He had sold them to Tammany Hall. His wife's money had been

wasted in a legitimate business enterprise for which he had no fitness.

A defalcation had caused his arrest, the District Leader had saved him

from jail, and David found the niche into which he fitted. He was

nominal owner of The Sioux Hotel--a saloon of the worst repute. The

profits of vice are large, but those "higher up" always claim the lion's

share. And as David had taken to drink--a rare vice among the Jews--his

wife and her three children were having a very miserable time of it.

Perhaps it was the wound across his forehead which made it difficult for

Benjamin to see clearly. About all he seemed to realize was that his

sister could not afford to live comfortably. He had brought with him a

few thousand dollars, the wreck of his father's fortune, and, by

offering to pay liberally for a room and board, he enabled his sister to

move into a better flat and so dulled the edge of her poverty. Some

instinctive wisdom made him resist David's impassioned appeals to invest

his money in The Sioux Hotel.

But he was no more of a business man than his brother-in-law, and before

long, seduced by his passion for reading, he was persuaded to buy the

second-hand book-store.

It was a dark basement. There were only a few hours a day when one could

read, even in the front, without a lamp. But it was Yetta's home. To be

sure, she and her father slept at the Goldsteins' flat and had breakfast

there. But by seven they were in the book-store. For lunch they had tea

and buns from the coffee-house upstairs, and at six o'clock Yetta

brought their dinner from her aunt's in a pail. At first the place had

seemed to Yetta very large, and the darkness in the back limitless and

fearsome. Once, when her father had gone back there and she could not

see him, she had become frightened and called him. He, laughing at her

timidity, had taken her in his arms and they had explored all the dark

corners by candle-light. She always remembered the sense of relief which

had come to her when she realized how small it was.

Benjamin was thirty-four when this change in his life took place. With

his scholarly turn of mind, it did not take him long to learn to read

English fluently. But in his store on East Broadway he had little chance

to speak the new language. Few of his customers spoke anything but

Russian or Yiddish. Yetta always found it hard not to pronounce "book"

"buk." This was the first word her father taught her. He was an

insistent teacher. He realized his own inability to become an active

unit in the seething, incomprehensible life about him. His explorations

of the new world were meagre. He was tied to the store except on

Saturday afternoons, and he could not desecrate the Sabbath by trolley

rides. The poverty and misery which he could not ignore, he thought of

as local. The unhappy lot of his people was due to their ignorance,

their inability to understand the new language, their age-old habits of

semiserfdom. But with Yetta it was to be different! She was to be fitted

for full participation in the rich life of perfect freedom. He put

especial emphasis on the language.

There were few things which made him outspokenly angry. The principal

ones were the Jewish papers. Yiddish was to him the language of the

Kovna Ghetto, the language of persecutions and pogroms. The pure Hebrew

of the Scriptures--Yes!--he would have every child of the Race know

that. He taught it to Yetta. It was the reservoir of all the rich

traditions and richer promises. But Yiddish was a bastard jargon which

his people had learned in captivity. It held no treasures of the past,

no future hope. Let his people supplement the language of their

forefathers by one of freedom. Let them learn the speech of the land of

Refuge. His contempt for Yiddish, of course, isolated him from

everything vital in the life of the East Side, and drove him back

farther into his dreams and to Yetta.

As soon as she was old enough she went to the closely packed public

school near by. While she was away, he read hungrily. He had cleared a

shelf in the darkest corner of the store, and there he put by all the

books which pleased him--those he wanted her to read when she grew old

enough. They were not for sale. Yetta got very little play during her

childhood. Back in the store, after school hours, she perched up on a

high stool beside her father and went over her lessons with him.

At the end of the first year Benjamin's bank account had decreased by

five hundred dollars. It had been a rare month when the total sales had

equalled the month's rent and living expenses. But he was not depressed.

A customer asked him one time about his business.

"Although I do not sell many books," Benjamin replied, "I have much time

to read."

The second year would have been worse except for the lucky chance which

secured him the agency for some Russian newspapers and considerably

increased his income. If he had not so stubbornly refused to have

anything to do with Yiddish, the store might have become prosperous, for

he gradually learned the business and grew to use some judgment in

replenishing his stock. His quaint philosophy attracted a little group

of admirers. Even if they did not entirely accept his dreams, they liked

to hear him talk about them.

In this environment Yetta grew into girlhood. Every day when her school

work was finished she read aloud to her father from the books he had

placed on the reserved shelf. It was a planless mixture--a History of

the Jews, Motley and Prescott, Shakespeare and Dickens and Emerson.

The last thing she read to him was a three-volume edition of _Les

Miserables_. She was fifteen then, and her reading was frequently

interrupted by his coughs. Perhaps he had caught it from the lad who was

racing with death to graduate from the Encyclopedia. Benjamin's friends

shook their heads mournfully. But he expected to recover soon; was he

not taking his "patent medicine" regularly? And so to the wonderful

symphony of Hugo's masterpiece Benjamin coughed out his life. The third

volume was read, not in the little store, but in their bedroom in the

Goldstein's flat. It was the last book Yetta read for several years.

When it was finished, she had begun to be afraid; she did not have the

courage to begin a new book. He was too sick to listen.

CHAPTER II

YETTA'S GIRLHOOD

The death of her father was a greater catastrophe to Yetta than she

realized. She felt only the personal loss. Her uncle took care of the

financial matters, sold the book-store, and so forth. When the funeral

expenses were paid, he said there was nothing left. Coming back from the

cemetery, her aunt, in as kindly a manner as was possible to so

woe-begone and soured a woman, tried to explain to her what it meant to

be penniless. Leave school? Go to work? She hardly listened. Her sorrow

was too real, too wild and incoherent.

The Goldsteins had three children. Isaac was eighteen. Two years before

he had graduated from the House of Refuge--a pickpocket of parts. He had

his ups and downs, but on the whole he found money "easy," and hardly a

week passed when he did not hand his mother a few dollars.

The twin daughters of sixteen were working and brought their wages home.

Rosa was anæmic, querulous, and unattractive. She worked "bei

buttonholes." A slight curvature of the spine, which had become apparent

in her childhood, had developed into a pitiful deformity after the years

bent over a machine. Rachel had monopolized all the charms of health

and good spirits which should have been divided between them. Her face

looked much younger than Rosa's, but her body had developed into a

pleasing womanhood which had been entirely denied her sister. She was

not beautiful, but she was red blooded, merry, and likable. She was a

milliner and earned twice as much as Rosa.

So the Goldsteins should have been fairly prosperous, but the father's

craving for alcohol had grown more rapidly than the earning capacity of

his children. Poverty had weighed too heavily on Mrs. Goldstein to allow

her to tolerate an idler, and besides she had always looked with

disapproval on Yetta's unwomanly education. It seemed almost impious to

her to have a girl in school. She had perjured herself blissfully about

the age of her own daughters to avoid the Truant Officer. For a few days

the family left Yetta alone in her room to cry. Then they jerked her out

of the stupor of her grief, and threw her into the cauldron of modern

industry.

Rachel had seen a sign which advertised the need of "beginners" in the

Vest Trade. Yetta followed her docilely up two flights of dirty stairs

into a long work-room, which had been made by knocking the partitions

out of a tenement-house flat. It was a gloomy place, for the side

windows were faced by a dingy brick wall three feet away. The end

windows looked out on Allen Street. The tracks of the elevated were on a

level with the floor, and every few minutes the light which might have

been expected from this quarter was cut off by the rush of a train.

Artificial illumination was needed all the year round.

In the street below children shouted and cried; pushcart peddlers

hawked their wares in strident, rasping voices; heavy trucks, loaded

with clattering milk-cans, rattled deafeningly over the cobblestones.

The chaos of noise caught in the narrow cañon of the street seemed to

unaccustomed ears a pandemonium which must be audible in high heaven.

But none of this noise entered the long dark room two flights up. At one

end of the shop a cheap electric motor threw its energy into two

revolving shafts along the ceiling; these in turn passed it down a maze

of roaring belts to a dozen sewing-machines--all twelve going at top

speed. It sounded as if no one of the many bearings in the room had been

oiled, as if each of the innumerable cogs in the machines were a misfit.

The sound seemed like a tangible substance which could be felt. There

was no room left in the shop for the noises of the street. If Gabriel

had blown his horn on the sidewalk below, the silent women bent over the

speeding machines would not have heard--they would have missed the

Resurrection.

Dazed by this strange and fearsome environment, Yetta caught tight hold

of her cousin's hand. But Rachel, the adventurous, would not have been

dismayed in Daniel's den of lions. She boldly led the way into the

"office." Half a dozen women, all older, were already in line. The

boss--a rotund, narrow-eyed man--was looking them over. But as soon as

he saw the young girls he lost interest in the women.

"This is my cousin, Yetta Rayefsky," Rachel said. "She'd make a good

beginner."

"Afraid of work?" he asked gruffly.

Yetta was speechlessly afraid of everything. But Rachel answered for

her--a flood of extravagant, high-pitched eulogy.

"One dollar a week, while she's learning. Regular piece price when she

gets a machine."

One of the older women, seeing the hopelessness of her own

situation,--all the bosses preferred youth,--began to wail.

"Shut up!" the boss growled. "I will take the girl. Get out, all of

you."

So Yetta was employed. At first the work consisted of carrying, piling,

and wrapping bundles of vests. The loads were very heavy for her

unpractised back. But she managed to live through the first day, and the

next, and gradually got used to it. After a long wait she was put at a

machine.

Even in such grossly mechanical work as sweat-shop labor, brains and

youth count. Yetta's fingers were still plastic. Before long she had

mastered the routine movements. Above all, she proved quicker than the

other women in such emergencies as a broken thread. In less time than

usual she worked to the top and became the "speeder," drawing almost

double pay.

During the years which followed, while all that part of her brain which

had to do with manual dexterity was keenly alive, the rest--the part of

her brain in which her father had been interested--went to sleep. It was

inevitable. Perhaps if she had been older when the crisis came, she

might have made a struggle against her environment. She might have

resisted her weariness for an hour or so after she came home, might have

propped her eyes open and continued her studies, but she was only

fifteen.

At first, while still a "beginner," her earnings were so small that

there was some measure of charity in her aunt's sheltering of her. She

was constantly reminded of the need of increasing her wages. But before

this incentive had passed, before her pay began to amount to a fair

charge for her board and lodging, before her spirit had recovered from

the lethargy which had followed the loss of her father, she had been

taken captive by "Speed." It was the keynote of her waking life. Every

detail of the sweat-shop, the talk of her table mates, the groaning song

of the belts--even the vitiated air--were "suggestions" beating in on

her plastic consciousness, urging ever increasing rapidity.

It had become a habit for her to hand over all her wages to her aunt.

She had her father's lack of guile and less experience. The bedroom

which Benjamin had shared with his daughter was rented to a stranger.

Yetta had to sleep in the same bed with the twins. She had to wear their

outgrown clothes. But even if she had realized how little she was

getting in exchange for her wages, she would not have had the courage to

go out among strangers. And she had not sufficient energy--after all the

machine took--to argue about it with her bitter, hardened aunt.

The drab monotony of her sweat-shop life was unbroken. The bosses

changed frequently. So did the workers. But the process was

unchanged--except that each new boss shaved the price per piece and

pushed up the rate of speed. And then, after three years, a little

flickering gleam of sunshine fell on Yetta's face. Rachel went to a

ball.

Mrs. Goldstein objected to "dance-halls" because she was old fashioned

and knew nothing about them. Mr. Goldstein objected because he knew them

all too well. So when Rachel announced one night at supper that she was

going to "The Mask and Civic Ball of the Hester Street Democratic Club,"

a storm broke loose. Mr. Goldstein--none too gently--threw his daughter

into the bedroom and locked the door. Later in the evening he came home

a shade more drunk than usual. Smashing some furniture to wake the

household, he delivered a speech on the text of female respectability

and where he would rather see his daughter than in a dance-hall. The

"grave" was the least unattractive place he mentioned. Rachel seemed to

give in before the family wrath.

But in her trade there were frequent rush periods when it was necessary

to work after supper. One night she came home unusually late. As soon as

she had put out the light and crawled into bed, she woke up the two

girls and confided to them in great excitement that she had been to a

ball. A girl in her shop had lent her some finery, a shirtwaist, a pair

of white shoes, and a hat. Of course one could not go to a dance in a

shawl. It had been "something grand." She kept them awake a long time

telling of the fine dresses, the "swell" music, and the good-looking

men. She was too "mad about it" to sleep. She jumped out of bed and,

humming a popular tune, danced a waltz for them in her nightgown. She

was very sleepy in the morning, but the music was still in her ears. The

other girls were rather dismayed by her rank disobedience. The morose

and spiteful Rosa threatened to tell her father. Rachel herself became

frightened at this and promised never to do it again.

But not many days passed before Rachel announced at supper that she

would have to work late that night. Somehow Yetta knew it was a

pretext. She could hardly get to sleep. She woke up the moment Rachel

tiptoed into the room.

"You've been again," she said.

"Sure. But don't wake up Rosa."

"It's very wrong."

It may be that Rachel, who was only nineteen and had been brought up

blindfolded, did not see anything wrong in the two dances she had

attended. There are many perfectly respectable dances on the East Side.

Fate may have led her to such. Or perhaps she glossed over dangers she

had seen. She denied Yetta's charge. Rosa snored regularly beside them,

while the two girls whispered half the night through.

Rachel's defence, although some of it was only half expressed,--she was

not used to talking frankly about holy things,--was sound. After all,

women do not come into the world to spend their lives in sweat-shops.

They ought to marry and bear children. What chance did she have? She saw

no men in her factory. It might be all right to leave such things to

one's parents--if they were the right kind. But every one knew her

father was a penniless, shiftless drunkard. What sort of a match could

he arrange for her?

She was going to as many dances as she could. First of all, they were

fun, and precious little fun did she get trimming hats for other women

to wear. And then--well--she was not ugly. Perhaps some nice young man

would marry her. That very evening a "swell fellow" had danced with her

four times. He had wanted to walk home with her. But she would not let

him do that, till she was sure he was "serious." She would see him

again at a dance on Saturday night, and she would find out. What other

chance had she? Her father could do nothing for her. Nor her mother. Nor

her brother. Well--she was of age, she would do for herself.

"And if I was as swell looking as you are, Yetta," she said, "I'd sure

get a winner. Why don't you come to a dance with me?"

The next day at the lunch hour Yetta overheard some of the girls talking

about dances. Instead of going off by herself, as she generally did, to

consecrate her few minutes of leisure to memories of her father, she sat

down and listened to them. Yetta did not know how to dance. But the next

time a hurdy-gurdy came by at noon, she began with the help of her

shopmates to learn. Although she made rapid progress, although she

listened eagerly to Rachel's account of stolen gayeties, she did not

give in to her cousin's urgings. Her natural timidity, joined to a habit

of obedience, kept her from going to a dance.

But a new element had come into her life. She began to feel that in some

shameful way she was being defrauded. Was she to know nothing of Life

but the sweat-shop? Was her youth to slip away uselessly? Since Rachel

had spoken of her looks, she sometimes lingered before the mirrors in

store windows and wondered if her smooth skin was doomed to turn

wrinkled and yellow like that of the women at her table. Was she never

to have children? The future, which she had never thought about before,

began to look dark and fearsome. She did not feel that anything of

lasting good could be gained by sneaking out to a ball, but at least, as

Rachel said, it must be fun. Was she never to have any fun? Were the

years--one after another--to creep by without music or laughter? Sooner

or later the craving for a larger life would have forced her out to

adventure with Rachel, but the temptress was suddenly removed.

Isaac Goldstein encountered his sister at a dance. He had not been home

for more than a week, but he came the next day and told his parents.

When Rachel came in from work that evening, the drunken father denounced

her as a disgrace to his fair name. Rachel listened in sullen silence to

his foul abuse until, enraged by his own eloquence, he struck her. She

turned very white and then suddenly laughed.

"Good-by, Yetta and Rosie!" And then, clenching her fist at her father,

she cried out: "And you--you go to Hell."

She slammed the door behind her and never came back.

David Goldstein did not often trouble to go to the Synagogue, but the

next Friday night he put on his old frock-coat and frayed silk hat and

in the meeting-house of the men of Kovna, he read the Service for the

Dead over his pleasure-loving daughter.

Yetta was surprised to find how much she missed her cousin. To be sure

she had not seen much of her--they worked in different shops. But since

they had shared this secret together, it had seemed almost like having a

friend. It had never been a joyous household, and now with Rachel's

occasional laughs gone it was bleak indeed.

But these confidences, short-lived as they were, had--in spite of their

tragic ending--done their work with Yetta. They had suddenly opened a

window in the wall of the dark room where she lived. Through it she

saw, as through a glass darkly, a fair garden, lit with the sunlight of

laughter, a garden where blossomed the wondrous flowers of music, of

joy--of Romance.

Since the recent development of "Child Study," since grave and erudite

professors have written learned volumes on the subject of "Play," many

things, which former generations thought lightly of, have taken on

importance. In the gurgling of a month-old baby we now see an

experimentation with, a training of, the vocal apparatus which may later

win the plaudits of a crowded opera or sway the council chamber of a

nation. It is no longer senseless and rather disgusting noise. It is

part of the profound development of Man. The haphazard muscular reflexes

of a five-year-old boy--the running violently to nowhere in particular,

the jumping over nothing at all--is no longer, as our grandfathers held,

an aimless and sometimes bothersome amusement. A human being is getting

acquainted with the intricate system of nerve complexes and

motor-muscles which is to carry him through his allotted work in the

world. And the little girl with her sawdust doll has become a portentous

thing. If she does not learn to hold it properly at seven, her real

babies, when she is twenty-seven, are likely to fare badly.

Yetta had never had dolls. There had been no younger children in her

household. She had never associated with boys. In a starved, vicarious

way, through the confidence of Rachel, she had begun to "play" with the

ideas of marriage, of home-making, of babies. An unrest, the cause of

which she did not guess, had invaded her. She was just coming into

womanhood. Nature was working deep and momentous changes in her being.

It is a transition which may be beautiful and joyous if freedom for play

is given to the developing organs and nerve-centres. Because of her

starved childhood it came to Yetta late and abruptly. She was becoming a

woman in an environment where nobody wanted anything but wage-earning

"hands." And so to her it meant erratic moods of black despair, of

uncontrolled and ludicrous lyricisms, of sudden and senseless

timidities, abnormal, insane desires.

Unless something happened, her womanhood was to be wasted. She had sore

need of a Prince in Silver Armor. But no Princes go about nowadays

rescuing fair damsels from the Ogre Greed. However, Rachel had opened a

window on a quasi-fairyland where, if there were no bona fide princes,

there were at least some "swell-looking men." And just as she was

getting intoxicated with the wonderful vision, the window was slammed

shut in her face.

CHAPTER III

THE SWEAT-SHOP

The sudden closing of the window made her prison cell seem darker than

before. It needed the contrast of the vision to make her see the

sordidness and squalor--the grim reality--of that long dark room, with

its chaos of noise, its nerve-destroying "speed."

Scattered through the East Side of New York there are hundreds such

"sweat-shops," engaged in the various branches of the "garment trade."

Sometimes there will be half a dozen in the same tenement; one above

another. Even the factory inspectors are never sure of the exact number.

They are running so close a race with bankruptcy, it is hard to keep

track of them. Often half a dozen will fail on the same day, and as many

new ones will start the next. It is not on record that any one ever

found a good word to say for the "sweating system." Such "shops" exist

because I and you and the good wife and the priest who married you like

to buy our clothes as cheaply as possible.

Yetta's "shop" manufactured vests. The four women at each table formed a

"team." With separate operations on the same garment, they had to keep

in exact unison. If any one slowed up, they all lost money by the

delay. They were paid "by the piece," and long hours, seven days a week,

brought them so infinitesimal a margin over the cost of brute

necessities that the loss of a few cents a day was a tragedy for the

older women with children to feed.

Yetta, the youngest of all, was Number One at her table.

The name of Number Two was Mrs. Levy. She was anywhere between

twenty-five and fifty, bovine in appearance, but her fingers were as

agile as a monkey's. She sat stolidly before her machine, her big body,

which had lost all form, almost motionless, her arms alone active. Her

face was void of any expression. Her washed-out eyes were half closed,

for they were inflamed with tracoma. Eight years before she had brought

her three children over from Galicia to join her husband and had found

him dying of tuberculosis. She had been making vests ever since. She was

an ideal sweat-shop worker, reliable--the kind that lasts.

Opposite her Mrs. Weinstein grabbed the vests as they left Mrs. Levy's

machine. She also was a large woman, but not much over thirty, and just

entering the trade. She was of merry disposition and had kept much of

her youthful charm. Her hair, of course, was disordered; the cloth-dust

stuck in blotches to her perspiring face. There was a smudge of machine

grease over one cheek, but where her blouse--unbuttoned--exposed her

throat and the rise of her breasts, the skin was still soft and white.

Her husband, of whom she always spoke with fond admiration as a very

kind and wise man, had deserted her a few months before. Engaged in

another branch of the garment trades, he had become involved in one of

the strikes which with increasing frequency were shaking the sweating

system. He had been black-listed. After weeks of fruitless search for

work, he had disappeared. If he found work elsewhere, he would send for

his wife. He could not bear to stay and be supported by her. She had a

sister, who had married well and who would not let the babies starve.

Besides, she did not consider herself a regular vest-maker. Some day,

soon, her husband would find work, in Boston, Philadelphia--somewhere.

She was always expecting a letter to-morrow. So Mrs. Weinstein could

afford to be cheerful.

But if Number Two had an unusually stolid body and phlegmatic brain--the

type which suffers least from sweating; and if Number Three had been

blessed with a merry, hopeful soul, Mrs. Cohen, at the foot of the

table, had none of these advantages. She had been Number One, not so

very long before--a marvel of speed. Then she had begun to cough. It is

impossible to cough without breaking the regular rhythm which means

speed. In a few months she had slipped down to the bottom. She was no

older than Mrs. Weinstein, but her skin was as yellow as Mrs. Levy's,

and even more unlovely, for the flesh behind it had melted away; the

only prominences on her body were where her bones pushed out.

She had begun at twenty-one, when her husband died leaving her with two

children. There had been another baby a couple of years later--because

she had hoped the man would marry her and take her out of the inferno.

He had not. And there was no hope any more, for who would marry a woman

with bad lungs and three children?

Despair, while embittering her, had cleared her vision. She saw the

"shop" and the "system"--and understood. She had entered the trade

strong and healthy, and had been well-paid at first, when she had the

great desideratum--Speed. It had seemed like good pay then. But now she

knew better. They had been buying not only her day-by-day ability, they

had bought up her future. For the wages of less than ten years they had

bought all her life--they had bought even her children! Already the flow

of vests had piled up once or twice too swiftly for her. Jake Goldfogle,

the present boss, was threatening to discharge her. If she lost this

job, it would be the end. The Gerry Society would surely take her babies

and put them in "institutions." No, she had not been well-paid in the

days when they had given her extra wages for the pace that kills. It is

small pleasure for a mother to hush the hunger-cry of her children, but

that was all the joy that was left to Mrs. Cohen. And if she lost her

job, she would lose even this.

Just in proportion as Number Four at the bottom of the table had learned

many bitter things from life, so Yetta at the head had almost everything

yet to learn. She began the long lesson with a pain in her back.

It came unexpectedly. It was as much the insulting surprise of it, as

the hurt itself, which made her cry out sharply and drop her

work--throwing the whole team out of rhythm.

"_Wos is dir_, Yetta?" Mrs. Weinstein asked with motherly solicitude.

"Oy-yoy-yoy!" Yetta said, putting her hand to her back--"_Es is schon

verbei_."

Mrs. Cohen at the bottom of the table laughed mirthlessly.

"It will come back," she screamed in Yiddish above the din of the

machinery. "I know. It begins so. One speeds two, three

years--four--with one it is the lungs, with another it is the back, or

the eyes." She seized the momentary pause to ease herself with coughs.

Mrs. Levy, who had been long in the trade, had seen many a "speeder"

give in; some slowly, some suddenly. She had seen dozens of them,

fighting desperately the fight for food, slip down from the head to the

foot and out--out through the door to the street and nowhere. As Mrs.

Cohen had said, it was sometimes the eyes, sometimes the lungs,

sometimes the back. She nodded her head in affirmation. Oh yes, she had

seen it many times. She could have told the story of one mother who had

gone on speeding in spite of back and lungs and eyes, had kept on

speeding until one day she had fallen over her machine dead. Her hair

had gotten tangled in the cogs, and they had to cut it to take her away.

Mrs. Weinstein tried to comfort Yetta.

"Don't listen to them," she said. "You are yet young--you'll be all

right--"

She stopped abruptly, for the office door had opened and Jake Goldfogle

came out. His ear, trained to the chaotic noise of the shop, had caught

the momentary halt.

"_Ober, mein Gott, wos is der mer?_" he roared.

Mrs. Cohen, who had caught up with her work and was waiting for more,

pointed an accusing finger at Yetta.

Jake Goldfogle was twenty-eight. This was his first "shop." The

dominant expression of his face--which he tried to cover with an

assumption of masterliness--was worry. The person who has been ground by

poverty is never a debonaire gambler. But these ignorant, unimaginative

women who slaved for him, whom he lashed with his tongue and sometimes

struck, did not understand his situation, did not know of the myriad

nightmares which haunted his waking as well as his sleeping hours. They

bent low over their machines, hurrying under the eye of the master,

holding their breath to catch the torrent of abuse they expected to hear

fall on Yetta.

They did not realize--least of all did Yetta--that she was an exception.

Jake swallowed the curses on his tongue and asked her in a constrained

and unfamiliar voice what was wrong.

"Nothing," she said. "A pain in my back."

No sort of pain known to women was considered a valid excuse for

breaking speed. She wondered with sullen, servile anger how much he

would fine her. If any of the women had looked up, they would have seen

strange twists on the boss's face. He turned abruptly, without a word,

and went back to his office. He sat down at his desk and looked through

the little window, by means of which he could, glancing up from his

ledger, spy on the roomful of workers. His eyes rested a moment on

Yetta's stooped back. Then, grasping his temples, he paced up and down

his dingy office, cursing the day he was born. He was in love with Yetta

and could not afford to tell her so.

The psychology of the refugees from Russian and Galician Ghettos, who

come to live among us, is very hard for us to understand. Above all,

the Jew is marked by single-mindedness and consistency of purpose. We

have our Anglo-Saxon tradition of compromise and confused issues. We

have generally several irons in the fire. We shift easily--often

flippantly--from one purpose to another. The Semite, having once

accepted a goal is hard to divert.

Coming to us, as most of them do, in abject poverty, it is small wonder

that many a Jewish lad decides that the Holy Grail is made of American

dollars. The surprising thing is the unswerving fidelity with which they

follow the quest--a fidelity which is quite absent in the legends of

King Arthur's English Knights. It is the same no matter what ideal they

choose. Just as the money grubber will deny himself necessary food and

overwork his wife and children to amass a little capital, so the East

Side poet will stick to writing rhymes in Yiddish, although it can never

give him a decent living, and the Jewish Socialist will hold fast to his

principles through starvation and persecution.

Jake Goldfogle had a vague recollection of a great wave which had washed

over the steerage deck of an immigrant steamer and had scared him

immensely. All his other memories were set in the scenery of the New

York slums. He had "got wise" young, with the wisdom of the gutter,

which says that you must be either a hammer or an anvil, preyed upon or

preying. For the last fifteen years he and his sister, more recently

reënforced by her husband, had been engaged in a desperate struggle to

pull up out of the muck.

For years the three of them had been slaves to the machine. Six months

before they had put all their miserable savings, all their credit, into

buying this "shop." They had accepted a highly speculative contract from

which there could be no halfway issue. A dozen weeks more and it would

be over--either an immense success or utter ruin. Failure meant the

swallowing up in a moment of the results of their long slavery; it meant

going back to the machine.

Hundreds of men throughout the city, in the different garment trades,

were in exactly the same position. Ground between the gambling nature of

their contracts and insufficiently secured credit, the fear of ruin in

their hearts, they had been driving the rowels deeper and deeper into

the flanks of the animals who worked for them--on whose backs they hoped

to win to the gilded goal of success. But revolt from such conditions

was inevitable. Strikes were constantly occurring. This fear was the

worst of Jake Goldfogle's nightmares.

The revolt of the garment workers was as yet unorganized and chaotic.

There were a dozen odd unions, but few of them were strong or well

disciplined. Too many of those in the trade were immigrants from

southeastern Europe and the Russian Pale--where only a few of the men

are literate. Most of them were women--mothers. When the long hours in

the shops were over, they hurried home to their children. It was very

hard to get them to meetings.

But in spite of all these handicaps the workers were gradually

organizing. Such strikes as had already occurred had had little effect

except to ruin the smaller bosses. The large manufacturers could afford

to wait until their "hands" were starved back to the machines. But so

close was the contest,--it mattered little whether the trade was vests

or shirtwaists or overalls,--that a few days' interruption was enough to

ruin the weaker bosses. The small fry, like Jake, echoed the sentiments

of _Le Grand Monarque_--The Deluge might come after, if only they could

speed their contracts to completion. And so, with ever increasing

viciousness, the rowels were driven deeper and deeper.

It had been a surprising sensation to Jake Goldfogle to discover that it

was more pleasant to look through his spying window at the curve of

Yetta's neck and the wild little curls of rich brown hair that clustered

about it than to add up columns of figures. Even the unhealthy, stooped

curve of her spine as she leaned forward to the machine seemed gracious

to him. He looked forward eagerly to the times, every half hour, when he

went out into the shop on a tour of inspection, for then he could catch

glimpses of her face. To be sure she never looked up from her work while

he was watching. But there was one place where he could stand unnoticed

and see her in profile. It was a marvellously regular face for the East

Side. The dark curve of her eyebrows was perfect, and sometimes he could

catch the gleam of her eyes. The skin of her throat was whiter even than

Mrs. Weinstein's. She was a trifle thinner than Jake's ideal--but he

told himself she would fill out. All this added color to his dream of

success, a deeper shade to his fear of ruin.

A man of another race would probably have lost his head and asked her to

marry him. But Jake had a deep-seated habit of planning for success.

Long before he had noticed the grace of her body and face he had

realized that she was the best worker in his shop, "the pace-maker" for

the whole establishment. If success was to be won, it would be by just

that very narrow margin, which the breaking in of a new "speeder" would

jeopardize. So he had tried to put her out of his mind till the "rush

season" was over. Intent on his main purpose he had not thought of her

physical well-being. She was young and healthy looking. It had not

occurred to him that a few weeks more or less would matter. The pain in

her back surprised him.

If the incident had occurred in the morning, he might have called her

into his office then and there and asked her to marry him. Things had

looked brighter in the morning. But at lunch--a frugal affair, two sweet

buns and a glass of tea--he had heard disquieting talk of the

"skirt-finishers" strike. It had been more serious than most. Half a

dozen shops had been already wiped out. And his informant--a hated

competitor--had gloomily foretold trouble in their own trade. If strikes

broke out among the "vest-makers," it would tighten credit. The call of

a couple of loans would be the end of Jake. No! He could not afford to

take Yetta out now. Any one who came to take her place might be infected

with the virus of Unionism. His own women did not know what a strike

was. No. He could not risk it. If Pincus & Company paid promptly on the

next delivery, he could take up those dangerous loans and

then--perhaps--

He put his face close to the spying window and looked out at Yetta's

back. He wondered just where the pain had been and whether it still

hurt.

"Poor little girl," he said.

But Yetta knew nothing of her boss's intention. She could see no

outlet. The future stretched before her, so barren that it hurt to think

of it. But she could not escape the thought. Was she to get fat and ugly

like Mrs. Levy? Would the pain come again and would she slip down--as

Mrs. Cohen prophesied--coughing herself to uselessness?

CHAPTER IV

LIFE CALLS

In the months that followed Rachel's departure Yetta began to lose hope.

She could see no promise of escape, and lethargic time gradually faded

the colors of her dream. The flame of holy discontent which had blazed

for a while in her soul threatened to go out. Sometimes she wondered

what had happened to Rachel. But "Speed" eats up a person's power of

wondering.

Yetta had been at the machine for a long time now. Her muscles had

become hardened. She did not often suffer from weariness any more, but

she had, without knowing it, commenced to go downhill. The immense

reserve of vitality, which is the blessing of so many of her race, was

running low. It was amazing how her strong young body had resisted the

strain. But any doctor would have shaken his head over the future. After

all there is a limit, beyond which the nerves and muscles of a woman

cannot compete with electricity and steel.

One night, a few days after the pain had come in her back, an American

woman knocked at the door of the Goldstein flat while Yetta and Rosa

were eating supper.

"I'm a neighbor of yours," she said. "My name is Miss Brail. I've come

to get acquainted."

Mrs. Goldstein looked up hostilely from her sewing. Rosa, surly as

usual, went on with her eating. But Yetta offered the intruder her

chair. The visitor seemed used to such cold receptions; she sat down

placidly and tried violently to establish more friendly relations.

She and some other women had rented the house across the street and were

going to live there. It was to be a sort of a school. First of all they

were going to start a kindergarten and day nursery for the children of

women who worked. Rosa interrupted harshly that there were no children

in their household. Miss Brail refused to be rebuffed. They were also

going to have a sewing school for young women. Rosa, who had accepted

the responsibility of the conversation, although she had not stopped

eating, said that she and Yetta sewed all day long and did not need to

learn.

"Well," Miss Brail continued bravely, "we will have a cooking-class

too."

Rosa replied that her mother cooked for them.

"But don't you want to know how to cook yourself? Some day you'll have a

home of your own, and it will be worth while to know how to cook good

meals cheaply. Why, if the wife only knows how to buy scientifically and

understands a little of food values, you can feed the ordinary family on

only--"

But once more Rosa interrupted her. She had finished her meal and,

emptying her tea-cup with a noisy sip, she stood up in her gaunt,

twisted unloveliness.

"Do you think any one's going to marry me?" she asked defiantly.

Miss Brail did not have the heart to answer the question truthfully.

She turned towards Yetta, who--confused by the implication of her

look--hung her head and blushed. Rosa laughed scornfully.

"She ain't got no money. Nobody'd marry a girl for her looks, even if

she could cook."

At this blasphemy against Romance, Miss Brail became eloquent. She was

very definitely unmarried herself. But not so much an "old maid" as a

new woman. It would have been impossible to picture her fondling a cat.

She was almost athletic in her build, her hair was combed to hide the

few streaks of gray, her eyes were young and full of fire. Her

tailor-made suit was attractive; in a very modern, businesslike way,

even coquettish. You could not look at her without feeling that no one

was to blame but herself that she was unmarried. She delivered an

impassioned harangue on the subject of men. Of course there were

soulless brutes who would marry only for money. But the right sort of a

man would just as soon take a poor girl as a rich one if he really loved

her. She knew lots of that kind. They were going to have clubs and

classes for young men in the house across the way--she called it The

Neighborhood House. And once a month they would have dances. She invited

Rosa and Yetta to come.

At the word "dance," Mrs. Goldstein stopped sewing, and sticking her

needle in her wig, got up threateningly. No! Neither her daughter nor

her niece would go to a dance. With her bony hand she pointed

emphatically at the door. Miss Brail protested that the Neighborhood

House dances would be eminently respectable; only the young men and

women they knew personally. She tried to say that it was good to give

the girls a chance to meet men in clean, orderly surroundings. But she

could not resist the old woman's wrath, and at last, shrugging her

shoulders in defeat, she went out.

Mr. Goldstein, when he heard of the incident, added his curses to those

of his wife. Dances had been the ruin of one daughter, and that was

enough disaster for a self-respecting family. Besides, these Goyim were

trying to undermine the True Religion. David was hardly a religious man.

But social settlements always took an interest in reform politics.

Tammany Hall had small reason to be friendly with them. And as he could

think of no arguments, this religious talk seemed a handy weapon.

But all her uncle's and aunt's denunciations could not persuade Yetta

that Miss Brail was evil. Morning and evening, as she went out to work

and came home, she stopped a moment on her doorstep to note the progress

of rehabilitation in the house across the way. What the East Side calls

the "parlor floor" had formerly been a store. Its great plate-glass

window was cleaned and a heavy curtain was stretched across the lower

half, so that people on the sidewalk could not look in. White dimity

curtains were hung in the upstairs windows. The fine old front door was

painted white, the rusted banister of the steps was replaced by a new

and graceful one of polished steel. Before long the "residents" moved

in. Their arrival coincided with the appearance of beautiful potted

plants inside the windows.

Although the screen hid the front parlor from the street, it was not

high enough to hide it from the windows of the Goldstein's flat. From

that vantage-point Yetta learned the routine of evening work in the

Settlement. A bulletin-board beside the door helped her to put names to

the things she saw. On Monday nights there were meetings of "The Martha

Washington Club." They were young women of her own age, and Miss Brail

presided. There was generally some "uptown woman" who spoke or sang to

the girls. This part of the evening's entertainment lasted until nine,

then they grouped about Miss Brail at the piano and practised some

choral music. They ended with half an hour's dancing and went home a

little after ten. Tuesday night there was a club of boys. Wednesday

night a class in sewing. Thursday night "The Abraham Lincoln Debating

Club" held forth. Most of them were young men in the early twenties, but

a few were older. On Friday there was a "Mothers' Club," and on Saturday

night a magic-lantern show.

At last it came time for the monthly dance. Yetta had noticed the

announcement on the bill-board several days before. On the eventful

night she pretended to be sleepy and went to bed early, but as soon as

Rosa began to snore she wrapped herself in her shawl and a blanket and

tiptoed out into the front room to watch the ball. The Martha Washington

Club had turned out in force, dazzlingly beautiful in their best

clothes. The black-suited young men of the debating club also looked

very wonderful to the hungry-eyed girl who watched it from afar. As was

the strange custom of The Krists, the big window was opened although it

was mid-February, and the sound of the four-piece orchestra and the

laughter came up, unobstructed, to Yetta's ears.

She had never been so happy in all her life, but most of the time her

eyes were filled with tears. She imagined herself first as one of the

girls and then as another. There was one whose shirtwaist seemed

especially beautiful. Yetta was convinced that if she were a

millionnaire, or if a fairy godmother should offer her one choice, she

would choose just such clothes. There was one of the young men, a

curly-haired, laughing fellow, whom she had noticed on Thursday nights.

Whenever he took part in the debates, all the other men clapped

violently. Generally she imagined herself dancing with him.

After a while the music stopped. Miss Brail and the other settlement

women brought in trays loaded with lemonade and sandwiches and cakes.

The curly-haired man sat down beside the girl in the resplendent waist.

Hot little blushes chased themselves all over Yetta's body. It

frightened her even to imagine that she was so gayly dressed, that such

a man sat close to her and whispered in her ear, looking at her and

laughing all the time.

The supper fire had not yet burned down in the Goldstein's sordid

kitchen-eating-sitting room. It was stuffy and hot, but Yetta, in spite

of her shawl and blanket, shivered when the intermission was over. The

curly-haired man nonchalantly put his arm about the gorgeous shirtwaist

and, with his face rather close to his partner's, swung off into a dizzy

two-step. Yetta felt as if she had been suddenly caressed. She had to

grit her teeth to keep them from chattering.

A tremendous storm had broken out in the breast of the little sweat-shop

girl. Sometimes she had to close her eyes, the beauty of the vision was

so dazzling. For a moment she would tear herself away from the

blighting memory of reality, and her soul seemed to float away from her

body into the brightly lit room across the way. In the most deeply

spiritual sense she became part of that gay scene. She was arrayed in

gorgeous clothes. Men--even the wonderful curly-haired man--sought her

as a partner. And she could laugh!

But the Blessed Angel of Forgetfulness is--like her sister, the Spirit

of Delight--an inconstant hussy. No Wise Man of all the ages has learned

the trick of keeping her always at his side.

The memories of the day's stark realities would submerge Yetta. Back of

her was the squalid flat, the snores of her loveless relatives. In her

dark bedroom her one frayed dress was hung over the back of a chair,

waiting for her to put it on and hurry through the dawn to Jake

Goldfogle's Vest Shop. Routine--hopeless monotony! A prison tread--from

the vitiated air and uneasy sleep of the tenement, so many steps to the

cruel speed and inhumanity of the Machine. Then so many steps back to

the tenement, and all to do over again.

In front of her--in the room across the street--"Life-as-it-might-be."

Beauty--thrilling excitement--joy!

The eyes of Yetta's soul swung back and forth from one vision to the

other. Through the long evening she knelt there by the window, so

forgetful of her body that she did not realize how the dirty window

ledge was cutting into her elbows, how her knees were being bruised on

the unswept floor.

At last the musicians put away their instruments. Every one clapped

insistently and crowded about Miss Brail. But she waved her watch in

their face. A distant church-bell tolled midnight. Yetta stayed at her

post until the last laughing couple had shaken hands with the ladies at

the door. For several minutes more she watched the shadows on the upper

windows, while the "residents" talked over the success of the dance. She

watched till the last light was out, then she crept back to bed and

cried herself to sleep.

The tears she shed that night were not the kind that heal. There was

acid in them which ate into the quick. For nearly four years her body

had been on the rack. Now her soul was being torn. The questionings

which had troubled her after Rachel's disappearance became more and more

insistent. Was she never to know what joy meant? Was day to crawl along

after day in desolate and weary monotony? Was this dull ache of

soul-hunger never to be relieved until some indefinite future was to

find her--cheated of everything--cast out useless on the human refuse

heap? Was this weary plain of uneventfulness never to be broken by any

dazzling mountain peaks nor shady valley?

Shortly after the Settlement Ball, which Yetta had watched as a

starveling beggar peers through a baker's window, Life suddenly opened

up. The drab monotony was illumined by a lurid display of fireworks.

Rockets of glaring, appalling red shot up into the night. There was a

great white blaze of hope, and all the sky became suffused by the soft

caressing colors of unsophisticated Romance.

The sweat-shop motor broke down. Jake Goldfogle cursed and tore his

hair. He kept his "hands" waiting in idleness half through the

afternoon, until the electricians had come and said that the damage

could not be righted till midnight. Then Jake surlily dismissed his

women. It was rare that Yetta had such a holiday. There was no reason

for her to go to her dreary home. It was a precocious spring day, the

sun shone with a heat that made the streets attractive.

Wandering about aimlessly, Yetta came to Hamilton Fish Park. The faint

suggestion of rising sap which came to her in that open space seemed

infectious. The questionings which had disturbed her returned with new

force. Why? What did it all mean? Was there no escape?

Suddenly her attention was caught by a familiar figure, Rachel, arrayed

in cheap finery. Yetta quickened her pace to overtake her and called

her. It was a great shock to Rachel when she recognized her. She stared

at her in bewilderment, but it was surely Yetta,--Yetta of the old life,

of the great sad eyes, with the same old shawl over her head.

"The motor broke in my shop," Yetta explained as they sat down. "I came

out for a walk. Where are you working?"

"I ain't working."

Yetta's eyes opened wider.

"Are you married," she asked with awe in her voice.

Shame closed Rachel's lips. How could she explain the grim dirtiness of

Life to her ignorant little cousin? She started to get up and go away.

But suddenly the heart-break of it all--the memory of the girlish dreams

she had confided to Yetta--overcame her. She threw her arms around her

cousin and cried, great sobs which shook them both. A few words came to

her lips, the same phrase over and over: "Oh! Yetta. I wanted to be

good." When the first burst of her grief was spent, she began to tell

how it had all come about.

At first everything had gone smoothly. She had taken a furnished room

with the girl from her shop who had lent her the hat and white shoes for

her first dance. "She had a crush on me," Rachel explained. They had led

a joyous but quite innocent life, working hard all day and two or three

nights a week going to dances. As far as they knew how to choose they

went to respectable places. Several men had paid court to Rachel. A

clerk in a dry-goods store on Sixth Avenue had been in love with her. He

was serious. But he was earning very little, had a marriageable sister,

and wanted to wait a couple of years. She had even become engaged to one

man. At first, she said, she had "been crazy about him." She had let him

kiss her and make pretty violent love to her. But after a while she saw

he was "a spender," too free with his money--like her father. She did

not want a man like that, so she had sent him about his business. Then

her room-mate "got a crush" on another girl and had left Rachel alone in

the furnished room.

"What can you do?"--she began to cry again--"when you ain't got no place

to have your friend call except a furnished room? All alone? A girl

ain't got no chance--all alone--like that."

She could not tell Yetta what came next, so she asked about the family.

As Yetta told her meagre store of news, the flood-gates of Rachel's

bitter heart opened. She cursed her family. They were to blame for her

disaster. Why had not her father made a decent home for his children?

Was it her fault that her brother was a crook? If they had been honest

and thrifty, they could have given her a marriage portion. Worse than

doing nothing for her, they had even eaten up her wages. If she had been

an orphan, she could have put some of her pay in the bank--she could

have saved enough money to get married on.

"Don't you let them cheat you, Yetta," she broke out, "the way they

cheated me. Perhaps I'm a bad woman, but I never cheated little girls

the way they cheated us. I never robbed an orphan like they done to you.

You're a fool to stand for it. Why should you give them your wages?

Haven't they cheated you enough? They made your poor father pay too much

board. The funeral never cost like they said it did. And now they're

stealing your wages. I tell you what you do. You find some good woman in

your shop, who'll take you to board, and put your money in the bank. But

don't go to no 'furnished room.' Furnished rooms is Hell! You--"

"Hello, Ray. Introduce me to your friend."

The intruder's voice sent a convulsive shiver through Rachel. He wore a

suit of dove-gray, the cuffs and collar of which were bound with silk

braid. There was a large diamond in his scarlet tie. As though he did

not wish to be outdone by the sun in its premature glory he wore a

slightly soiled Panama hat, shaped after the fashion depicted in

photographs of the German Crown Prince.

"I say," he insisted, and there was a twang of menace in his soft voice,

a more evident threat in his hard domineering eyes, "I say, introduce me

to your friend."

"She's my cousin, Yetta Rayefsky," Rachel replied reluctantly.

"And my name," he said with easy assurance, "is Harry Klein. I'm glad

to make your acquaintance, Miss Rayefsky. Do you dance as well as your

cousin?"

"I've never been to a dance," Yetta stammered.

She was very much flustered by his stare of frank admiration. No man had

ever put a "Miss" to her name before. Again the hot blushes chased

themselves over her body. But he did not seem to notice her

embarrassment.

"I was walking along the street," he said, "and noticed Miss Goldstein

here in the Park. I came to ask her to go to the Tim Sullivan ball with

me to-night. Won't you come along?"

"She ain't got no clothes for a ball," Rachel said.

"I'm sure," he said, his eyes turning hard again, "that you could lend

her some."

But Yetta was frightened beyond words at the bare idea of going. She

refused timidly.

Harry Klein urged her, managing gracefully the while to weave in the

story of his life. He was a commercial traveller for a large silk-house

on Broadway. Of course it was very good pay, and in a few months he was

to be taken into the firm, but it had its inconveniences. He did not get

to New York very often. He liked dances, but it was no fun to go alone.

Being away so much, he did not know many nice girls. He had no use for

the kind you can "pick up" at a ball. He did wish she could come. He

knew another travelling man who was also in town--a friend of his. It

would be great fun for the four of them to go together.

But he did not push his urgings too far. He was sorry she would not

come, but he hoped Miss Goldstein could find a partner for his friend.

Would she come now on that errand?

"I'm sorry to run away with your cousin, Miss Rayefsky," he said,

signalling Rachel to get up. "And I sure hope I'll have the pleasure of

meeting you again."

He bowed very low, made a gallant flourish with his hat, and taking

Rachel by the arm, started off gayly. But he turned back after a few

steps.

"I'm not going to be discouraged," he said with his very best smile,

"because you won't go with me to-night. I like your looks and want to

get acquainted with you. I'll see you again."

Once more he flourished his hat, and rejoined Rachel.

Yetta sat still on the park bench for a long time after they had gone.

She tried to make some sense out of Life. But it was all very

perplexing. What did Rachel's story mean? In a vague way she had heard

of the women who are called "bad." She knew their more blatant

hall-marks. Rachel's cheeks were painted; she had spoken of herself as

"bad." But the term did not mean anything to Yetta which could include a

girl like her cousin who "wanted to be good." She understood that Rachel

was unhappy, bitter, and very much ashamed, but she could not think of

her as sinful or vicious. She tried--but entirely in vain--to imagine

what sort of life Rachel was leading. She tried to picture in what sort

of acts her "badness" consisted. She had heard somewhere of "selling

love," but she had no idea how it was done. It was very perplexing for

her--indeed it has perplexed older and wiser heads--to discover that

"bad" people may after all be good.

But it was hard for her to keep her mind on this problem of ethics. It

was very much easier to think of Harry Klein. She had never talked to so

courteous and well dressed a gentleman. The dream of the curly-haired

debater was wiped from her mind--Harry Klein was much better looking.

A queer question shot into her mind. Did a girl have to be "bad" to have

such enchanting friends? No. That could not be. He had wanted to be

friends with her. She knew she was not bad.

He had said he wanted to be her friend! The blood raced through her

veins at the thought. She went over again in her mind all her arguments

with Rachel. The only possible way to escape from the sweat-shop was to

marry. Of course she could not hope to win so debonair a gentleman as

Harry Klein. But rescue--if it were to come at all--must come in some

such way. It was her only hope.

CHAPTER V

HARRY KLEIN

When they were out of hearing, Harry Klein tightened his grip on

Rachel's arm.

"Say, Kid, that cousin of yours is a peach. Why didn't you put me on

before?"

"Oh, Jake," Rachel pleaded, "leave her alone. She ain't got no chance.

She's only a kid. She ain't got no father or mother. Oh, Jake, please.

Promise me you'll leave her alone. There are lots of other girls. She's

only a kid. Please--"

"Oh, shut your face," he growled; "you make me tired."

And he began to whistle a light-hearted ditty. Rachel might just as well

have gone to Jake Goldfogle and have asked him, for the same reasons,

not to drive her cousin so hard. She might just as well have asked you

or me to pay a decent price for our clothes. Harry Klein, just like Mr.

Goldfogle--just like you and me--needed the money.

"Where's 'Blow Away'?" he asked, interrupting his whistling.

"He's asleep," Rachel said.

"Well--we'll wake him up."

They turned down a side street.

"Jake," Rachel began again, "I'll find you some other girl--I'll do

anything for you. Oh, Jake, please."

"Shut up," he growled. "Tell your troubles to a policeman."

They went up three flights of dirty stairs to a door which Rachel opened

with a latch-key. It gave on a long hall. Turning to the left, they

entered a parlor fitted out with cheap plush furniture. The windows were

closed, the air heavy with the scent of stale beer and cigarette

smoke--all the varied stenches of a debauch.

"Wake him up," Jake ordered.

Rachel turned down the hall and opened a bedroom door. The air was even

worse than in the parlor. A thin-chested youth of twenty-eight or so was

asleep, lying across the bed on his face. The butt of a pistol stuck out

of his hip pocket. His coat and vest and shirt were on the back of a

chair, his shoes on the floor.

"Charlie," Rachel called.

There was no response. She approached the bed cautiously and gave a pull

at his foot, jumping back out of reach as soon as she had touched him.

There were a couple of angry grunts.

"Charlie," she called again.

He sat up with a roar of profanity.

"How many times have I told you to leave me alone when I'm sleeping?

I'll break your dirty face for you."

"Jake's in the front room," she interrupted him. "Wants to see you."

"Jake?" He lowered the hand he had raised to strike her. "What in Hell

does he want?"

"How do I know?"

"You never know nothing," he growled sourly, rubbing the sleep from his

eyes. He shuffled down the hall in his stocking feet. When the great

ones of the earth are waiting, you cannot stop to put on shoes.

"Hello, Blow Away," Jake said. "I've got something to say to you. Your

bundle"--he indicated Rachel--"steered me up to a honey bunch this

afternoon, named Yetta Rayefsky. The little doll took my eye. See? She's

Ray's cousin. I just want you to explain to her--as a favor to me--that

she mustn't butt in. The less talking she does with her mouth the better

it'll be. You'd better impress it on her, so she won't forget? See?"

Charlie--alias Blow Away--saw. And Rachel saw. She cowered down in a

corner and promised not to warn Yetta--if only they would not beat her.

But it was a basic belief of these two gentlemen that "a beating is

never wasted on a woman."... It was from this time that Rachel began to

kill herself with "booze." She did not like to remember how she had

betrayed Yetta. And drink helped her to forget.

There were few things which Jake, or Harry Klein--it does not matter

what name we use for him, for a hundred aliases were on the back of his

portrait in the Rogues' Gallery--there were not many things which he

enjoyed more than seeing some one cower before him. The servility with

which "Blow Away" had obeyed his orders, the wild terror and passionate

pleadings of Rachel, had tickled the nerves of his perverted being, and

he smacked his lips as he went downstairs and out into the twilight of

the open streets.

He was the recognized leader of the principal East Side "gang"--a varied

assortment of toughs, "strong-arm men," pickpockets, "panhandlers," and

pimps. It must not be supposed, however, that these various professions

were sharply differentiated. There is a hoary tradition which says that

once upon a time the under world of New York City was divided into rigid

classes and cliques, when a "dip" looked down on a beggar, and highway

robbers had a professional pride which kept them from associating with

panders. But in the year of grace 1903--when Jake's crooked trail ran

across Yetta's path--such delicate distinctions, if they ever had

existed, were entirely lost. Many a man who claimed to be a

prize-fighter sometimes "stuck up a drunk." The "flyest" pickpocket did

not disdain the income to be derived from the sale of "phony" jewellery.

It was no longer possible to distinguish a "yeggman" from a "flopper,"

and even bank robbers wrote "begging letters." And of all "easy money,"

the easiest is from prostitution. There were very few denizens of the

under world who did not have one or two women "on the string." Even the

legendary aristocracy of forgers had sunk thus low.

The political manifestation of the gang over which Jake ruled was the

James B. O'Rourke Democratic Club, of which he was president. This

organization maintained, with the help of a subsidy from Fourteenth

Street, a shabby parlor floor club-room on Broome Street. They gave one

ball and one picnic a year. A central office detective, if he had

attended a meeting, could have given a "pedigree" for almost all the

members. But the political bigbugs, the members of the city

administration, who sometimes came to visit the club, did not bring a

detective with them. They saw only a roomful of ardent young Democrats.

The good-will of the club was an important asset to aspiring

politicians; the members would willingly vote half a dozen times for a

candidate they liked.

The social centre of the gang was a "Raines Law" hotel on lower Second

Avenue. It had a very glittering back parlor for "ladies." There, and in

the Hungarian Restaurant next door, Jake's followers spent their moments

of relaxation. The frontier between their territory and that of hostile

gangs was several blocks away. The "hang out" was just inside the

borders of a police precinct, with whose captain they had a treaty of

peace.

The more professional headquarters were in an innocent-looking barber

shop on Chrystie Street. In the back there was a pool parlor. The lamps

were so shaded that the table was brilliantly illumined and the rest of

the room was black. If you walked in from the brightly lighted shop in

front, you could not tell how many people were there, nor how many

pistols were pointed at you. From the toilet-room in the back there was

an inconspicuous door into the alley, which, besides its strategic

advantages, led to the back door of Pincus Kahan's pawnshop. Much stolen

goods followed this route.

A sort of Robin Hood romance has been thrown around the notorious gang

leaders of Lower New York. As usual, the reality back of the romance is

a very sorry thing. Jake, for instance, was not an admirably clever, nor

strong-willed, nor fearless specimen of the genus homo. To be sure he

excelled many of his stunted, defective, and "cocaine-doped" retainers

in these qualities, but above all he owed his position to a calculating,

patient prudence. Discretion is certainly the better part of valor in

knavery, and while most crooks are daredevils, Jake was discreet.

Since his first detention in the House of Refuge, Jake had managed to

keep out of jail. On his release he had organized a "mob" of

pickpockets. Most of its members were boys he had met in that worthy

institution. Neither the House of Refuge nor any of the other

"reformatories" are to be blamed for the crimes of those who have passed

through them. Many of their inmates are taught honorable trades, and

some follow them after release. Nearly half of the juvenile pickpockets

who gathered about Jake had never been arrested--and they were every bit

as bad as those who had been in the House of Refuge.

Owing to their leader's discretion, this little "mob," which had

affiliated with the dominant East Side Gang, enjoyed an almost unbroken

run of prosperity. But when he had turned eighteen, Jake retired from

the active practice of his profession. There was as much money and more

security in women. Nature had endowed him with the necessary external

charms. He enjoyed cleanliness, he was good looking, and above all he

had a soft, persuasive voice.

His covetousness, joined with a natural ability at organization, was

always pushing him into new enterprises. He gathered together the wreck

of the notorious Beggars' Trust. He joined "The Independent Benevolent

Society," and cornered the business of supplying girls to their "brass

check" houses. One after another, he gained control of the gang's most

lucrative ventures. Almost any other man of the under world would have

made a play for acknowledged leadership long before Jake did. He was

modest, or, as his enemies said, a coward. He waited until sudden death

or imprisonment had removed his principal rivals--until the leadership

was practically forced upon him.

There were cleverer, more strong-willed, braver men in the gang than he.

But he was never careless. A civil war within the political machine had

given him an opportunity to make explicit and profitable treaties with

those "higher up." He had sense enough to leave "dope" alone. He lacked

the imagination to have any sentiment of loyalty or any sympathy, and

this made him what is called unscrupulous. Like most cowards he was

bitter and cruel in revenge. He had never killed a man with his own

hands, but he ruled his organization of "thugs" through fear.

It was two days after her encounter with him in the Park before Yetta

saw him again. As she came out of the factory, after the day's work, she

almost ran into him.

"Why, hello, Miss Rayefsky," he greeted her. "Your cousin Ray told me

where you worked. May I walk along with you?"

He walked beside her to the corner of the street where she lived.

Glowing stories he told her of the Ball, how much fun he and Rachel had

had, and how sorry he was that she had missed it. Really, she ought to

have come. What fun was there for working girls if they did not go to

dances? To be sure some girls were too crazy about it, went to balls

every night and stayed up too late. He disapproved of such doings. He

had to work. And he did not want to be sleepy in the office. No, indeed!

A serious young man with ambitions could not afford to try the all-night

game. He very seldom went to balls except on Saturday night.

Hairy Klein, alias Jake, had sized Yetta up and decided on the

"serious" talk.

It was several days before he turned up again. He explained that he had

been "out on the road." In the course of half a dozen such walks he

opened his heart to her. There was nothing about himself which he did

not tell her. She knew all his ambitions and hopes, the names of his

influential relatives, the details of his serious, laborious life, and

the amount of his balance in the Bowery Savings Bank. Pretty soon the

"bosses" would keep their promise and take him into the firm. They would

be surprised to find how much capital he had accumulated. Meanwhile he

was learning the business from A to Z. What he did not know about silk

was not worth knowing.

To all this fairy-story Yetta listened with credulous ears. The young

man had a convincing manner; he was courteous and well dressed. And

besides, Rachel would have warned her if he had been bad.

If Yetta had grown up with boys, if she had played at courtship,--as

most young people happily do,--she might have seen through the surface

glitter of this scoundrel. She had no standard by which to judge him.

But in a timidly defensive spirit she refused to go to a dance with him.

It was partly the instinct of coquetry, which told her to struggle

against capture. It was more her humility. When he said he liked her,

thought she was good looking, wanted "to be her steady fellow," and so

forth, it made her throb with a strange and disturbing pride. But it

also made her distrustful--it was too good to be true. He had somewhat

over-colored his romance. If he had only pretended to be a clerk at

$11.50 a week and meagre expectations, it would have been easier to

accept. But why should this rich and brilliant young conqueror want

poor, penniless her?

It was not so much that she doubted Harry's truthfulness; she found her

good luck unbelievable. And this uncertainty tormented her. Despite her

lack of experience, she had a large fund of instinctive common sense.

She realized that she could not compromise with Life. Either this man

was good, wonderfully, gorgeously good, in which case the slightest

distrust was folly and cruelty, or he was bad--then the smallest grain

of trust would be dangerous. She felt herself utterly unable to decide

wisely so momentous a question. She longed ardently for some older

confidante, some woman whose goodness and wisdom she could trust. She

wished she knew Miss Brail and the Settlement women. She was sure they

were both wise and good.

There was her aunt. In her desperate extremity she proposed one night

that Harry should call at the Goldstein's flat. But when he refused, she

could not blame him. His argument was good. Her aunt was sure to oppose

any one who threatened to marry Yetta and divert her earnings. He stood

on the street-corner and urged her earnestly to leave her relatives. He

had wormed from her all the sordid details of that miserable family. Why

should she give her money to a drunkard who had no claim on her? He knew

a nice respectable place where she could get a room for half her wages.

She could buy some nice clothes with her savings. He made quite a pretty

speech about how much better she would look in a fine dress. It was his

firm conviction that she was the most beautiful girl in New York.

Yetta knew that it was foolish for her to go on living with the

Goldsteins. As Rachel had said, they were and always had been cheating

her. But a dread of the unknown kept her from at once accepting Harry's

advice. The waves of Life were swirling about her dizzyingly, and she

felt the need of a familiar haven. She held on in panic to the only home

she knew, sparring blindly for time, and hoping that something would

happen to convince her definitely whether or not she ought to put trust

in the alluring dream.

But all the time her instinctive resistance was weakening; she had begun

to give into his seduction. Her growing horror of the "sweated" monotony

of her life was forcing her relentlessly into the clutches of this

pander. Strain her eyes as she might she could see no door of escape

unless some such lover rescued her. Whenever she tried to think of the

possible dangers of believing in Harry Klein, a mocking imp jeered at

her with the grim certainties of life without him. What risk was there

in the dream which was worse than the inevitable barrenness and

premature fading of the sweat-shop? She listened eagerly to what he said

about the flat they would rent in Harlem. But with more thrilling

attention, she listened to his stories of dances. Her heart hungered

passionately for a little gayety. And then there was the fear that at

some dance he might meet a more attractive girl and leave her.

She was no longer handing over all her wages to her aunt. Under pretext

of a slack season she was holding back a couple of dollars a week. She

carried these humble savings wrapped in a handkerchief inside her

blouse. Every time she felt the hard lump against her body, her heart

gave a little jump. She would have some money to buy a hat and some

white shoes for her first dance.

Jake, alias Harry Klein, had a more devious psychology. When "Blow Away"

asked him one night, in the Second Avenue "hang-out," how things were

going with Ray's cousin, Jake's lying face assumed a faraway contented

smile. But inwardly he was raging over Yetta's stubbornness. He was not

used to such long chases. When he had first seen her, his money-loving

soul had revolted at so shameful a waste of earning capacity. A pretty

girl like that working in a sweat-shop! He had followed the scent

without much enthusiasm. It would be an affair of a couple of weeks.

Most pretty girls want good clothes to look prettier. Most of them lost

their heads if a well-dressed man made love to them. The grim, hopeless

monotony of poverty made most of them hungry for a larger life. It was

really sickening to a man of his experience to see how greedily they

swallowed his story of the silk firm on Broadway. It was--and this was

his expression for supreme easiness--like stealing pennies from a blind

beggar.

Yetta by her stubborn caution had won a sort of respect from him. His

pride was engaged. His face flushed when he thought of her. She stirred

in him something more than vexation. The girl "on his string" who was at

the moment enjoying his special favor suddenly seemed stupid and insipid

to him. In his distorted way he rather fell in love with Yetta. His

day-dreaming moments were filled with passionate lurid pictures of

possessing her. Although it was proving a long chase, he knew the odds

and was sure of the outcome. Sometimes he thought almost tenderly of

the time of victory. Sometimes his face hardened, and he vowed he would

make her pay.

The pursuit had dragged on a solid month when quite by chance he

stumbled on an argument which won his case.

He began to worry about her health. She ought to get out of the

sweat-shop. It would kill her. He told her horrible stories about how

women went to pieces in the sweat-shops, how they got "bad lungs," or

went blind, or had things happen to them inside. He would, the very next

day, find a position for her in a store or some place that would not be

so hard on her. It did not matter if the wages were not so good; it

broke his heart to think of her ruining her health. As soon as they took

him into the firm he was going to marry her. He did not want his wife to

be sick or crippled.

In his mind was a dark and sinister plan to entice Yetta from her home

and establish her in nominal employment with some complaisant woman. He

was really a very stupid young man. He did not realize that in all her

life Yetta had never had any one worry about her health. He did not

guess how his solicitude, which seemed so unselfish, had choked her

throat and filled her eyes with tears. He went on with his evil

eloquence, when all the time he might have put his arms about her and

kissed her, and carried her off wherever he wished.

The next afternoon in the sweat-shop, the pain smote Yetta in the back

once more.

CHAPTER VI

THE PIT'S EDGE

This second backache did not cause any noticeable interruption in the

day's routine. Yetta gritted her teeth and kept the pace--if anything,

increased it. But while her fingers flew back and forth over the

accustomed work, her thoughts soared far afield. If there had been

persuasiveness in Harry's words, there was ten times as much eloquence

in that sudden clutch of pain. As Mrs. Cohen had prophesied, it had come

back. How soon would she feel it again?

At last the motor stopped its crazy rattle, the roar of the belts turned

to a sob, the day's work was done. Yetta arranged her shawl with

trembling fingers and hurried down the stairs. But she hesitated a

moment inside the doorway before plunging out into the pack of workers

who were hurrying eastward.

The ebb and flow of this tide of tenement dwellers is one of the

momentous sights of Manhattan. At five in the morning the cross-town

streets are almost deserted. On the Bowery the milk wagons and

occasional trucks rattle northward in the false dawn. The intervals

between the elevated trains are long. But the side streets are even more

lifeless. Now and then shadows flit eastward--women, night workers, who

scrub out the great Broadway office buildings. They would be shadows

even in broad daylight. Towards six one begins to hear sharper, hurrying

footfalls--coming westward. The tide has begun to flow. It grows in

volume with the increasing light. The congested tenements have awakened;

by six the flood is at its height. So dense is the rush that it is hard

to make way against it, eastward. So fast the flow that the observer can

scarcely note the faces. It is the backs which catch the eye and leave

an impress on the memory. A man who walked like a soldier--upright--in

that crowd would seem a monstrosity. Even the backs of the little

children are bent. They seem to be carrying portly persons on their

shoulders.

Then for close to twelve hours these side streets are almost deserted

again--till the ebb begins. It is hard to decide which sight is the more

awesome: the flow of humanity hurrying to its inhuman labor or the same

crowd ebbing, hurrying to their inhuman, bestial homes.

But Yetta was not thinking of her fellow-workers. With the egoism of

youth she was thinking of herself and the pain in her back. Harry had

been right--the sweat-shop was killing her. There was a chance of escape

and Life might never offer her another. She had come to the now-or-never

place. Yetta was not a coward, she was only timid. And the bravery of

timid people is sublime. For only a moment she hesitated in the dark

hallway, below Goldfogle's Vest Company, and then with a smile--a

fearless smile--on her lips she stepped out into the glare of the

arc-light. Harry was waiting for her. She slipped her hand confidently

into his arm.

"Say, Harry, to-morrow night, let's go to a ball."

"What?" he said, stopping short, to the surprise and discomfort of the

home-rushing workers. "What?"

"Sure. I want some fun."

At last she had swallowed the bait! He could hardly believe his ears.

But he was afraid to seem too eager. They were swept along by the

hurrying crowd almost a block before he spoke.

"How about clothes?"

"I got some," she said. "I'll bring 'em to the shop and put 'em on

there."

"Why not to-night."

"No. To-morrow."

They hurriedly talked over the details of her escape. She would tell her

aunt the "rush-work story." When the shop closed, Harry could take her

somewhere to supper and afterwards to a dance.

"To-morrow night? Sure?" he said when they separated at her corner.

"Sure," she called back.

She ran upstairs and told her aunt that there was a rush order in her

shop and she must hurry back; she only had time for a glass of tea and a

piece of bread. To-morrow she would take a bigger lunch and not come

home for supper. In a few minutes she out was again on the brightly lit

streets. From her scant store of savings she bought a hat, a blouse, a

pair of stockings and white shoes. She left her bundles at a store near

her home, and then started on a pilgrimage.

The shrine she set out to visit was the little second-hand book-store on

East Broadway, where she had been so happy with her father. It had

hardly changed at all. Only the man who sat on the high stool behind the

desk did not look like her father. She stood there aimlessly for a few

minutes, and then her eye fell on the first two volumes of _Les

Miserables_. It was the set she had read to her father. The last volume

was in her room.

"One volume is gone," the man told her; "you can have them for

seventy-five cents."

"I ain't got more'n half a dollar," she said.

"The complete set is worth five dollars."

"I only got fifty cents."

"All right. Take them."

She turned away from him to pull the last of her little horde out of her

blouse. When she faced him, there were tears in her eyes.

"What's the matter?" he asked kindly.

"Nothin'. My father used to keep this store. These were the last books I

read to him."

"Oh! Is your name Rayefsky? I knew your father--he was a good man. And I

guess I used to know you, when you were about so high. Let's see--what

was your name?"

"Yetta."

"Oh, yes, little Yetta Rayefsky, grown up into a big woman. I suppose

you'll be getting married soon."

"Say, can I sit down here fer a while," she asked, to change the

subject.

"Of course you can," he said cordially, bringing her a chair.

She pulled it back into the obscurity and sat there all the evening,

watching through wet eyes the old familiar scene, the people who came to

buy, and the people who came to talk. One or two she recognized. When

she had been a little girl, she used to sit up there behind the desk on

a high stool beside her father and fall asleep against his shoulder.

There was no one now to lean her head against when she was tired--except

Harry. He promised to take care of her.

Memories of her father seemed to crowd the dingy old store. Why were

there not more men like him in the world? He would not have wanted her

to kill herself over the machine. How glad he would have been that she

had found a lover to rescue her. She recalled the sermon he had preached

about the wedding across the way. She did not remember many of the

words; much of it had been above her childish understanding. But she

remembered how he had told her that she must love and trust and cherish

her man. She recalled the Vow of Ruth which he had taught her. And now

at last the lover had come. The old sad, drab life had ended; she was

about to enter into the glory. When it was time to close, the bookseller

insisted on giving back her fifty cents.

"You take the books," he said. "And when you get married, you can call

them a wedding present from a man who knew your father, and never knew a

better man."

Hugging the two volumes of _Les Miserables_ against her breast, she

walked home more light hearted because of this evening with ghosts--more

light hearted than she had ever been before.

The next morning Yetta left home earlier than usual, so that she could

pick up her bundles on her way to work. All the long morning the noisy

machinery of the shop seemed to be playing the music of The Song of

Songs.

But suddenly The Fates seemed to become ashamed of the way they were

treating her. Perhaps Yetta's dreams of her father the night before had

pierced through the adamantine walls and stirred him out of the drowsy

bliss of Paradise; he may have thrown himself at the feet of The Most

High to plead his daughter's cause. Perhaps it was her Guardian Angel

which intervened. Or perhaps it was just chance.

When Yetta went down on the sidewalk during the noon rest to get a

breath of air,--with the Song ringing in her heart,--her attention was

attracted by a group of people about a woman who was speaking. She

joined the listening crowd. The woman was talking about a strike of "The

Skirt Finishers." The girls had been out now for weeks and were on the

point of starvation. The Woman's Trade Union League, to which the

speaker belonged, had arranged a ball for that night in behalf of the

"skirt finishers."

"Every garment worker ought to come," she said. "It's your fight they

are fighting. The garment trades are all 'sweated'--you've got to rise

or die together. And every cent from the tickets goes to help the

strike. The hall, the orchestra, everything has been donated--all the

money goes to the girls. But, more than the money, they need

encouragement. Don't buy a ticket and throw it away. Of course the fifty

cents will help, but we want more than the money, we want a crowd. It

will cheer up the girls a bit if the ball is a success. If you can't

come yourself, give a ticket to some one who will."

Now the spirit of her father, or her Guardian Angel, or chance, moved

Yetta to give her last fifty cents to the cause of the strikers. The

time was so close when she was to leave the sweat-shop forever that her

heart went out to all the less fortunate girls who had no such happy

prospects. She would not only buy the ticket, but if the strikers needed

encouragement, she would persuade Harry to take her there.

When the day's work was over, she hurried into her new finery and

downstairs to meet her lover. Harry looked her over approvingly. Yes,

she was worth all the time it had taken. But he was too wily a fox to

let his evil glee be apparent. The rest was so easy; only a fool would

risk frightening her now. A couple of hours more love-making, the

intoxication of a few dances, a little wine--if need be a drop or two of

chloral--and the trick was turned.

He took her to "Lorber's" for supper. And leaning over the brightly

lighted table, over dishes which all together cost less than a dollar,

but which seemed to her very wonderful, he solemnly asked her to promise

to marry him. Just as solemnly she said "yes." Jove's laughter did not

reach her ears to disturb her as she looked trustful and happy into his

eyes. One cannot but wish that sometimes the guffaws of Jupiter were

louder.

Harry promised to go to a jeweller in the morning and buy her an

engagement ring. And when they had finished talking over this important

detail, Yetta remembered about her ticket to the Woman's Trade Union

League ball. Harry tried to laugh the idea away. He knew nothing about

trade-unions except that high-class "crooks" did not belong to them. But

the Lyceum Hall, where it was to be held, was a very modest place.

"It's sure to be stupid in that hall," he said. "They never have good

balls there. I'm going to take you up to The Palace. There's a swell

affair there every night--the real thing. And fifty cents! What fun can

you have at a fifty-cent ball? Sometimes the tickets cost five dollars

at The Palace."

But Yetta had set her heart on using her own ticket, and it seemed an

unimportant detail to Harry. They compromised; they would go to both,

first to hers and then to his. She would see that he knew what he was

talking about.

He proposed a bottle of champagne. For a moment Yetta was frightened.

"I never drank no wine," she protested.

"Oh, come," he said, "they always drink wine over a marriage contract. I

wouldn't ask you to if it would hurt you."

Yetta looked at him out of her big, deep eyes. He had the peculiar kind

of nerve which made it possible for him to look straight into them. He

reached his hand across the table and put it caressingly on hers. And so

she believed him.

"If you says fer me to," she said, "I'll do anything you wants me to,

Harry--always." And then Yetta remembered her father and the vow he had

taught her. It made her suddenly bold. She took firm hold of the hand

Harry had reached to her across the table, and in a singsong but

throbbing voice began to recite the wonderful old Hebrew words. The pimp

was bewildered. His religious instruction had been neglected; he knew no

Hebrew.

"Wot's this yer giving me?" he asked.

And Yetta translated into the vernacular.

"It means: 'Wherever you go, I'll go too, where you sleep, I'll sleep

wid you, your folks will be my folks and I'll pray to your God; when you

die, I'll die too and be buried beside you. And God can do more to me,

if I leave you before I die.' My father taught it to me. Ain't it a

swell thing to say when you're engaged?"

When at last the significance of Yetta's avowal had penetrated Harry's

thick skull, he moved uneasily on his chair. The business side of him

said he was wasting time. It had been a foolish precaution to bring her

to this respectable restaurant. He might have taken her straight to the

Second Avenue "hang-out"--with its complaisant proprietor and the rooms

upstairs. But there was a sweetness--even to him--in such innocent,

confiding love. He had acted the part with her so long that it seemed

something more than bald pretence. There was a residue of "original

decency" left under the hard shell, which living in this world of ours

had given him. And this part of him--God knows it was small and

weak--wished that it was true. It was strong enough to make him prolong

the make-believe. He ordered only a half bottle of champagne--as a

really, truly lover would have done. It was nine o'clock when they left.

They walked along Grand Street towards the Bowery. A sudden wave of

tenderness flooded Harry.

"Yetta," he said, "you've never kissed me."

Her feet on the roseate clouds, she was quite unconscious of the

passers-by; she turned her face up to him unquestioningly. But Harry

never lost consciousness of such things. He did not dare to risk the

jibes of onlookers. He tightened his grip on her arm and led her into a

dark doorway. The late March wind was cold, and no loiterers sat on the

steps nor stood about in the hall. Yetta--a bit surprised at his

prudence--gave herself freely into his arms. When he kissed her, the

last faint shadow of a doubt disappeared. She was sure he really loved

her. The blood pounding in her head under his caresses dizzied her--but

she was not afraid. Only somehow, the flush in his face and the husky

tone of his voice seemed unfamiliar.

"Yetta," he said in a hot whisper. "Did you mean what you said--that

stuff your father taught you? Will you come with me to-night--to my room

and--never go away?"

This was a new idea to Yetta; she had not thought out the literal

meaning of the ancient vow. For a moment she looked into his face, then

turned her head aside. After all, that was what her father had told her

to do.

"I'll marry you," he said, "as soon as they take me into the firm. It

won't be long."

But this aspect of it had not worried Yetta. She did not question his

good intentions. She was trying to picture to herself what such a change

in her life would mean. There had been so little joy for her that now it

was hard to accept it.

Suddenly a familiar figure crossed her range of vision. Her eyes, which

had been straining to pierce the future, focussed on the other side of

the street.

"Look! look! Harry," she cried. "There's Rachel. Run and call her.

Quick."

"No," he said firmly. "That ain't Ray."

"Yes, it is," Yetta insisted. "I guess I knows my cousin when I sees

her. Run after her. I'd like to tell her."

But Harry's hand, which before had caressed her, tightened over her arm

in a brutal grip. He jerked her along in the other direction to the

Bowery.

"I tell you it ain't her. Come on. Get into this car."

The evil look in his eyes terrified her. The sound of his voice hurt

even more than his cruel grip. She got into the car without a word. But

she knew he had lied. She realized suddenly and with terror that she did

not know the man beside her. She had caught a lightning gleam on a new

side of his character. She had seen something dark and sinister. And all

the joy which had been in her heart shrivelled up and cowered.

For a moment they sat side by side in startled silence. Harry was

surprised and angry with himself for having lost his temper. He tried to

cover his blunder, to get back to the old intimacy. But Yetta heard the

forced note in his suave voice. The sight of Rachel had recalled her

warnings about the dangers which life holds for unprotected girls. She

did not answer him nor speak till the car passed Fifth Street.

"The Lyceum's on Sixth Street."

And when they reached the sidewalk, she asked him flatly why he had

lied.

"Can't you understand, Yetta," he asked, bending his head close to hers,

"that I didn't want anybody butting in to-night?"

But she was not reassured. Once a doubt had entered, the whole fabric of

her dreams had begun to totter. And while he told her over again the

threadbare story of his glowing prospects, she was remembering that she

had never seen the "Silk-house" on Broadway. When he spoke of how happy

they would be, she felt the sting of his rough grip on her arm. She was

a very frightened young person as they reached the door of the Lyceum

Hall.

Harry felt the change in her and was raging. All the quasi-tenderness

he had felt for her earlier in the evening had gone. He wanted to break

her. He cursed himself for the time he had wasted that evening. She

would have gone anywhere with him a half hour before. His distorted

brain was torn by strange emotions. Yetta had caught hold of the inner

fabric of his imagination as no other girl had ever done. And, as is

just as true of cadets as of other men, when they begin to care, they

lose their _sang-froid_. He was suddenly afraid of losing her. He felt

himself awkward.

His lack of ease was intensified by his strange surroundings. He had

never been to a ball like this. He only knew two kinds: the flashy,

vicious dances, organized by his own class, the kind he was planning to

take Yetta to, and "Greenhorn balls"--sordid but equally vicious--in the

back rooms of low-class saloons, patronized by ignorant, newly arrived

immigrants.

The entry to the Lyceum Hall was packed with poorly dressed people, but

they were not greenhorns. The women were the strangest of all to him.

Their kind did not come to the balls he frequented. More than half of

them wore shawls; they were of all ages, from fifteen to seventy. They

were serious-eyed working women, and many of them looked hungry. He felt

that his foppish clothes were conspicuous. He felt hostility in the

stares of the men. He would have given anything to be among his own

kind, on familiar ground.

Indeed he was conspicuous among that roomful of poorly dressed men. He

attracted the attention of a couple who stood near the door, Mabel

Train and Walter Longman. In a way they were as conspicuous as he, but

the curious glances which turned in their direction were not hostile.

Miss Train was secretary of the Woman's Trade Union League. Many of the

women and girls, as they entered the room, rushed up to greet her. She

was about twenty-seven, tall and slender. In reality her body was an

almost perfect instrument. She was never sick, and rarely unpleasantly

tired, but in looking at her one was more impressed with nervous than

physical energy. She was more graceful than beautiful. Her face was too

small, a fault which was emphasized by her great mass of brown hair. But

her diminutive mouth was strong in line. Her eyes were keenly alive and

unafraid.

Longman was over thirty, big of bone and limb. Although he strongly

resembled a tame bear, he was a likable-looking man. And just as it

surprised people to find that Miss Train was a hardy horsewoman, and

could tire most men at skiing or swimming, so every one wanted to laugh

when they were told that this lumbering giant, Longman, was an

Instructor of Assyriology at Columbia.

"Look," she said as her eyes fell on Harry and Yetta, "he's a cadet."

The remark, and the matter of fact, decisive way she said it, was

typical of Mabel Train. She knew the life of the East Side well enough

to recognize Harry's unsavory profession at a glance, and she did not

waste time beating about the bush of euphemisms. She never declared a

heart or a club when she meant a spade.

Longman's eyebrows went up affirmatively, but he at once opposed the

natural deduction from her observation.

"Now, don't you go butting in, Mabel, until you're asked."

She shrugged her shoulders.

"The girl's a stranger. I guess I've got a right to welcome her."

And with Longman lumbering behind her she crossed the hall.

"Good evening," she said to Yetta, elaborately ignoring Harry's

existence. "I'm Miss Train, secretary of the League. What's your trade?"

But Yetta replied with a question.

"Didn't you talk to the girls at the Neighborhood House?"

"Yes. I gave them a talk on Trade Unions. Were you there? I don't

remember your face."

Yetta started to explain how she had watched the meeting from her

window. But suddenly she began to stutter; she saw Miss Train look at

Harry, saw the scorn and contempt in her eyes. Yetta could not remember

what she was trying to say. Some newcomers rushed up and interrupted

them. Mabel Train felt that the short conversation had been a decided

failure.

But to Yetta it had had immense significance. In the preceding months

the Settlement had come to typify all the good things of life, for which

she hungered. Like her cousin Rachel she "wanted to be good." The women

whom she watched in the house across the street had seemed to her good,

and also they seemed happy. Miss Train was of that world, she bore its

stamp. And she did not trust Harry. Down crashed the dream into greater

ruin. Yetta was afraid with Harry. Beside such women she would be safe.

How could she escape?

A man on the platform clapped his hands for attention and asked the

people to take seats close to the stage.

"Aw! Come on," Harry said; "let's beat it. This place is stupid."

"No," Yetta said with the determination of fear; "I want to stay."

BOOK II

CHAPTER VII

THE SKIRT-FINISHERS' BALL

Harry was right. It was a stupid ball. It was more of a strike-meeting

than a dance. To most of the people the speeches were of more importance

than the two-steps. As he followed Yetta, grumblingly, up towards the

platform he realized that the crowd of workers, packing in about them,

cut off all possibility of escape. He had not set out that evening with

the intention of sitting on a hard bench and listening to "a lot of

rag-chewing."

"Is this what you call fun?" he growled at Yetta.

But the crowd--so foreign to his manner of life--intimidated him. He

sank into surly silence.

The first speaker was a nervous, overstrained Irish woman. With

high-strung Celtic eloquence she told the story of the sweated. Her

manner was almost lyrical, as if she were chanting a new "Song of the

Shirt." Most of the garment workers in the audience were Jews, but

although her manner of appeal was strange to them, the subject matter of

her speech was their very life, and they were deeply moved.

The president of the "Skirt-Finishers' Union," who spoke in Yiddish,

followed her. She told of the intolerable conditions of the trade: how

the prices had been shaved until no one but girls who lived at home and

had no rent to pay could earn a living at it; how at last the strike had

started and how desperate the struggle was. The treasury was empty, so

they could pay "benefits" no longer. Unless money could be raised they

would be starved back to the machines--defeated.

Then a young Jewish lawyer, Isadore Braun, spoke. It was the ringing

message of Socialism he gave them. All the working people of the world

were victims of the same vicious industrial system. In one branch of

industry--like "skirt-finishing," which they had just heard about--it

might momentarily be worse. But the same principle was back of all

labor. The coal-miner, the lace-maker, the farm-laborer, the

clerk--every one who worked for wages--was in the same manner being

cheated out of some of the product of his labor. Individually the

workingman is powerless. When men or women get together in a union, they

are stronger and can sometimes win improvements in the conditions of

their trade. But if they would all get together in one immense

organization, if they would also vote together, they would be an

overwhelming force in politics. They would rule society. They could

install a new civilization based on Justice and Brotherhood.

"Workingmen of all countries, unite! You have nothing to lose but your

chains. You have a world to gain!"

Dr. Liebovitz rose when Braun sat down. He was a smooth-shaven,

amiable-looking man, but he spoke with a bitterness in striking contrast

to his appearance.

"The bosses do more than cheat you. They're not only thieves--they're

murderers! I'm a doctor. Day and night I go about through this district

with a bag of medicine and surgical instruments trying to save the lives

of people--men and women and newborn babies--who would never be sick if

it was not for the crimes of capitalism!

"Tuberculosis! How many of you are there in this audience who haven't

lost a relative from lungs? As I sat here a moment ago I heard at least

a dozen tubercular coughs. It's preventable--it's curable. There's no

reason why any one should have it--less still that any one of you should

die of it--if Capitalistic Greed didn't force you to live in rotten

tenements, to work long hours in worse shops.

"Unless you people who are here this evening--and all the working

people--make up your mind to make it impossible for some people to get

fat off your misery, unless you get together to overthrow Capitalism, to

establish Socialism, some of your babies are going to die of impure

milk, others of adulterated food, more of T. B. Unless we can put these

murderers out of business there will never be an end to this horrible,

needless, inexcusable slaughter."

Miss Train spoke when he had finished. She made no pretence of oratory,

did not seek to move them either to tears or anger. She tried to utilize

the emotions stirred by the other speakers, for the immediate object of

the meeting--raising funds for the "skirt-finishers." A collection would

now be taken up. Mr. Casey, the secretary of the Central Federated

Union, had promised to address them. He had not yet come. She hoped he

would arrive while the girls were passing the hat.

"For Gawd's sake," Harry said, "come on. This is fierce."

"No," Yetta replied, jerked down from the heights by his gruff voice. "I

want to hear it all."

She had listened spellbound to the speakers. Never having been to a

meeting, she had never heard the life of the working class discussed

before. Almost everything they said about the "skirt-finishers" applied

equally to her own trade. Jake Goldfogle was grinding up women at his

machines to satisfy his greed. Before, he had seemed to her an

unpleasant necessity. Now he took on an aspect of personal villainy. He

was not only harsh and foul-mouthed and brutal, he was robbing them.

Cheated at home by her relatives, at the shop by her boss, what wonder

her life was poverty stricken!

A strange thing was happening to Yetta. The champagne which Harry had

urged on her was mounting to her brain. She had not taken enough to

befuddle her, but sufficient--in that hot, close hall--to free her from

her natural self-consciousness, to open all her senses to impressions,

to render her susceptible to "suggestion." This, although Harry did not

understand psychology, was why he had urged it on her. But his plan had

"gang aglee." The alcohol was working, not amid the seductions of a

brightly lighted, gay ball-room, but in this sombre, serious assembly.

The "suggestions" which were flowing in upon her receptive consciousness

were not the caresses of a waltz. She was being hypnotized by the pack

of humanity about her. She was becoming one with that crowd of

struggling toilers, one with the vast multitude of workers outside the

hall; she was feeling the throb of a broader Brotherhood, in a way she

never could have felt without the stimulation of the wine.

One of the speakers had alluded to the evil part in the sweating system

which is played by the highly paid "speeders." Yetta was a "speeder."

Why? What good did it do her? Her uncle swallowed her wages. Jake

Goldfogle--the slave-driver--profited most. How did it come about that

she--her father's daughter--was engaged in so shameful a rôle? She

wanted passionately to talk it over with some one who understood.

Open-eyed she watched the group of speakers on the platform. She felt

the kinship between their idealism and her father's dreams. He would

have loved and trusted Miss Train. It must be wonderful to be a woman

like that. With the inspiration of the wine in her veins, she felt that

she might find courage to talk to her.

The young woman whom Yetta was so ardently admiring was holding in her

hand a note from Mr. Casey which announced that he could not get to the

meeting, and she was asking Longman--ordering him, in fact--to fill the

gap in the programme. He was protesting. He was not an orator. The sight

of a crowd always made him mad. He was sure to say something which would

anger them. It would be much better to begin the dance. But Miss Train

was used to having her way. His protest only half uttered, Longman found

himself out on the platform.

"Mr. Casey can't come. And Miss Train has asked me to take his place.

Now, I'm no good as a speaker, and you won't like what I say, but I'm

going to tell you what I believe. Braun and Dr. Liebovitz told you

about the rotten injustice of our social system, and what they said was

true. But they did not tell you whose fault it is. You may think the

bosses are to blame. It's your own fault. You're only getting what's

coming to you.

"You're slaves because you haven't the nerve to be free. You came here

to hear the bosses called names. I don't like the bosses any more than

you do. But it makes me tired to hear everybody cursing them and not

looking at their own faults. You are getting cheated. What are you going

to do about it? Are you cowards? Haven't you got the guts to stand up

and fight for your rights?

"Fourscore and several years ago, our Fathers brought forth on this

continent a new nation dedicated to the ideals of Democracy, of Liberty,

Justice, and Brotherhood. And look at this nation now! Plutocracy has

swallowed up Democracy. I don't have to tell you garment workers how

little there is of Justice and Brotherhood. What's wrong? Were the

Fathers off on their ideals? No! But they neglected to people this

continent with a race of men! The country is full of weak-kneed

cringers, who read the Declaration of Independence once a year, but

would rather be slaves than go hungry. People whose rights are 'for

sale.' People who prefer 'getting on in the world' to liberty. The

trouble with this country is that we've got too few patriots.

"I'm an American. What I've been saying to you Jews applies equally to

my own people. But at least I can say this for myself. It isn't much,

but it's more than you can say. My ancestors fought for Liberty. Back in

1776 some of my forebears thought enough of independence to risk not

only their jobs--but their lives. My father valued human freedom enough

in the sixties to fight for it.

"Do you want some one to give you Liberty?--to hand it to you on a

platter? You come here, hundreds of thousands every year, from the

oppression of mediæval Europe, because here in America men of a

different race and creed have bought some measure of freedom with their

blood. Not perfect Liberty--far from it. But we had to fight for the

little we have.

"You're disappointed in America. You curse the bosses who enslave you.

But think a moment. Why should you be free? There's nothing in life

worth having, which doesn't have to be striven for. One of the American

Revolutionists said, 'Eternal vigilance is the price of Liberty.' Have

you been vigilant?

"To-day the age-old fight for Liberty is being fought out in

Industry--between Capital and Labor. What part in it are the Jews of

America going to take? Are you going to submit servilely to injustice,

in the vain hope that some one else will win Justice for you? Or are you

going to follow the footsteps of the glorious fighters of your race,

like Heine and Marx? Are you going to beg for Liberty or join the Army

of Liberation, pay your share of the price and have the proud right to

claim your share of the Victory?

"I know your history. I know how the ages of oppression have bent your

backs. I know your poverty. But did you come to America to transplant

here these old traditions of servitude? No. You came in search of a

broader life, a larger measure of Freedom. Well. Just like every one

else you'll have to fight for it. You've got to sacrifice for it.

You've got to be ready to die for it.

"What are the most servile, down-trodden, abject trades in the city? The

sweated garment trades. Who works in them? Jews. Where are the

rottenest, vilest tenements? On the East Side. Who lives in them? Jews.

You are the worst-paid, hardest-driven, least-considered people in New

York. You are willing to work in sweat-shops. You consent to live in

dumbbell tenements. You submit to injustice.

"You haven't joined the fight, although the Jew can fight when he wants

to. I've no quarrel with these 'skirt-finishers.' But the fact remains

that--with a few glorious exceptions--the great mass of your people have

preferred a new serfdom to the trouble of earning Liberty. The Chosen

People are watching the combat from a safe distance.

"This may sound as if I was a Jew-hater. I'm not. But I love Liberty.

The fight is world-wide, international, interracial. It's bigger than

Jew or Gentile. It's for the Freedom of Humanity. And the people who are

willing to be slaves are more dangerous enemies than those who want to

be tyrants. It's rather good fun fighting oppressors. But it's Hell

trying to free ourselves from slaves."

His words inflamed Yetta's imagination. How often she had heard her

father explain the misery of their people by the lack of training in the

habits of freedom! He had felt--and it had been his keenest sorrow--that

the Chosen People were falling far short of their high calling. She

remembered his solemn talks with her, his explanation of why he had

wished her to study. He wanted her to be an American--a free woman.

Longman stopped. Instead of applause there were angry murmurings. But

his words had sounded like the Ultimate Truth to Yetta. Why did they not

greet his message with a cheer. The wine accomplished its miracle.

Without its burning stimulation she would have been a cowering bundle of

timidity before that sullen audience. But many good things can the

kindly Fates conjure out of vile beginnings. The champagne which was to

have been her utter undoing gave her courage. She got up as one

inspired.

"What he says is true. We Jews don't fight for Freedom like we ought to.

Look at me. My father loved Liberty. Perhaps some of you remember him.

His name was Rayefsky. He used to keep a book-store on East Broadway. He

talked to me about Liberty--all the time, and how we in this country

ought to do our share. And then he died, and I went to work in a

sweat-shop. Vests. I forgot all he had told me. What right have I got to

be free? I forgot all about it. I ain't been vigilant. Nobody's talked

to me about Liberty--since my father died. I'm"--her voice trembled a

moment--"Yes, I'll tell you. I'm speeder in my shop. I'm sorry. I didn't

think about it. Nobody ever told me what it meant before. If there's a

union in my trade, I'll join it. I'll try not to be a slave. I can't

fight much. I don't know how. I guess that's the real trouble--we're not

afraid--only we don't know. I ain't got no education. I had to stop

school when my father died. I was only fifteen. But I'll try not to make

it harder for those that are fighting. I think..."

But her excitement had burned out the stimulation of the wine. She

suddenly saw the sea of faces. It turned her from The Voice of her Race

into a very frightened young woman, who knew neither how to go ahead nor

how to sit down.

"That's all I've got to say!" she stammered. "I'll try not to be a

slave."

Her simple, straightforward story, above all her self-accusation, turned

the spirit of the assembly. "That's right," a number of men admitted,

and there was considerable applause. She was too confused, too

frightened at her own daring, to realize that she had saved the meeting

from failure. But Miss Train, who never lost her presence of mind,

recognized the Psychological Moment to end the speech making, and she

signalled to the orchestra to begin the dance music. Every one got up

and began, with a great hubbub, to move the benches back against the

walls.

But Harry Klein was in no mood for dancing. In this unfamiliar,

disturbing atmosphere, he also was discovering that his companion had a

new and unsuspected side. It was something he did not understand, with

which he was unprepared to deal. Everything seemed conspiring to tear

her away from him. There were limits even to his patience. He must get

her out on the sidewalk--into his own country.

"Come on," he said gruffly, taking firm hold of her arm. "I've had

enough of this. Come on, I say. I ain't going to listen to hot air all

night."

In her moment of exaltation, Yetta had almost forgotten the existence of

her fiancé. His brusque manner broke into her mood with a suddenness

which dazed her. He had led her down the hall, nearly to the door,

before she could collect her wits. Beyond the door was the dark night

and helplessness and unknown fear. Here in the hall was the woman who

had been in the Settlement, the woman of whom she was not afraid.

"Wait," she said. "I want to talk to Miss Train."

In all that hostile environment, Miss Train's silent disdain had been

the most outspoken. Harry would rather have had Yetta talk with Rachel.

Rachel at least was afraid of him.

"Come on," he growled, and jerked her nearer to the door.

"No, no. I want to stop."

"Don't you begin to holler," he hissed, with a rough jerk. He tried to

subdue her with his hard eyes. "Come on. Don't you make no row. Don't

you holler."

They were close to the dark doorway now, and somehow Yetta could not

find breath to scream out her fright. He pushed her roughly out into the

vestibule. But his progress came to a sudden stop. Some one caught him

by the collar and swung him off his feet.

"Not so fast, my man." It was Longman. "Where are you trying to take

this young lady?"

Harry's free hand made an instinctive movement towards his hip pocket,

but Longman's hand got there first.

"Oh, ho!" he said softly. "Concealed weapons?"

Jake nearly wept with rage. He--the president of a political club, the

dreaded leader of a murderous gang--held up in such a manner for the

mockery of a lot of working-men!

"I asked you where you were taking this young lady," Longman repeated.

"I brought her here," Jake snarled, trying desperately to regain his

_sang froid_. "I guess I can take her away when she's tired of the

show."

"Yes. Of course you can take her away, if she wants to go. But you

can't if she doesn't. I didn't catch your name," he continued, turning

to Yetta, "but I'd be very glad to see you safely home, whenever you

want to go. Would you prefer to go with me or with this--" he looked

first at the wilted desperado in his grip and then at the little circle

of men who had gathered about. "He's a Cadet, isn't he, comrades?"

There was a growl of assent.

"You ain't going to throw me down now, are you, Yetta," Jake pleaded,

the thought of losing her suddenly undoing what he considered his

manhood, "just because this gang has picked on me."

"Of course you can go with him if you want to," Longman said kindly.

"But really I think you'd better not. You won't do much for Freedom if

you go with him."

"I'll stay," Yetta said simply.

And then Jake began to curse and threaten.

"Shut up," Longman said laconically, and Jake obeyed.

"Here," he continued to some of the men, "hand him over to the police.

Be careful; he's got a gun in his pocket. Make a charge of 'concealed

weapons.' And--what is your name?--Rayefsky. Thanks. Miss Train wanted

to speak to you--that's why I happened along just now. Won't you come

and we'll find her."

He told her how much he had liked her speech, as he led her across the

room and chatted busily about other insignificant things, just as if

rescuing a young girl from the brink of perdition was one of the most

natural things in the world. Yetta was not at all hysterical, but she

had had enough strange emotions to upset any one that night. His quiet

steady tone, as if everything of course was all right, was like a rock

to lean upon.

He left her in an empty committee-room off the stage and hurried out to

find Mabel, who, as a matter of fact, had not sent him to find Yetta.

With no small exertions he pried her loose from the swarm of admiring

young girls, and, leading her to the door of the committee-room, told

her what had happened.

"Good old Walter," she laughed; "warning me not to butt in, and doing

the rescue all by yourself."

"I didn't butt in," he said sheepishly, "until the chap began to use

force."

"Are muscles the only kind of force you recognize?" she said. "I'll bet

he wasn't using half as much force when you interfered as he had other

times without touching her."

She went into the committee-room and closed the door. And in a very few

minutes Yetta was lost in the wonder of a friend. Hundreds of girls had

sobbed out their troubles on Miss Train's shoulder before, but, although

she made jokes to her friends about how tears faded her shirtwaists,

none of the girls had ever failed to find a ready sympathy. Although the

process had lost the charm of novelty to Mabel it was for Yetta a new

and entirely wonderful experience. Not since her father had comforted

her for a stubbed toe or a cut finger had she cried on anybody's

shoulder. And Miss Train, as well as Longman, had the tact, as soon as

possible, to lead her thoughts away from the evening's tragedy to the

new ideals which the meeting had called to life. As soon as her tears

were dried, Mabel took her out in the main hall and introduced her to

her friends. Longman came up and claimed a dance, and after it was over

he sat beside her for a time and talked to her about labor unions and

the struggle for Liberty. And then he called over Isadore Braun, the

socialist lawyer, and had him dance with her. These two were her only

partners at her first ball. Every few minutes Mabel managed to escape

from her manifold duties and sit beside her.

About midnight they took her home. Longman shook hands with her, and

Mabel kissed her good night. Yetta went up the dark stairway very tired

and shaken.

CHAPTER VIII

NEW FRIENDS

"Interesting girl," Longman said as he and Miss Train turned away from

Yetta's door.

"Yes. I'll have to keep an eye on her. She may be a valuable recruit."

Longman laughed.

"What's so funny?" she asked sharply.

"Funny isn't just the word, but don't you ever see anything in people

except enemies and allies?"

"I don't think much else matters--enemies and allies. There can't be

neutrals in a fight for Justice."

"True enough, but I see a lot of interesting things in this little girl

of the slums, which haven't anything to do with the fact that she is

chuck full of fighting spirit and is sure to be on the right side."

"For instance?"

"Well. To begin with, a sweet and pure character, which in some amazing

way has formed itself in this rotten environment--a wonderfully delicate

sort of a flower blossoming in the muck heap. The kind of a sensitive

plant that the slightest rude touch would blight. It's a marvel how it

has escaped being trod upon--there are so many careless feet! I'm not

proud of myself as I am, but I hate to think of what I'd be like if I'd

been born in her cradle. It is always a marvel to me when some child of

the slum wants to be good. From where in all this sordidness did she get

the inspiration? And then it is always interesting to me--sad and

interesting--to see how utterly stupid this desire for goodness is--how

it is just as likely to lead to utter damnation as anywhere else. This

Yetta Rayefsky has a beautiful and quite absurd trust in people. On a

very short acquaintance she trusts you completely. I think she trusts me

too--just exactly as she trusted that Cadet. And the faith she put in

him was just as beautiful as what she has given you."

"Walter, a person who looked at you would never dream that you're such

a--"

"Sentimentalist? I suppose you're going to call me that again."

Longman said it bitterly. And she, knowing how the taunt would sting

him, with equal bitterness did not reply. They trudged on side by side

in silence, across town to Broadway and up that deserted thoroughfare

towards Washington Square. They were neither of them happy.

In the bottom of her heart Mabel Train knew that something had been

neglected by those fairies who had equipped her for life. They had

showered very many talents upon her. But they had forgotten that little

knot of nerve cells which had to do with the deeper affections. There

were heights and depths of life which she knew she would never visit. It

made her feel unpleasantly different. And Longman, whom otherwise she

liked very much, was always reminding her of this deficiency. It seemed

to her that he was mocking her cold intellectualism. And being

supersensitive on this point, she had hurled "sentimentalist" in his

face.

Of all the odd types in New York City, Walter Longman was one of the

most bizarre. His parents had died while he was in Harvard. They had

left him an income of about five thousand a year. He did not make a

brilliant record in the University. There were nearly always one or two

conditions hanging over his head, but a marked talent for languages and

a vital interest in philosophy carried him through. He was not popular

with the students because in spite of his immense body he could not

muster sufficient interest in football to join the "squad." He preferred

to sit in his window-seat and read.

In the course of his junior year he chanced in his haphazard reading

upon a German scientific review which contained an account of some

excavations in the territory of Ancient Assyria. It told of the

discovery of a large quantity of "brick" books, in a language as yet

undeciphered. The matter interested him, and he set out to find what the

library contained on the subject. He was surprised at the amount of

material there was. The story of how Rawlinson and others had deciphered

unknown languages fascinated him. He stayed on in Cambridge two months

after graduation to finish up this subject. He found more information

about the "brick" books which had first caught his attention. Several

hundred of them had been brought to a museum in Berlin. Having nothing

pressing to do in America, he went over to have a look at them. All the

spoil from this expedition had been housed in one room. After studying

the bricks for a couple of days, he thought he had found a clew. He

could get more ready access to them if he was a student, so he went to

the University and enrolled. He had no idea of staying long, nor of

attending courses in the University, but his only plan for life in

America was to write a book on philosophy, and that could wait.

The first "clew" proved to be an illusion. But those rows and rows of

ancient bricks, with their cryptic writing which hid the story of a lost

civilization, had piqued his curiosity. Again he decided that his work

on philosophy could wait.

It was two years before he satisfactorily translated the first brick.

Once having found the key, his progress was rapid. If he had been in

touch with the Assyriologists of the University, he would probably have

confided in them at once. But he knew none of them personally, and he

went on with his work single-handed. It took him six months to translate

the entire collection. They contained the official records of a certain

King of kings, who had ruled over a long-forgotten people called the

Haktites. It took him six months more to arrange a grammar and

dictionary of the Haktite tongue. Then he remembered the University and

took his two manuscripts to the Professor of Assyriology. He was

decidedly provoked by the first scepticism which greeted his

announcement, even more bored by the hullabaloo which the savants made

over him, when investigation proved the truth of his claim. He stayed a

year longer in Europe, to see an edition of his work through the press

at Berlin and to translate the scattered Haktite bricks in other

museums. This took him as far as Teheran and afield to the site of the

excavations, where there were numerous inscriptions on the stonework

which was too unwieldy to be taken to European museums. Then he came to

New York to take up the position of Instructor in Assyriology in

Columbia. He had stipulated that he should be granted a great deal of

leisure. It was not a hard matter for the University to arrange, as

there was no great clamor among the students to learn Haktite. But

Longman had insisted on the leisure, so that he would have opportunity

to write his book on philosophy, which seemed to him very serious and

infinitely more important than the dead lore of his department. He was

vexed with himself for having wasted so much time and acquired such fame

in so useless a branch of human knowledge.

He established himself in the top floor of a two-story building on

Washington Square, East. He took the place on a long lease, and making

free with the partitions, had arranged a big study in the front

overlooking the Square, a bath, a bedroom, and a kitchenette behind it.

Two big rooms in the rear he sublet as storerooms to the carriage

painter who rented the ground floor. Having a horror of servants, he

made his own coffee in the morning and Signora Rocco, a worthy Italian

woman, came in with a latch-key when he was out at lunch and put the

place in order. Twice a week he had to go up to the University.

The rest of his time went to what he considered his real work. He was to

call his book _A Synthetic Philosophy_. Hundreds of would-be sages had

cut themselves off from all active communion with life, had retired to

the seclusion of a study or cave, and had written solemn tomes on what

Man ought to think. Longman was going to discover what his kind really

did think. He went about it in a systematic, almost statistical way.

He had reduced the more important of the various possible human beliefs

to twenty-odd propositions and many subheads, all of which he had had

printed on a double sheet of foolscap. It began boldly by raising the

question of Deity. From the heights of metaphysical discussion of the

Existence, the Unity, and the Attributes of God, it came nearer to earth

by inquiring into Heaven and a belief in a future existence. Again it

soared up into the icy altitude of Pure Reason and the _Erkenntniss

Theorie_. Again it swooped down to more practical questions of Ethics,

what one considered the _summum bonum_ and under what circumstances one

conceded the right to suicide, and whether or not one believed that

every man has his price. Whenever Longman found willing subjects he

cross-questioned them by the hour. From the notes he took he tabulated

the victim's _credo_ on one of the printed questionnaires and filed it

away. Almost every one laughed at his idea, but with the same dogged

momentum which had kept him bent for months on and over Assyrian bricks,

which interested him only slightly, he stuck to this work which

interested him deeply.

In a way he was especially fitted for it. Every one liked him and found

it easy to talk freely with him. And he was quick to detect any cant or

lack of sincerity. If he wrote "yes" after the question, "Do you believe

it pays to be honest?" it was the subject's basic belief, not a pretence

nor a pose. And he had a knack of putting his questions in simple,

comprehensible language. The printed questionnaire bristled with

appalling technical words. But he did not use such phrases as "ultimate

reality," "the categorical imperative." He did not ask his subject if

his idea of God was anthropomorphic. Very few of the people whose faith

he analyzed would have understood such terms.

It was the essence of his proposition that he should tabulate the

convictions of all sorts and conditions of men. And in his quest for

varied points of view he had come into very close contact with a strange

mixture of people. Into his "operating room," as Mabel Train derisively

called his study, he had enticed college professors and policemen,

well-bred young matrons and street-walkers. One of his sheets recorded

the intimate convictions of the man downstairs who painted carriages;

another, those of a famous opera singer. The Catholic Bishop of New York

had undergone the ordeal and a Salvation Army lassie, who had knocked at

his door to sell a _War-cry_, had come in to try to convert him. She had

been very much distressed by his perplexing questions, but like all the

rest had quickly fallen captive to his gentle manners and understanding

eyes. She had dropped her missionary pose and had talked freely to him,

not only of her beliefs, but also of her doubts.

Almost every one who had gone through the ordeal remembered it with a

strange, awed sort of pleasure. It is so very rarely that we find any

one to whom we can tell the truth.

There was a wreck of a man, an habitué of cheap lodging-houses and

gin-mills, who would tell you the story on the slightest provocation.

One cold October night when he had no money for a bed and was trying to

live through the night on a park bench with a morning paper for a

blanket, a man had asked him if he wanted a drink. Not suspecting the

good fortune which had befallen him, he had followed Longman to the

"operating room." First there had been a stiff bracer of whiskey--"good

Scotch whiskey, sir,"--and then a plentiful cold supper of bread and

cheese and sardines and a steaming cup of coffee--"as much as I could

eat, sir"--and a cigar--"as long as yer foot, sir. He was a real

gentleman, sir, and he talked to me like I was a gentleman."

There was a young wife of an elderly professor. Some of the ladies of

the faculty raised their eyebrows when her name was mentioned and did

not go to her teas. She had been smitten by Longman's broad shoulders

and gentle bearishness and had quite eagerly consented to come to his

study. She did not tell anybody about it, but she cried when she thought

about it--cried that he had not asked her again.

Whether or not Longman's book promised any great usefulness to humanity,

the preparing of it was of undoubted use to him. He had seen life at

close quarters, with what Mirabeau called "terrible intimacy." His heart

had grown very large there in his "operating room." As well as he could

he hid his ever ready sympathy under a surface joviality and flippancy.

There were very few people beside Mabel who realized what a

sentimentalist he was. He was a brother to Abou ben Adhem. And that love

of his fellow-men necessarily brought him into bitter revolt against

things as they are. But he had no collective sense; he loved his fellow

men individually. He had no feeling for mass movements. Intellectually

he realized the need of united activity, he believed in trade-unions

and socialism. But the sight of a crowd always made him angry. He was an

ardent apostle of the Social Revolution. But he could not work

harmoniously with an organization. So the socialists called him an

Anarchist. He did not care what he was called. But most of the

difference between his very small living expenses and his liberal income

found its way unobtrusively into some socialist or labor organization.

But for three years now Mabel Train had been the "Cause" to which he

gave his devotion.

She was also of the class of those who, never having had to work, had

volunteered in the cause of those who must. But she had done so in a

more intense, thoroughgoing, and practical way than had Longman. She had

given not only what money she could spare, but herself.

She was a graduate of the University of Wisconsin, and having come under

the influence of the able and daring group of economists on that faculty

had been educated to a position in labor matters which is very nearly as

radical as that of the socialists. One of her professors had told her

that in all his experience in coeducation he had never encountered a

woman with a more masculine brain. At the time she had felt

complimented. She had, at twenty, been proud that she did not have

hysterics, that her mind did not have "fainting fits," that she could

tackle the problems of the class-room in the same graceless, uninspired,

direct way that men did. At twenty-seven she was beginning to realize

that life was not a class-room exercise and that there were certain

inevitable problems of womanhood which could not be solved man-fashion.

She felt herself cold in comparison to other women. The romances of the

girls in college had rather disgusted her. At twenty-seven she would

have given her right hand for the ability to lose her head like some of

the shop-girls among whom she worked.

As a matter of fact the professor had been quite wrong in calling her

intellect masculine--it was only a remarkably good one. It had the

fearlessness to look the folly of our industrial system in the face and

understand it. She had a deep womanliness which made it impossible for

her to accept a manner of life which was in contradiction to her

intellectual convictions. Thinking as she did that the relations between

capital and labor were basically unjust, it was necessary for her to

spend her life in the fight for justice.

What might be called "the normal mother instinct" had been denied her.

Her woman's nature had turned into an ardent desire to "mother" the

race. The babes who die unborn, those who are poisoned by bad milk, who

wither up from bad air, whose growth is stunted by bad food--all the sad

little children of the poor--were her own brood. She wrote rarely to her

two blood sisters--she was the big sister of all the girls who are

alone.

Her parents were entirely out of sympathy with her interest in working

people. Principally to escape their ceaseless nagging, she had come

East. For several years she had been the head of the Woman's Trade Union

League. Her gentle breeding made her successful with the wealthy ladies

on whom the League depended for support, the working girls idolized her,

the rather rough men of the Central Federated Union had come to

recognize that she never got up in meeting unless she had something to

say. And the bosses complimented her ability by hating her cordially.

Most of the young men who tried to court her--and there was a constant

stream of them, for she was a very attractive woman--fared badly. She

was distressingly illusive. Her intellect was so lively that it was hard

to admire her manifold charms. She wanted the people who talked to her

to think. And she checked sentimentality with scornful laughter.

Things were further complicated for her would-be suitors by the fact

that Mabel, when she was not very busy, was always accompanied by her

room-mate Eleanor Mead. Eleanor did not look like a formidable duenna.

She was of a pure pre-Raphaelite type. By profession she was an interior

decorator, and her business card said, "Formerly with Liberty--Avenue de

l'Opera, Paris." She carefully cultivated the appearance of an Esthete.

She nearly always dressed in rich greens and old golds and was never

truly happy except during the limited season when she could wear fresh

daffodils in her girdle. She was clever at her work and gained a very

good income, which she augmented by fashionable entertainments where she

lectured in French on subjects of Art and sometimes gave mildly dramatic

readings of Maeterlinck and other French mystics.

Most men found her style of beauty too watery. But one of the "Younger

Choir" had taken her as his Muse and had dedicated a string of

Petrarchian sonnets to her. Eleanor had been rather flattered by the

tribute until the unlucky bard had been forced by the exigencies of his

rhyme to say that she had "eyes of sapphire." People had begun to make

sport of her "sapphire" eyes--they did have a rather washed-out

look--and had begun to call her "Sapphire." Most of Mabel's lovers

shortened it disrespectfully to "Saph." She had given this aspiring

versifier the sack, and his long hair was no longer to be seen in the

highly decorated apartment on Washington Square, South.

Although her appearance was not at all dreadful, she was feared and

hated by all Mabel's admirers. It was impossible to call on Miss

Train--it was necessary to call on both of them. Without any open

discourtesy, with a well-bred effort to hide her jealousy, Eleanor made

the courting of her friend a hideous ordeal. Most aspirants dropped out

of the race after a very few calls. But for three years Longman had held

on. It had not taken him long to know what was the matter with him, and

after two unsuccessful efforts to see Mabel alone and tell her about it,

he went one night to the flat with grim resolution.

"Miss Mead," he said abruptly on entering, "I've got something very

important I want to say to Miss Train. I want to ask her to marry me.

Will you be so kind--?"

He opened the door leading into the dining-room. His manner had been

irresistible. And Eleanor with her head in the air had sailed out past

him. He shut the door carefully. All the evening long, Eleanor knelt

down outside it, with her ear glued to the keyhole. But she heard

nothing to distress her.

Longman got no satisfaction. Mabel had rejected his offer as decisively

as possible. But he had refused to be discouraged. The third time that

he forced a proposal on her, it had made her angry and she had said that

she did not care to see him again. A few days later she received a very

humble letter from him. He pleaded for a chance to be her friend, and

solemnly promised not to say a word of love for six months. She had not

answered it, but the next Sunday he came to the flat for tea. They had

drifted into a close but unsound friendship. Eleanor's dislike for him

was so evident--she maintained that the way he had banished her to the

dining-room proved that he was no gentleman--that he very rarely went to

their apartment. But on every possible occasion he met Mabel outside.

The people who saw him at her side, night after night at labor meetings,

assumed that they were engaged. This added intimacy only whetted

Longman's love. From bodyguard he fell to the position of slave. He ran

errands for her.

With the masculine attitude towards such matters he did not believe that

she would accept such untiring service if there was no hope.

When at the end of the stipulated six months she refused him

again,--just as coldly as at first,--it was a bitter surprise to him. If

a man had acted so, Longman would have unhesitatingly called him a cad.

He went away to the mountains to think it out. In a week he was back,

proposing again. Once more she became angry. When she said "no," she

meant "no." She did not want to marry him and did not think she ever

would. He had asked to be her friend. Well. She enjoyed his friendship,

but if he was going to bother her every few days with distasteful

proposals of marriage it made friendship impossible. For two weeks he

struggled with himself in solitude, torn between his desire to see her

and his pride. Then he went to a meeting where he knew she would speak

and walked home with her.

So it had recommenced and so it had continued--in all three years. A

deep camaraderie had grown between them. They knew each other better

than many couples who have been married twice as long. But Longman could

see no progress towards the consummation he so earnestly desired. During

the three years there had been alternate moods of hope and despair. At

times he thought she surely must come to love him. At other times the

half loaf of intercourse tasted bitter as quinine. He told himself that

he was a weak fool, a spectacle for the gods to laugh at, hanging to the

skirts of a woman who had no care for him. At times he said, "Let all

the rest go hang, to-day's sweet friendship is better than nothing."

There were sad and angry moments when he paced up and down in his study

and cursed her and himself and his infatuation--and the next moment he

wanted to kiss the dust she had trod upon.

But steadily the torment of their relationship grew worse. More and more

insistent had become the idea of going away. Perhaps she would miss his

friendship and call him back. But he had been too deeply enslaved to

dare so drastic a revolt. However, that morning had brought him mail

which had suddenly crystallized this idea. He had resolved to put it to

the test.

"Mabel," he said as they entered Washington Square, "if you're not too

tired let's go up to the Lafayette for a while. I've got something

important to talk over with you."

A look of vexation crossed her face, which, with quick and painful

sensitiveness, he interpreted.

"No," he said gravely, "I won't bore you with any professions of

affection. It's a business matter on which I'd like your advice."

"Why not come up to the flat; we've some beer, and Eleanor's been making

some fudge. It's more comfortable than that noisy café."

"Very well, then," he said stiffly. "I'll leave you at your door."

"Now, Walter--don't be a fool. What are you so sour about to-night? You

haven't opened your mouth for six blocks."

"You know very well that I can't talk with "Saph" on the job--she hates

me. I'd like to talk this over with you."

"All right," she said, shaking his arm to cheer him up. "But don't be

quite so grumpy, just because I called you a sentimentalist."

Over the marble-topped table in the café, he told her that a letter had

come inviting him to join an expedition, organized by the French

Government, to excavate some Haktite ruins in Persia. From the point of

view of an Assyriologist it was a flattering offer; they had selected

him as the most eminent American in that department. But it would be a

three or four years' undertaking in one of the most inaccessible corners

of the globe. They would probably get mail no oftener than two or three

times a year. And after all he was more interested in the thoughts of

live men than in mummies and cuneiform inscriptions. It would stop his

work on philosophy.

"In fact, Mabel," he ended, "there is only one thing that makes me think

of accepting. I can't stand this. I don't want to bring up the forbidden

subject. But I'm tired--worn out--with hiding it. If I stay here in New

York, I'm sure to--bore you."

He tried to smile lightly, but it was not much better than the smile

with which we ask the dentist if it is going to hurt. Mabel dug about in

her _café parfait_ for a moment without replying. She understood all the

things he had not said. At last she did the unselfish, the kindly thing,

which, if she had been a man, she would have done long before. She sent

him away.

"It looks to me like a great opportunity. It isn't only an honor for

past achievements, but a chance for new and greater ones. Sometimes I

poke fun at your Synthetic Philosophy, but seriously I don't think it is

as big a thing as your Assyriology. Whether you like it or not the Fates

have given you a talent for that. Your wanting to do something

else--write philosophy--always seems to me like a great violinist who

wants to be a jockey or chauffeur. You're really at the very top as an

Assyriologist. It's not only me--but most of your friends--think you

have more talent for that. I think you'd best accept it."

Longman swallowed his medicine like a man. A few minutes later he left

Mabel at her door.

She found "Saph" stretched out _à la Mme. Récamier_ on the dull green

Empire sofa.

"Will you never get out of the habit of staying to sweep up after the

ball?" she asked languidly.

"I haven't been sweeping up," Mabel replied; "I've been over at the

Lafayette with Walter. Now don't begin to sulk," she went on; "he's been

telling me great news. The French Government has asked him to go on one

of their expeditions to Central Asia. He's going."

"Goody," Eleanor cried, jumping up. "I'm glad!"

"I'm not," Mabel said; "I'll miss him no end."

"Mabel Train, I believe you're in love with that man."

"No, I'm not. And I'm half sorry I'm not. I'm tired, done up. Good

night."

"Don't you want some fudge?--it turned out fine."

"No. Good night."

Mabel did not exactly bang her bedroom door, but she certainly shut it

decisively, and for more than an hour sat by her window, watching the

ceaseless movement in the Square. Once she saw Longman walk under an

arc-light. His head was bent, his hands deep in his pockets. Although

the sight of him left her quite cold, her eyes filled with tears as they

had not done for years. It was just because the sight of him left her

cold that tears came.

CHAPTER IX

YETTA ENLISTS

Yetta did not fall asleep readily after the ball. Her mind was a

turmoil. If she tried to fix her attention on this question of Liberty

which had stirred her so deeply, she was suddenly thrown into confusion

by a memory of the cold fear which Harry Klein's hard eyes and brutal

grip had caused her. She felt that she must think out her relationship

with him clearly if she was ever to be free from fear, but again this

problem would be disturbed by the thought of her wonderful new friends.

Sleep when it came at last was so heavy that she did not wake at the

accustomed hour in the morning. When Mrs. Goldstein came into the

bedroom to rouse her, she was startled by the sight of the new hat and

white shoes, which Yetta had been too excited the night before to hide.

The first thing Yetta knew, there was a great commotion in her room. Her

uncle and aunt, neither more than half dressed, were accusing her loudly

of her crime and heaping maledictions on her head. It was several

minutes before Yetta fully awoke to the situation. And when she did, a

strange transformation had taken place within her; she was no longer

afraid of the sorry couple.

"Yes," she said, sitting up in bed, drawing the blanket about her

shoulders, "I went to a ball. If you don't like it, I'll find some other

place to live."

The garrulous old couple fell silent. Goldstein's resentment against his

daughter Rachel was fully as much because she had stopped bringing him

money to get drunk on as because she had "gone wrong." After a minute's

amazement at Yetta's sudden display of independence, they began a

sing-song duet about ingratitude. Had they not done everything for her?

Taken her in when she was a penniless orphan? Clothed and fed and

sheltered her?

"And haven't I paid you all my wages for four years?" she replied. "Go

away. I want to get dressed."

At the shop Yetta found that the story of her speech had been spread by

one of the girls at the second table who had been at the ball.

Fortunately this girl had not witnessed the scene with Harry Klein.

Yetta found the women at her table discussing the matter in whispers

when she arrived. In the moment before the motor started the day's work,

the bovine Mrs. Levy told her that she was a fool.

"You've got a good job," she said. "You'll make trouble with your bread

and butter. You're a fool."

"Better be careful," the cheerful Mrs. Weinstein advised. "Don't I know?

My husband's a union man. Of course the unions are right, but they make

trouble."

"It ain't no use," the sad and worn Mrs. Cohen coughed from the foot of

the table. "There ain't nothing that'll do any good. Women ain't got no

chance."

The motor began with a roar.

It is a strange fact of life, how sometimes a sudden light will be

turned on a familiar environment, making it all seem new and entirely

different from what we are accustomed to. Four years Yetta had worked in

that shop. She had accepted it all as an inevitability, which no more

admitted change or "reform" than the courses of the stars. The speeches

to which she had listened made it suddenly appear in its true human

aspect. It was no longer a thing unalterable, it was an invention of

human greed. It was a laboratory where, instead of base metals, the

blood of women and young girls was transmuted into gold. The alchemists

had failed to find the Philosopher's Stone. The sweat-shop was a modern

substitute. It was a contrivance by which such priceless things as youth

and health and the hope of the next generation could be coined into good

and lawful money of the realm.

Her nimble fingers flying subconsciously at the terrible speed through

the accustomed motions, Yetta saw all the grim reality of the shop as

never before. She saw the broken door to the shamefully filthy toilet,

saw the closed, unwashed windows, which meant vitiated,

tuberculosis-laden air, saw the backs of the women bent into unhealthy

attitudes, saw the strained look in their eyes. More vaguely she saw a

vision of the might-be life of these women,--clean homes and happy

children. And behind her she felt the existence of the "office", where

Jake Goldfogle sat and watched them through his spying window, and

contrived new fines. And even more clearly than when she had made her

speech, she saw her own function in this infernal scheme of greed, saw

herself a lieutenant of the slave-driver behind her. She wondered if

the other women hated her as she deserved to be hated. But habit is a

hard thing to break, and her fingers sped on as of old.

When the day's work was over, a sorry sort of a woman, named Levine, a

woman who had had many children and more troubles and very few joys,

lingered in the shop and told Goldfogle the gossip about Yetta's speech.

She had expected some reward, a quarter--or even a dime--with which to

buy a little more food for her children. But she got only curses. During

the day one of Jake's loans had been called. What was he to do, hounded

by his creditors, threatened from within? If he had been an Oriental

despot he would have slain the bearer of these bad tidings.

Yetta, afraid of meeting Harry Klein outside, clung as close as might be

to Mrs. Weinstein on her way home. She ran the few blocks she had to go

alone.

It was a useless precaution. He had no intention of accosting her that

night. The official dispensers of Justice had taken small interest in

the charge against him. He had been promptly bailed out and knew the

papers would get lost in some pigeonhole. But although he was not

worrying about his arrest, he was more unhappy than he had been since

the first day he had spent in jail as a boy. Like most crooks he

believed in "luck." Apparently his luck had turned. There was only one

consolation. It had been a single-handed game. None of his followers

knew of his downfall. So he had set about planning a spectacular _coup_

which would restore his prestige if the story of his disgrace got out.

His vengeance, to be complete, should have included Longman, but the

scent was too faint. He did not know his adversary's name. But he knew

just where to put his finger on Yetta. He was a discreet young man, and

he wanted to be very sure there would be no slip-up. So this night he

trailed along behind her, safely hidden in the crowd. When he saw that

she had walked home along the accustomed streets, he smiled contentedly.

"It's a cinch," he told himself.

During the day an event had occurred in the Goldstein flat; a messenger

boy had come with a letter and a bundle of pamphlets for Yetta. Even the

postman is a rare visitor to such homes, and the arrival of a special

messenger is talked about by the whole street. Mr. Goldstein, whose

dispute with his niece had driven him out to find solace from his

troubles, had, more early than usual, returned to the flat. He had found

his wife very much excited over the bundle which reposed in state on the

kitchen table. He was not so befuddled but that he saw the tracts were

about Trade Unions. So when Yetta returned from her work she found a new

storm blowing. As a Tammany man and a pillar in the Temple of Things as

They Are--it is doubtful if he realized how important he and his kind

are in the maintenance of that imposing structure. Mr. Goldstein had to

oppose trade-unions and socialism. They seemed to him more subversive of

the order of Society than social settlements, dance-halls, or the

Religion of the Goyim. And he was sufficiently intoxicated to have

forgotten the mercenary caution which had in the morning kept him from

throwing out the chief brandy-winner of the household. All through her

supper Yetta had to listen to reproaches--which were not too delicately

worded. But they hardly bothered her. As soon as she could find a good

place to live she was going to leave. She was not afraid any more. And

when she had crammed sufficient food into herself, she picked up the

bigger of the two lamps and escaped to her room with the pamphlets and

the letter.

It had taken Mabel Train less than five minutes to dictate the letter,

although she had two or three times stopped to attend to things which

she thought more important. But of course to Yetta, the letter seemed

importance itself. It was the first she had ever received, and it was

from the most wonderful woman in the world. Mabel asked some questions

about the shop and the chances of organizing the vest trade, and she

urged Yetta to come to the office of the League to see her. She gave a

list of the meetings at which she was to speak the next few nights, and

asked Yetta, if it was impossible to get off in the daytime, to come to

one of these meetings. She wanted very much to have a long talk with

her--above all she hoped that Yetta would not forget her. It was an

informal and affectionate letter. Yetta read it over five times, and

each reading made her happier.

Then she turned to the pamphlets and did not go to bed until she had

finished them. It was four years since she had read so much. There were

hard words here and there which she did not understand, but on the whole

they seemed wonderfully clear. Many of the questions which had been

perplexing her were answered, many new ones raised. Although the reading

made her feel keenly her ignorance--made her cheeks burn with shame over

the years when she had brutishly ceased to think--she certainly

understood life better, she saw more clearly her place in it.

The last of the pamphlets bit into her. It was called "Speed." It was

written in a violent and unjust spirit. The author had failed to realize

that the "speeders" were human beings; that few, if any of them, were

willing or understanding tools in the hands of the bosses. He spoke of

them as "traitors to their comrades," "ignoble creatures--Judases who

sold themselves to the oppressors for thirty pieces of silver," "more

detestable than scabs." To be a "speeder," this author held, was "a

prostitution more shameful than that of the streets." If Mabel had

selected the pamphlets, this one would not have been sent to Yetta, but

she had told her stenographer to send "half a dozen." And Yetta, not

knowing much about stenographers and their blunders, thought that all

this was what the wonderful Miss Train thought about her. She felt that

some deep expiation was necessary if she wished to look her new friends

in the face.

She was in the grip of hurrying forces. She could see but three courses

open before her. It was possible to go on as she had been doing, part of

the great machine which was robbing mankind of its liberty, a blind tool

in the hands of the tyrants--a tool until she was worn out and

discarded. She might slip into the hands of some Harry Klein. Or she

might risk all in the Cause of Freedom.

It would be easier for us to understand Yetta's outlook on life, if we

too had stood on the very brink of that bottomless abyss; if we

realized, as she had suddenly come to realize, how very narrow is the

margin of safety, which even our greatest caution can give us. It did

not seem to her that she was risking much in risking everything she had.

Mabel Train, on the contrary, had joined the ranks of Social Revolt

without any compulsion. She and her family were beneficiaries of the

system to the overthrow of which she had dedicated her energy. It would

have been very easy for her to sink into the smug complacency of the

life to which she had been born and bred. Why should she not accept the

conventional lies of our civilization as her mother, her sister, and her

friends did? She had been given this strangely strong intellect which

her professor had called masculine, and she could not help but recognize

the "falsehoods." She had also been given a keen sense of ethics and a

tremendous pride. She could not bear the thought of being "the kept

woman" of Injustice.

With all that is ordinarily called "good" at her command, she had

voluntarily chosen a hard and cheerless life, a career which was largely

thankless. Instead of cotillions she went to the balls of the

Amalgamated Union of Skirt Finishers. She had given up a comfortable

home for light-housekeeping in a flat. The hardest of all was that

instead of being considered an ordinarily sane young woman, all the

people of her old life thought her a crank and a fool.

Yetta's situation was indeed different--less heroic but more tragic. And

just in proportion as your own toothache hurts you more than your

neighbor's, it was more vital. Her life seemed to her shameful, and as a

price of shame it offered her nothing but a gradual rotting into barren

uselessness. Her first effort to escape from the vicious rut into which

she had fallen had led her to the brink of a greater shame, a surer

disaster. Of all the people with whom life had brought her into

contact, three seemed preëminently good: her father, Longman, and Mabel

Train. They all loved Liberty. Once her eyes had been opened, Yetta

would gladly have given up much more to the New Cause. As it was, the

crusade seemed to her not a sacrifice, but an escape. An irresistible

force was pushing her into Revolt--_la force majeure_ of poverty.

She did not foresee what form her new life would take; she was ignorant

of too many important things. But she reached a determination to seek

out Miss Train at the earliest opportunity and enlist.

And having cleared up this problem, her mind was freer to face the case

of Harry Klein. It was not an easy thing for her to fold away all the

emotions and dreams to which he had given life. She was still

unenlightened in such matters. She did not see clearly the details of

the horrors from which she had escaped. All she knew was that he had

lied to her. He had with his honeyed words been plotting to make her

"bad." Some of Longman's words at the Skirt-Finishers' ball came back to

her and seemed to apply. She had foolishly dreamed that some one could

give her freedom. That had been an idle hope; if she was to escape from

her dungeon of monotony she must do it herself.

Harry Klein did not go to sleep until his plans were laid. He had had a

satisfactory talk with the keeper of a Raines Law hotel on the route

which Yetta followed on her way home after she left Mrs. Weinstein. The

rooms upstairs would be empty on the morrow, and the ladies' parlor

clear of witnesses. He had ordered a dozen of his followers to be in a

saloon across the street. At a signal from him they were to rush out

and fire their revolvers in the air in imitation of a gang fight. All

the homeward hurrying crowd would shriek and run. In the excitement he

would jerk Yetta into the dark doorway.

He did not like to use such "strong-arm" methods. It was always safer

and generally easy to fool the girl into coming willingly. But this

occasion demanded decisive action. He went over the plan carefully, and

could find no flaw in it. "It's a cinch," he repeated as he went to

sleep.

Jake Goldfogle did not get to sleep at all. He tossed about on the bed

in his stuffy tenement room--which he had hoped to leave so soon for a

Harlem flat--and tried to think a way out of his difficulties. He had

spent his last resources in meeting the unexpectedly called loan. If

trouble broke out in his shop, there was very little hope of pulling

through. It was his nature to cross all bridges as soon as he heard of

them. But this one which seemed so close he could not traverse. Should

he appeal to Yetta at once? Or should he trust to luck, to the chance of

the storm blowing over? All night long he swung from one decision to the

other. His final conclusion was to redouble his spying, and at the first

hint of trouble to call Yetta into his office. He had no doubt that an

offer of marriage would change her into an ally.

Yetta, having no idea how the powers of darkness were again closing

about her, set out to work in the morning in high spirits--her face

illumined by her new resolve. But her exaltation was short lived. Mrs.

Cohen's lungs were much worse. All through the morning hours she

struggled desperately with her cough. Mrs. Levy had seen the same thing

so often before that she gave it no attention. But Mrs. Weinstein's

merry eyes turned serious. And every cough tore at Yetta's heart. She

was partly to blame. During the noon respite she and Mrs. Weinstein took

care of the consumptive woman, tried to tempt her to eat with the

choicest morsels of their none too savory lunches. Yetta urged her to go

home for the afternoon and rest. But that was impossible. Goldfogle

would "fire" her if she left, and she needed the job.

So when the short lull was over, the women took their places about the

table. Hardly five minutes had passed when a paroxysm of coughing

checked Mrs. Cohen's hands, and the work began to pile up. Yetta broke

her thread, and by the time she had mended it Mrs. Cohen had caught up.

Jake, hearing the stop, came to the door, but, seeing that Yetta was to

blame, went back without speaking. Within half an hour Yetta had to

break her thread again. But Mrs. Cohen was past the aid of such

momentary rests. Before three the crisis came. She let go her work and

dropped her head on her hands, horribly shaken by sobs and coughs.

Yetta, feeling that she had helped to kill the woman, stopped her

machine. Jake rushed out into the shop.

"_Wos hat da passiert?_" he demanded of Yetta, nervous and angry. "Did

your thread break again?"

"No." Yetta stood up. "I stopped."

"Stopped?" he repeated in amazement.

"Yes. I stopped. It's a shame. Mrs. Cohen is sick and can't keep up."

Jake was only too glad to find some one else to vent his vile temper

upon. He ran around the table and grabbed Mrs. Cohen roughly by the

shoulder.

"You're fired," he shrieked. "I've had too much from you. You're the

slowest woman here. Now you stop the whole table. You're fired."

"No, you don't, Mr. Goldfogle," Yetta cried, as excited as he was. "You

don't fire her without you fire me too. See? Ain't you got no heart?

She's killed herself working for you. You ought to take care of her now

she's sick."

"Vot you tink?" he wailed. "Is it a hospital or a factory I'm running?"

"If it's a slaughter-house, Jake Goldfogle, I won't work in it."

The altercation had stopped all the work. The shop was strangely quiet.

And Jake, his hope of success, his dream of love, trembling about his

ears, could hardly keep back his tears. Suddenly he found voice and

turned on the other women.

"Vot for do you stop? Vork! Vork, or I'll fire you."

And then coming up close to Yetta he said:--"You come vid me to my

office. I vant to talk vid you."

"Why don't you say it here?" she asked defiantly. "I don't care who

hears me talk. You got to treat Mrs. Cohen right or I'll quit. The other

girls will quit too if they ain't cowards."

"No, no, no," he said, trying to hush her. "You come vid me, Miss

Rayefsky."

She hesitated. She had expected him to rage and threaten her; his

cringing manner disconcerted her. Anyhow it would give Mrs. Cohen time

to breathe, so she reluctantly followed him into the dingy little

office. He carefully closed the door.

"I've got sometin' to tell you. I. Vell--Yetta, you be a good girl und

not make no trouble in the shop. Und ven de rush season is over,

Yetta--I'll, yes, Yetta, I luf you. I'll marry you. You be a good girl

und not make trouble, Yetta, und I'll marry you."

If he had threatened to kill her, Yetta would not have been so

surprised. She was dumbfounded. And Jake, nervous, frightened, amorous

Jake, took her amazed speechlessness for consent. He thought the

magnificent generosity of his offer had overpowered her.

"Yes, Yetta," he drivelled on, "I luv you already since a long while. I

vant to tell you, but the contract is zu close. I need you in the shop.

You're the best vorker. It's only a few veeks now, Yetta. Ve'll be rich.

Rich! I don't care if you ain't got no money. Ven I seed you first,

Yetta, I luved you."

He grabbed one of her hands and tried to kiss her. The slap he received

dizzied him.

"You come out in the shop, Jake Goldfogle," she cried, pulling open the

door. "You tell them what you told me. What do you think the pig said to

me?" she asked the surprised women. "You tell them, Jake Goldfogle, or I

will. He wants me to marry him--after the rush season. He loves me so

much he wants me to go on speeding for him--slave driving--till after

the rush season. Oh, the pig! I'd rather be hustling on the street, Jake

Goldfogle, than be married to a sweat-shop keeper."

Jake's temper was never very good; it had been torn by too many and

desperate worries. To have his heart's dream thus publicly scoffed at,

robbed him of his last shred of self-control. Giving tongue to an

incoherent burst of rage and filth, he rushed at Yetta. She thought he

was going to strike her. But she was too angry herself to be afraid.

"Don't you hit me, you brute," she screamed at him, shaking her own

fists in his face. "I ain't working for you no more, Jake Goldfogle.

See? I ain't one of your slaves any more. I'm a free woman. I'll have

you arrested, if you hit me. And shut your dirty mouth."

Jake was cowed. His fist unclenched.

"You see what kind of a boss we've been working for," Yetta said to the

other women. "He ain't a man. He's a pig! Wanted me to marry him--after

the rush season. I've quit him and you ought to quit too."

"Shut up," Jake shrieked.

"I won't shut up. See what you've done to Mrs. Cohen. You've killed her,

and now you want to throw her out. We ought to strike."

"Don't you talk strike in my shop, you--"

"Yes. We ought to strike. You know the dirty deal we're getting. Rotten

wages and speed. It's because we ain't got no union and don't fight. We

ought to strike like the skirt-finishers."

"Police! Police!" Jake howled, rushing to the door. "I'll have you

arrested, you dirty little--"

"I don't care if he does have me arrested," Yetta went on more quietly

after he had gone. "If he was treating us decent, he wouldn't yell for

the police, when somebody says 'strike.' I ain't afraid of jail. I'm

afraid of staying here on the job and coughing myself to death. I'm

going to quit, and you ought to too."

"You're a fool. You're making trouble," the bovine Mrs. Levy said with

conviction.

"No. She ain't," Mrs. Weinstein spoke up. "I guess my man belongs to a

union. He's told me lots of times that us working people ain't got no

other hope. It's the bosses what make trouble by cheating us. I'll

strike, if the rest do."

"I'll strike anyhow," Yetta said. "I won't never work for a pig like

that, asking me to marry him after the rush season."

"I'll strike vid you, Yetta," the girl said who had been to the ball.

"My sister's a skirt-finisher. But the strike ain't no good unless

everybody quits."

"I'll strike," another voice chimed in.

"All right," Mrs. Weinstein said. "We'll all strike."

"It's foolishness," Mrs. Levy protested, rubbing her trachoma-eaten

eyes.

But the excitement had caught the rest of the women. And when Jake

returned, hatless and breathless, with a phlegmatic Irish policeman, he

met all his women coming downstairs. In spite of his frenzied pleading,

the policeman refused to arrest them, refused even to arrest Yetta.

"I'll take your number. I'll report you, if you don't arrest her. She's

been making trouble."

"Aw! Go on, ye dirty little Jew. I'll smack your face, if ye talk back

to me. And you women, move on. Don't stand around here making a noise or

I'll run you in."

But on the next corner the group of women did stop. Where should they

go? What should they do next?

"Nobody'll go back to work," Yetta said, "unless he'll take Mrs. Cohen,

too, when she gets rested."

"I won't never get rested," the coughing woman said.

"Oh, yes, you will, sure," Mrs. Weinstein said. But everybody knew she

was lying.

The girl whose sister was a skirt-finisher and who knew all about

strikes took down the names and addresses of the twelve women. Mrs.

Weinstein promised to look after Mrs. Cohen. And Yetta started uptown to

the office of the Woman's Trade Union League. And all the long walk her

heart was chanting a glad hosanna. She wasn't a speeder any more. She

could look free people in the face.

CHAPTER X

THE W. T. U. L.

It was near five in the afternoon when Yetta reached the brown-stone

front which held the offices of the Woman's Trade Union League. It had

once been a comfortable residence. But Business, ever crowding northward

on Manhattan Island, had driven homes away. The house seemed dwarfed

between two modern buildings of twelve and eighteen stories.

In what had formerly been the "parlor," Yetta found a rather barren,

very businesslike office. Two stenographers were industriously hammering

their typewriters, but the chair behind the big roll-top desk was empty.

"Hello," one of the girls greeted her, hardly looking up from her notes.

"What do you want?" "I want to see Miss Train."

"Sit down. You'll have to wait. Advisory Council."

She jerked her head to one side to indicate the double doors which in

more aristocratic days had led to the dining-room. It was anything but a

cordial welcome. To be sure the two girls were "organized." Miss Train

had persuaded them to form a union. One was president and the other was

secretary, and there were about six other members. They had done it to

please her, just as they would have done anything to please her.

Nevertheless they felt themselves on a very much higher social plane

than mere shop girls.

Yetta sat down disconsolate. She had not expected to have to wait. She

did not appreciate the overwhelming importance of an Advisory Council.

In fact, she did not know what it was. And she did not think that there

could be anything more important than the strike in her shop. In a few

minutes her impatience overcame her timidity.

"Say," she said, getting up and coming over to the girl who had spoken

to her. "You tell Miss Train that I'm here. It's important--about a

strike."

"Humph," the stenographer snorted, "skirt-finisher?"

"No. I ain't a skirt-finisher. I work bei vests. It's a new strike. Miss

Train'll want to know about it right away."

"What do you think?" the stenographer asked her companion. "Can't

disturb the Advisory Council, can I?"

The two girls cross-questioned Yetta severely, but at last gave in to

her insistence. One of them knocked at the double doors. They were

opened from the inside a couple of inches and Mabel looked out.

"We've struck," Yetta cried, rushing towards her.

Mabel turned towards the occupants of the inner room and asked to be

excused a moment.

"I'm very busy just now," she said as she sat down beside Yetta. "Tell

me about it quickly."

The Industrial Conflict is not logical. At least it does not follow any

laws of logic known to the so-called "labor leaders." It is connected

with, actuated by, a vague something, which for want of a better term we

call "human nature." And labor leaders are just as uncertain what "human

nature" will do next as the rest of us. They will spend patient years on

end organizing a trade, collecting bit by bit a "strike fund," preparing

for a battle which never comes off or miserably fizzles out. In the

midst of such discouragement, an unprepared strike in an unorganized

trade will break out and with no prospect of success will sweep to an

inspiring victory. Mabel had seen such surprising things happen a

hundred times.

More than once, since her short talk with Yetta at the ball, she had

thought over the possibility of organizing the vest-makers. But the

project seemed to hold very little promise. The "skirt-finishers" had

lost. She, with her hand on the pulse of things, knew it, even if the

strikers did not. And here, once more, a new strike had broken out, just

as another was collapsing. It might be only a flash in the pan, a

quarrel in one shop. It might spread. She listened closely to Yetta.

Her eyes were also busy. She noted the peculiar charm of the young girl,

the big deep eyes with their sudden changes from excited hope to

melancholy sadness, her cheeks flushed with the impetuous enthusiasm of

a new convert.

Mabel thought of the group of well-to-do women in the other room. She

had small respect for most of them, none at all for some. It would have

been a very complicated matter to analyze the reasons which caused these

"ladies" to interest themselves in the cause of working girls. Some few

of them had similar--if less forceful--motives to those which had led

Mabel to give her life to the work. Some of them liked to be thought

odd, and found in labor unions a piquant fad. Two were suffragists and

were seriously interested in all organizations of women. There was one

at least whose morbid instincts were tickled by the stories of desperate

misery which circulated in the League.

Probably all of them had been somewhat influenced to seek election by

the fact that Mrs. Van Cleave was on the Board--she might invite them to

one of her functions.

She was a mystery to Mabel. She was very fat and very rich and a leader

of the inner circle of "Society." She attended the meetings regularly,

and never seemed to take the slightest interest in anything. Every

January first she mailed a check for ten dollars. Mabel had never

succeeded in getting any other money from her. But her social prestige

was of unquestioned value--otherwise she was absolute dead-wood.

Mrs. Karner, the wife of a millionnaire newspaper owner, was the only

one of them all who really helped Mabel. She was an intelligent woman

and rendered efficient service along many lines.

It was a hard group to work with. The sincere ones were occupied with

many other activities. It was difficult to get any enthusiasm into them.

But the League could not exist without their financial support. Now that

the "skirt-finishers" strike was ending in disaster, how could she keep

up their interest, how could she persuade them further to open their

pocket-books? Yetta's radiant face gave her a suggestion.

"Wait a minute," she interrupted her in the middle of a sentence.

"There are some other people who ought to hear about this. Come along."

She led Yetta through the double doors into the committee-room. It was

one of Eleanor Mead's achievements. The room had been extended to the

back of the house. Along the sides were piles of cheap folding chairs.

When they were put up, they would accommodate about two hundred. By the

windows in the back there was a large flat-topped table and ten easy

chairs in which the Advisory Council were comfortably installed. Above

the table hung a great mezzatone photograph of the Rouen statue of

Jeanne d'Arc. The room, all in brown tones, harmonized with it and the

half-dozen similar portraits of famous women.

"Ladies," Mabel said, "this is Yetta Rayefsky. She has just come to tell

me of a new strike in her trade--vests. We've finished to-day's

business. And if you can spare the time, I am sure you will be

interested in her story. Begin at the beginning, Yetta," she went on as

the ladies nodded assent, "and tell us all about it."

Yetta was utterly confused. She had never seen so much fine raiment nor

so many jewels. No one had ever stared at her through lorgnettes in the

insolent way that Mrs. Van Cleave did.

"They are all friends, Yetta," Mabel encouraged her. "And if the strike

is to succeed, we will need all the help we can get."

Thus prodded, Yetta began. The many books which she had read to her

father as a child had familiarized her with good English. But in the

last four years she had fallen into the mixture of Yiddish and slipshod

English which is the language of the sweat-shop. Now she felt that she

must speak correctly, and the search for words added to her

self-consciousness and ruined the effect of her story. Mabel was just

beginning to regret that she had brought her in, when in some sudden,

inexplicable way all the excitement of the last few days came over Yetta

with a rush and stimulated her as the wine had on the night of the ball.

She began to speak simply, straight out from her heart. It was not an

economic exposition of the industrial conflict; not even a coherent

explanation of the strike in her shop. It was a more personal story. She

wandered off from her main subject, told them about her father and the

book-store. She told them about Rachel and Mrs. Cohen. She told them

about Jake Goldfogle and his offer of marriage. Now and then Mabel asked

a question about the conditions in her trade. God knows they were bad

enough, but to Yetta such things seemed insignificant details; she was

concerned with the frightful implications of poverty. Long hours and

poor food seemed of small moment to her compared to the miserable

meagreness of the life of the girls. To be sure they were hungry, but

more awful was the fact that they were starving for sunlight. More than

once she came back to Rachel and how she had "wanted to be good."

Suddenly she stopped and turned to Mabel.

"Ought I to tell them about Harry Klein?"

The roomful of women--ease-loving, worldly women--also turned to Mabel

to catch her answer. They had fallen silent under the spell of Yetta's

simple eloquence. Some of them Mabel detested. It seemed almost

sacrilegious to let this unsophisticated girl strip her soul naked

before them. But she saw that Yetta was moving them more deeply than she

ever could.

"It hasn't anything to do with the strike," she said after a slight

hesitation. "You don't need to tell it--if you'd rather not."

"Please tell us."

It was Mrs. Karner who had spoken. Yetta had felt that she was the

friendliest of all these fine ladies. She had found encouragement in her

eyes whenever she had looked at her. So taking a deep breath, she

plunged in.

"You see, it was just luck--if it hadn't been for luck, I'd have gone

wrong--just like Rachel."

She began with the night when she had watched the Settlement dance from

her window. With the wonderful cleverness of self-forgetfulness she made

them feel how her heart had hungered for a little happiness; how,

although she had wanted very much to be good, she had reached out her

hands, pleadingly, toward the dream of joy. She made them understand how

the deadening barrenness of the sweat-shop had made it easy for her to

believe in Harry Klein, how he had come to her singing the Song of

Songs--like a Prince in Shining Armor riding forth to rescue her from

the Giant Greed. Even the fat Mrs. Van Cleave was crying behind her

lorgnette when Yetta told of her first supper with Harry.

"You see," she ended, "it's mostly against things like that that we

girls strike. We may think it's for higher wages or shorter hours, but

it's because it's so hard for a poor girl to be happy."

Mrs. Karner jumped up and put her arms around Yetta and kissed her and

cried against her cheek. "Ladies," Mabel struck while the iron was hot,

"shall we support this strike? Shall we try to organize the vest

workers?"

No formal motion was put, but Mrs. Karner, who was chairman, instructed

the secretary to enter on the minutes their unanimous decision to aid

the vest-makers. Mrs. Van Cleave nodded her head approvingly and

volunteered to head a sub-committee in finance. It was the first time

she had ever done anything but sit placidly in her chair. Then the

meeting adjourned, and when the last of the ladies had left the room,

Mabel gave Yetta a great hug.

"Oh, you darling," she said. "You even made Mrs. Van Cleave cry. It was

wonderful."

And then without any reason at all, Yetta began to sob. Mabel installed

her in one of the big chairs and sat down at her feet. "There," she

said, "you cry as much as you want to. You've got a right to cry a week

after a speech like that."

Resting her head against Yetta's knee and holding her hand, she lit a

cigarette and began to think out the new campaign. Yetta's sobs wore

themselves out quickly, and they began to talk. Mabel's grasp of

details, her unexpected knowledge of the vest making, amazed Yetta.

Mabel knew things about the trade which she had never dreamed of.

The two stenographers were called in. One was set to work on a volume of

Factory Reports, preparing a list of vest shops. And Mabel instructed

the other one to call up the _Forwaertz_--the Yiddish Socialist paper.

"What's your address?" she asked Yetta. "I'm going to ask Mr. Braun to

come and see you to-night and write up the strike."

The question reminded Yetta of a new complication.

"I forget," she said. "I can't go home. My uncle's fierce against

unions. I ain't got no place. I'll have to find one."

"That's all right; you come home with me to-night," Mabel reassured her.

And turning to the stenographer, told her to ask Mr. Braun to come to

her flat for dinner. She dictated letters to half a dozen different

people telling of the new plans and asking them to come to the League

rooms on the morrow. It was nearly seven when she and Yetta and the two

stenographers left the office.

All the last hour, Harry Klein had stood impatiently in the dark

doorway, waiting for Yetta to pass. As the last of the ebb tide flowed

by him, he went across the street and told his followers that there was

nothing doing. For two more nights he marshalled them, but Yetta did not

pass that way any more.

His luck had changed. It was not long before his retainers noticed it.

In due time a new president was elected to the James B. O'Rourke

Democratic Club. And so he passes out of this story.

CHAPTER XI

MABEL'S FLAT

Yetta had no clear idea of what fairy-land should be like, but when she

passed through the door of Mabel's flat, it seemed that she had entered

it.

She had never dreamed of such beautiful rooms. Even a more sophisticated

observer would have been impressed with Miss Mead's arrangements.

Interior decoration was her profession, and she was more proud of her

work in this humble apartment than of anything she had done elsewhere.

Most of her commissions were for people who were foolishly rich, who

were more anxious to have their rooms appear expensive than beautiful.

There was nothing in the apartment simply because it had been

high-priced. Nothing pleased Eleanor more than to tell how little it had

all cost. She could talk by the hour on the absolute lack of

relationship between pure æsthetics and money. One of her lectures was

on this subject, and she used the apartment as a demonstration room. But

to Yetta the forty dollar flat seemed a miracle of luxury.

The room which impressed her most with its appearance of opulence was

the white enamelled, large-mirrored bath-room.

Eleanor herself was a vision of loveliness. Yetta had seen very few

women with real blonde hair, and those few had not known how to wear

it. There was a book she had seen as a child with a picture in it like

Eleanor, but she had not thought that such women walked the earth. And

her dress! It seemed to the little East-sider fit raiment for a queen.

She could not imagine how it could shine so unless it was woven of spun

gold. But it was not so costly as she imagined. The only real

extravagance which Eleanor permitted herself in her quest for the

Beautiful was the purchase of early daffodils.

Mabel got out one of her own shirt-waists and hurried Yetta into it.

While she was changing her own workaday clothes for a fresh

outfit,--hardly less gorgeous than Eleanor's,--they heard the maid

admitting Isadore Braun.

He was a product of the Social Settlement Movement. Even as a little boy

he had been bitten by the desire to know. The poverty of his family had

forced him to go to work, but he had continued his studies in the night

classes of a Settlement. His boyish precociousness had attracted

attention, and some of the University men of the Settlement, impressed

by his eagerness to learn, had helped out his family finances so Isadore

could return to school. They had helped him through High School and into

the City College.

During his sophomore year Isadore had joined the Socialist party. His

conversion had been a deep and stormy spiritual experience to him. He

knew it would shock and alienate his supporters. Caution, expediency,

every prudent consideration had urged him to postpone the issue--at

least till he had finished college. But the new vision of life flamed

with an impatient glory. He could not wait.

His new political faith separated him from the friends who had made

things easy for him. But it brought him new ones a-plenty who, if

poorer, were truer. He had been compelled to leave college. But he had

already developed a marked talent for the kind of journalism the East

Side appreciates, less "newsy," but decidedly more literary than the

output of the English papers. He found a place on the _Forwaertz_ where,

for a bare living wage, he wrote columns about history and science and

the drama. It was an afternoon paper, so he had his evenings free to

study. He had taken the night course in the New York Law School. It had

been a desperate struggle which he could not have won through except for

a talent at reducing work to a routine and for one of those marvellous

constitutions--like Yetta's--which seem the special heritage of their

race, a physical and nervous endurance, which is probably explained by

agelong observance of the strict dietary regulations of Moses.

He was not an attractive person to look at. His face was heavily lined

and lumpy. His short, stocky body had been twisted by much application

to desk work. His right shoulder was noticeably higher than his left.

Nor was his type of mind attractive. It was too utilitarian to admit of

any graces. He was twenty-five years old, and, since the days of

enthusiasm when he had become a Socialist, he had imposed on himself an

iron rule. He had not given himself a vacation, he had not read any

book, had not consciously done anything in these five years, which did

not seem to him useful. With the same merciless singleness of purpose

which had marked Jake Goldfogle's struggle to become rich, Isadore

Braun had driven himself in the acquisition of abilities, which would

make him a more forceful weapon in the fight for Socialism.

He had led his classes in the Law School. He had spurred himself on to

immense effort, not because he wanted to sit on the Supreme Bench, but

because he saw that the workers were in sore need of competent,

sympathetic legal representatives. He believed that the Socialists were

the most enlightened element in the great army of industrial revolt. He

held that they should be a sort of "general staff," guiding and advising

the Labor Unions--the rank and file of the army. His only idea in

entering the bar was to act as attorney for the unions. If he had been

offered a large retainer to settle a will or draw up a business

contract, he would have been surprised and would have refused on the

ground that he was too busy. He had volunteered his services as legal

adviser to the Woman's Trade Union League.

He still drew his meagre salary from the _Forwaertz_, but he wrote less

frequently on general subjects and had specialized on the labor

situation. He kept to the newspaper work, not only because it gave him a

small income, but even more because it gave him an audience. Almost

every Yiddish-speaking workman in the city knew his name. He was a

concise and forceful speaker, and now that he no longer attended night

school he was on the platform, preaching Socialism, four or five nights

a week.

This manner of life had had its inevitable and unwholesome result. For

years he had been so intensely occupied with details that he had had no

time to think broadly, to criticise, and develop the fundamentals of

his faith. At twenty he had accepted the philosophy of Socialism; he had

not had time to think about it since. He was rapidly becoming a

narrow-minded fanatic. It was a strange, but common paradox. Having

spent five years in the fight for Socialism, he could not have given a

more coherent, a maturer statement of his beliefs than at first. All his

associates held the same creed, but they discussed only its detailed

application. Like himself they were--with very few exceptions--slaves

to, rather than masters of, the Great Idea.

His only non-Socialist friends were Mabel Train and Walter Longman. When

he first took up the work of the Woman's Trade Union League, he had had

a sweeping contempt for "bourgeois reformers." Gradually Mabel had

forced him to abandon his hostility and at last to give her a high

degree of respect. He was unable to understand her. But it was equally

impossible for him to withhold his admiration for her consistency of

purpose, her dogged persistence in a far from pleasurable career, her

great ability, and her strong, straight intellect. He knew no other

woman who was more steadfast than Mabel. But why? What were her motives?

She was not a Socialist. She explained casually that she did not have

time for more than Labor Unions. He could understand devotion to a great

philosophical principle, but he could discover no coherent system of

thought back of Mabel's unquestioned devotion.

He was a frequent visitor at the flat. But it never occurred to him to

make a social call. For Eleanor he had no manner of use, a feeling which

she entirely reciprocated. While he tried to pretend to a polite

interest in "interior decoration," she made no pretence at all of caring

for Socialism. And as soon as the business, which had caused him to

come, was finished he found himself ill at ease, even with Mabel. On the

basis of their common work, the organization of labor and the conduct of

strikes, they had a delightfully frank and free friendship. But on any

other ground he felt constraint. He never discussed Socialism with her,

and this was strange, as he was an ardent proselyter. Back of her

offhand explanation that she was too busy to occupy herself with the

party, he felt the existence of a point of view entirely different from

his own. In reality he was afraid to open this subject with her; he was

afraid of her brilliant vision and her incisive, railing style of

argument. He had gotten out of the habit of discussing the broad

foundations of Socialism; he would be off his accustomed ground. He told

himself that she was a woman, and if she got the better of him in

repartee, she would think that she had demolished Socialism.

Through Mabel, he had met Longman, and if she did not fit into his

theory of life, Walter was an even greater exception. His easy-going,

rather lazy brilliance was always startling Isadore and making him

angry. Here was an exceptionally able man, who was keenly alive to the

rottenness of the present order, but who took only a languid interest in

righting it. What a power he might be! Instead he spent his time on the

deadest of dead pasts and in an inconsequential way dallied--"diddled,"

Isadore called it--with philosophy. He could not think of Longman's

manner of life without raging; it was such despicable waste. He ought

to have despised him, but he could not help liking him. Having no bond

of common work with Longman, as he had with Mabel, he found himself more

often in his rooms than in her flat.

Yetta, somewhat abashed by the glorious clothes of her hostesses, found

Isadore's unkempt appearance a decided relief. His hair, black, curly,

wiry, looked as if it had not been brushed for a decade. The spotless

linen, the gilt shades of the candles, the bewildering assortment of

forks and spoons, the white-aproned French maid, all rather dizzied her.

It was indeed comforting now and then to glance up at the familiar East

Side face across the table.

Eleanor, after a few formal politenesses from the head of the table,

fell silent, and Mabel began to tell Isadore about the new strike. Once

in a while they asked Yetta a question. When the table was cleared and

the maid brought coffee--tiny, tiny cups of black coffee--Eleanor went

into the parlor and arranged herself with a book beside a green-shaded

lamp. And Isadore, taking out some rough sheets of copy paper, began

scribbling notes for the article which should tell the East Side on the

morrow that a gigantic, rapidly spreading, and surely victorious revolt

had broken out in the vest trade. Once Yetta protested that her

shop--twelve women--was the only one which had struck. But they laughed

aside her objection. At least it was necessary to make it sound big,

perhaps it would grow. Then they began drawing up a set of demands for

the strikers to submit to their employers. First of all came the

"recognition of the Union," and then a long list of shop reforms. About

the only one which would be intelligible to those not familiar with the

trade was that for a higher rate of pay per piece; the rest involved

such technical considerations as the regulation of speed, ventilation,

etc. Yetta wanted them to put in a clause demanding the reinstatement of

Mrs. Cohen. But Mabel explained that there would be no sense to the

demands unless other shops joined the strike, so they could not put in

anything which applied only to one.

"But," Yetta insisted, "I guess there's a Mrs. Cohen in every shop."

They argued against her that the unions could not try to right

individual wrongs, they could only hope to win conditions which would

stop the production of Mrs. Cohens. Although she was unconvinced, Yetta

gave in. Isadore hurried off to a meeting.

Eleanor gave him a perfunctory good night without looking up from her

book, and Mabel walked down the hallway with him. Yetta felt suddenly

forlorn. Eleanor went on reading, ignoring her existence, and Mabel

lingered to talk with Isadore at the door.

When Mabel came back, Eleanor looked up from her book and spoke

querulously in French.

"I should think you might at least say you are sorry for spoiling our

evening."

"It isn't spoilt yet," Mabel replied. "It's only begun."

"Not spoilt for you, perhaps. You never think of me. You solemnly

promised to keep this evening free for some music. And at six your

stenographer casually calls me up to say that there will be people for

dinner. You can't even find time to telephone yourself."

"Now, Nell, don't be cross. If you listened to our talk, you must have

seen how important--"

"Oh, everything is more important than I."

"We'll have our music all right. I'll send the little one to bed."

And then changing into English, Mabel told Yetta that she must be very

tired after so much excitement, that they had a hard day before them,

and that she had best take a piping-hot bath to make her sleep and turn

in at once. Yetta did not understand French, but from Eleanor's tone she

had guessed the meaning of "_de trop._" She wanted very much to stay up

and talk with Miss Train, but with a pang in her heart, she followed her

docilely into a bedroom, watched her lay out a nightgown and bath-robe,

and as docilely followed her into the dazzling bath-room.

"Take it just as hot as you can stand it, and then jump right into bed,"

Mabel said, and kissed her good night.

Before she was half through with her bath, she began to hear the sound

of music. And when she had put on the nightgown and wrapped herself in

the bath-robe,--her skin had never felt such soft fabrics,--she opened

the door noiselessly and stood a moment unobserved in the hallway. In

the front room Mabel was sitting at the piano and Eleanor stood beside

her, with closed eyes, a violin tucked lovingly under her chin, and

swayed gently to the rhythm of the music. It was one of Chopin's

Nocturnes. Yetta did not know what a Nocturne was; the best music she

had ever heard had been the cheap orchestras at the Settlement and at

the Skirt-Finishers' Ball. Neither Eleanor nor Mabel were great

musicians; it would have seemed a commonplace performance to most of us,

but to the girl in the bath-robe it sounded beautiful beyond words, the

most wondrous thing of all the wonderful new world she had so suddenly

entered.

She listened a moment and then tiptoed down the hall to her bedroom. She

carefully closed the window, which Mabel had as carefully opened, left

her door ajar, so she could hear the music, and climbed in between the

soft white sheets. She was very tired, the hot bath had quieted her

nerves, and it was while they were playing the third piece, something by

Grieg, that she fell asleep. Her last conscious thought was a dreamy,

wistful wonder if she could ever become a part, have a real share in so

gorgeous a life.

For more than an hour they kept at their music. The people who wondered

why two so different personalities lived together had never seen them as

they played. Neither of them was expert enough to perform in public, but

they both passionately loved to make music. Eleanor's ridiculous posing,

her querulous jealousy, very often jarred on Mabel's nerves. She

sometimes thought of breaking up the household. But there were precious

moments when their differences melted away and they enjoyed a rare and

perfect harmony. Now and then Mabel escaped from her manifold

engagements, and they went together to a concert or the Opera. Even more

intense became their intimacy of emotion on the more frequent occasions

when--as this evening--they played together. Such moments more than

compensated for the daily frictions. To the jealous Eleanor they meant

that Mabel's mind was cleansed of all preoccupations, when no one, no

fancied duty came between them, when they could forget

everything--everything--and be together. To Mabel such intimacies meant

escape from all the heart-breaking routine of misery and struggle which

was her daily life; they were interludes of unalloyed happiness, white

moments in the sad business of living. Somehow the magic of the music

soothed and lulled to sleep the great ache of social consciousness. She

knew no other way to win forgetfulness from the overwhelming melancholy

of Life.

"Nell," Mabel said, putting her arms around Eleanor when at last they

were going to bed, "do you want to be nice to me? Try to like this

little Yetta. She interests me. And I'd like to have her stay here for a

while, if you don't mind."

"At least," Eleanor replied, "she's more decorative than most of your

protégées."

CHAPTER XII

YETTA'S GOOD-BY

Yetta woke at her accustomed hour. But instead of hearing the vague

murmur of awaking life about her, there was a strange silence. She could

not even hear any one snoring. She had a panicky feeling that perhaps

they had been murdered. So getting out of bed, she tiptoed down the hall

to Mabel's open door and was reassured to see her sleeping peacefully.

Back in her own room she climbed into bed again. But it did not occur to

her to go to sleep, now that it was so light--lighter than her old

bedroom had been at noon. For a few minutes she occupied herself looking

about, studying the pictures and _bibelots_. A narrow strip of old

tapestry on the wall looked especially strange to her; it was badly

faded, the picture in it was hard to make out. It seemed almost uncanny

to be in bed after she was awake, so she got up and dressed,

noiselessly. She sat down by the window and, pulling aside the curtain,

looked out, up the street, to Washington Square. Here and there were

blotches of faint green; the early spring had started a few buds. Yetta

had seen very little green that was not painted. And the swelling buds

of the little park seemed to typify all the strangenesses of the new

world which was opening before her.

It made her sad. She was not of this world. She could never be like

Mabel. Her instinctive common sense showed her the great gulf which

separated her from the life of her new friends.

In an uncertain way she was beginning to form a conception of Beauty and

the graciousness of luxury. Eleanor's gown, her daffodils, the way she

stood when she played the violin, all suggested to Yetta an idea of

personal adornment much more intricate than her former ideal of a hat

and white shoes. The dinner had shown her that eating might be something

more than the mere satisfying of hunger. Mabel had changed her street

clothes for a dinner gown. Evidently she thought of clothing as

something more than necessary covering. Even the room where she was

sitting was more than a place to sleep. All this "moreness"--this

surplus over necessity--this luxury, was what separated her life from

this new world. It did not seem possible that she could ever cross that

chasm.

The reverse of the proposition came to her with equal force. Could Mabel

cross? Could she really become a part of the world of work, the world of

less? It seemed just as improbable. Yetta felt lonely and out of place.

An inevitable wave of resentment came over her against these two favored

women. Was not all this beauty and easy grace--this luxury--what she and

her kind, Rachel and the other girls, were starving for? She felt

herself in the enemy's country.

There was a light knock on her door, and Mabel, wrapped in her

dressing-gown, came in.

"Oh, you're up already," she smiled.

All of Yetta's hostility melted before her frank greeting and morning

kiss. Eleanor, it seemed, never got up before nine, so they must be

quiet. In a few minutes Mabel reappeared in her street clothes, and

closing the dining-room door, so as not to disturb the sleeper, they had

their breakfast. This meal, even more than the dinner, amazed Yetta.

There were coffee and rich cream and eggs and toast and marmalade. She

had known, of course, that people dine in state, but that any one ever

drank his morning coffee leisurely had never occurred to her. As Mabel

read the newspaper, Yetta had much time to think, and once more the

feeling of hostility returned. For more than an hour now her people had

been bent over the life-destroying machines, and Mabel sipped her coffee

slowly and read the news. Yetta wanted to be up and doing.

But once out on the street she was amazed and humbled at the sight of

Mabel's efficiency. Yetta would not have known what to do first. Mabel

had the whole day's work planned out.

First they went to the "girl who knew all about strikes" and from her

got the addresses of the other women in Jake Goldfogle's shop. It

developed that the bovine Mrs. Levy and the tell-tale Mrs. Levine had

gone back that morning. But there was no work for only two, and Jake had

sent them home with a promise to let them know as soon as he began

again. He expected to start the next morning, he had told them. To Mrs.

Levine he had given a dollar and whispered instructions to join the

strikers and keep him informed.

The minute Mabel saw Mrs. Cohen she hurried out to a drug-store and

called up Dr. Liebovitz. "It will have to be a sanitarium," Yetta

overheard her say. "And at that I'm afraid it's too late. Whatever is

necessary put on my account." Then Mabel arranged that the Cohen babies

should be boarded by two of the poorest strikers and so out of her own

pocket assured a little income to these families. Above all, Yetta

wondered at Mabel's ability to spread confidence. Most of the women were

helpless when they arrived, were hoping that Jake would forgive them and

take them back. With a few words Mabel had banished all doubt. Ten of

the dozen women--the exceptions were the bovine Mrs. Levy and Mrs.

Levine, the spy--were soon convinced that victory was assured. And all

except Mrs. Levy promised to come up to the Woman's Trade Union League

at four o'clock and organize.

This attended to, Mabel, with Yetta at her heels, jumped into an uptown

car, and hurried to the office of the Central Federated Union to ask for

a charter for the new union. Mr. Casey, the secretary, was a hale and

hearty Irishman of near forty. For twenty years he had been an expert

typesetter, and he never talked with any one twenty minutes without

telling how he had set up some of the Standard Dictionary--"the most

compli-cated page iver printed."

"Gawd," he remarked at sight of Mabel, "here comes some more trouble.

Can't ye give a body any peace, Miss Train? Ye know there be two or

three men in the world besides yer blessed women."

The other men in the room got up and offered their chairs. Once more

Yetta was amazed at the ease with which Mabel stated her case. With her

straightforward way of looking at things, she had come to know and

understand these men. She knew the personal history of most of them,

their carefully hidden virtues as well as their vices. And whether she

knew them to be "grafters" or "straight" she had a knack of winning her

point.

"Sure," Casey said. "You can have the charter. That ain't no trouble.

But don't ask me nothing else now. The Devil himself won't be no more

busy on the Resurrection Day than I be."

"We're all busy," Mabel replied. "And I really want you to come round at

four and help them organize."

Casey waved his hands and pounded the table and swore--occasionally

asking pardon for his "damned profanity"--but Mabel hung on. She had

already won the other men in the room, and they laughingly urged him to

go.

Having gained his promise to come, Mabel did not waste a minute more of

his time. She rushed Yetta over to the Woman's Trade Union League and

plunged into her morning's correspondence.

All those things which had seemed to Yetta of overwhelming importance

began to look very small. There were some of the "skirt-finishers" in

the office. Their strike involved several hundred women. There were only

twelve in Goldfogle's shop. While Mabel was busy at other things Yetta

picked up a copy of _The American Federationist_, the monthly organ of

the national federation of labor unions. How infinitesimal was her part

in this great industrial conflict! She read of thousands of miners

striking in the anthracite fields, of a hundred woollen mills which had

locked out their operatives. The street-car men were out in a Western

city. A strike referendum was being taken by the printers of half a

dozen Southern States. A great revolt had tied up the Chicago

stock-yards. And here in New York there were five different strikes in

progress. At one moment her pride swelled at the thought that she was a

part of this vast army of workers who were fighting for a larger share

of sunshine and Freedom. At the next it was borne in on her with a rush

how insignificant was the case of the vest-makers.

She had read almost every word in that month's issue of _The

Federationist_ before Mabel called her and they went downstairs to the

working-girls' restaurant for lunch. They found an empty table, and

Yetta had just commenced on her long list of questions, when two excited

"skirt-finishers" came in, and seeing Mabel, rushed up to their table.

Once more Yetta felt herself pushed back into a second place. That

morning the strike had reached its crisis, the women of two shops had

gone back to work on a compromise which ignored the union; a general

stampede was imminent.

About two o'clock, the women of Goldfogle's shop began to appear, and

sharp at four, Mabel tore herself away from the "skirt-finishers" and

came into the back room where the vest-makers were assembled. The

_Forwaertz_ had come off the press an hour before, and the women who

could read Yiddish had read aloud Braun's glowing account of their

exploits. It had given them a new sense of importance, the feeling that

there was sympathy and power back of them. And this feeling was

strengthened by Mr. Casey's jovial and inspiring speech. When they had

elected officers,--Mrs. Weinstein, president; "the girl who knew all

about unions," treasurer, and Yetta, secretary and business agent,--he

handed them over a charter printed in three colors which seemed to them

a sort of magic promise of victory. They agreed as a matter of course on

the set of demands which Braun had already printed in the _Forwaertz_.

Mabel pulled them down from their enthusiasm to talk details. She

explained that their one hope of success lay in persuading the other

vest shops to join the strike. Alone they were helpless. Each one of

them was to think of all the vest workers she knew and persuade them to

start a strike in their shop. She read the list of vest shops and

checked off every one where some of the women had acquaintances. Then

she gave them great sheaves of the _Forwaertz_ and assigned them two by

two to the principal vest shops. They were to stand at the door and

distribute papers to every one who came out. In the evening they were to

call on their friends in the trade and be on the job again in the

morning with copies of the _Forwaertz_ at other factory doors. She and

Yetta, their business agent, would go down and interview Goldfogle. Of

course he would not give in at once, but it was best to show him they

were not afraid. And then with some words of encouragement about how the

_Forwaertz_ was helping them, and the Central Federated Union and the

Socialists, and of course the Woman's Trade Union League, she dismissed

them.

Without Mabel beside her, Yetta would hardly have found the courage to

perform her first duty as business agent of the union. Some of the old

terror of a boss's arbitrary power still clung about Jake Goldfogle. In

a moment of excitement she had dared to defy him. But it was a different

thing to seek an interview with him in cold blood. But to Mabel it was

all in the day's work. And she did most of the talking.

Jake received them nervously. He could not, like the big employers,

afford to sit back cynically and wait for his workers to starve. A

week's tie-up meant certain ruin for him, and with equal certainty it

meant ruin for him to grant his women anything like decent conditions.

Sorely exploited by bigger capitalists, his one hope of success lay in a

miracle of more cruel exploitation. He had been busy all day with

employment agencies. They could furnish him with plenty of raw hands,

but he needed skilled labor. It would be much better if he could get his

old force back. And so he greeted them with some decency. But the sight

of Mabel, this unknown businesslike American woman, disconcerted him. He

had expected to have dealings only with his employees. He saw at once

that he could not fool nor browbeat this stranger.

He hardly listened to what she said, but grabbed at the typewritten

sheet of "demands." Before he was halfway through, all hope vanished.

"Vot you tink?" he wailed. "Am I a millionnaire? How you expect me to

make my contract?"

"We don't expect you to make your contract, Mr. Goldfogle," Mabel

replied calmly. "We expect you not to take any contract that you can't

fill decently. You don't care how your workpeople live on the wages you

give, and we don't care for your contract. If you can give your people

fair conditions, they'll be back at work in the morning. If you can't,

it's a strike."

"Go avay! Get out," he cried, jumping up. "To-morrow I vill start with

new hands. I'll never take none of the old ones back."

Mabel smiled at him undismayed.

"Scabs," she said, "will break your machines. It will be cheaper to keep

shut than to work with greenhorns."

Jake knew that this was only too true. But he thought that a bold

attitude might scare his old employees into coming back.

"You tink so? Vell. I'll show you. Get out!"

It was getting towards closing time, so Mabel and Yetta, with arms full

of the afternoon's _Forwaertz_, stationed themselves before one of the

big vest shops and handed out copies to every one who would take one,

talked to all who would listen. They had supper in an East Side

restaurant and then went out again to call on some vest-makers whose

addresses they knew.

Once, as they were hurrying along the street, Yetta suddenly stopped.

"I forgot," she said. "I've got to go to my aunt's and get some things."

"That's so," Mabel said. "They must be worrying about you. You tell them

you are going to live with me for a while."

"No," Yetta said. "It don't matter what I tell them; they'll think I've

gone wrong. But there are some things I want to get before they sell

them."

They were not very far from her doorway, and when they got there, Mabel

asked if she should come up.

"No," Yetta said, "you wait. It won't take me a minute."

She did not want her new friend to see the place where she had lived.

Her uncle might be at home and drunk. But when she reached the door of

the Goldstein flat, her heart suddenly failed her. Perhaps he was home,

perhaps he would curse her the way he had Rachel, perhaps he would

strike her. If it had been only her few clothes, the new hat and the

white shoes, she would have slunk downstairs afraid. But there were the

three volumes of _Les Miserables_. So she went in.

Only her aunt and her cousin Rosa were in the room.

"I've come to get my things," she said, not wishing to give them time to

formulate any accusations. "There's a strike in my shop. I won't be

earning any money now for a while, so you wouldn't want me here. I'm

going to live with a friend."

She went into the bedroom and began wrapping up the books and shoes in

her extra shirt-waist and skirt. Rosa stood in the doorway and watched

her.

"Who's your friend?" she asked.

"Her name's Miss Train."

"Oh. It's a woman, is it?" Rosa sneered.

Yetta flushed angrily but held her tongue, and when she had gathered

together her meagre belongings, she looked once more about the dismal

bedroom and came out into the kitchen where Mrs. Goldstein was sitting

in silence, sewing away at a frayed underskirt of Rosa's.

A sudden tenderness came to Yetta for this hard old woman who had

mistreated her.

"Good-by, Aunt Martha," she said.

For a moment she stitched on without apparently noticing her niece's

presence. And then she spoke to Rosa.

"It isn't so bad," she said, "as when Rachel went. She was my own

daughter."

"But I'm not going where Rachel did," Yetta protested. The old woman

did not reply.

"Auntie," Yetta went on, "I ain't going wrong. If you ever want to know

about me, or if you ever need anything, you ask at the Woman's Trade

Union League. Here. I'll write down the address. They'll know where to

find me."

She tore off a piece of the paper from her bundle and scribbled the

address. As her aunt was not looking up, she left it on the table.

"Good-by, Rosa," she said. "Good-by, Aunt Martha."

Out in the hall she felt faint and dizzy. She had not loved the place

nor its inmates. Why did it hurt to go? She leaned against the wall for

a moment to regain command of herself. Her little glimpse into the new

world had not given her the feeling that she would ever be at home

there. Even Columbus had misgivings about his enterprise into the

unknown sea. But presently she felt the sharp corner of _Les Miserables_

digging into her side. She had been hugging her little bundle as if it

had been a life-preserver. And she found courage to go on down the dark

stairs and to meet Mabel and the New Life with something of a smile.

BOOK III

CHAPTER XIII

THE STRIKE

It was near midnight when Mabel and Yetta at last turned homeward. They

had talked to vest workers from a dozen shops. The article in the

_Forwaertz_ had been a stirring one, and probably ninety per cent of the

trade had heard of the outbreak in Goldfogle's shop and Braun's prophecy

of large consequences. Yetta could not see that much had been

accomplished, but Mabel, more accustomed to judging such things, was

jubilant.

"Yetta, dear," she said, as she kissed her good night, "there's a

beautiful French song called '_Ça ira_'--which being interpreted means,

'There'll be something doing'!"

All day long the conviction had grown on her that there was promise of

big development to the insignificant quarrel between Yetta and her boss.

More often than not strikes break out at the most inopportune times for

the workers. Sometimes a sudden provocation will drive the men into a

premature revolt. Again there will be rumbles of trouble for a long time

before the crisis, and when the men walk out, they find the bosses have

had ample time to make provision for the fight. But a careful study of

the vest-making industry could not have discovered a more favorable

moment. The rush season was just drawing to a close. On the one hand,

the bosses were straining every nerve to finish their contracts on time.

On the other hand, many of the workers would be laid off anyhow when the

rush was over. By striking, the less skilled, poorest paid workers

risked only a few weeks' pay. And surely they had enough cause to

revolt. All those to whom she had talked had told of intolerable speed,

pitiful pay, and arbitrary fines, indecent conditions. There was good

reason to hope that the whole trade would become involved. And so at

bedtime she sang the "_Ça ira_" to Yetta.

Her forecast proved true. Before two o'clock every one knew that the

strike had "caught." Half a dozen shops, including one of the biggest,

walked out during the morning. And after the noon hour not a quarter of

the vest-makers were at work.

While it might have been possible for Jake Goldfogle to find twelve

skilled workers for his small shop, it was not possible to find enough

for the whole trade quickly. It settled down into an endurance fight.

Both sides "organized." The strikers rented a hall in the sweat-shop

district for headquarters and a committee sat there _en permanence_,

making out union cards for the strikers, and a card catalogue of their

names and addresses, arranging for the distribution in "strike benefits"

of all the money that could be raised. In this detail work, of immense

importance to the successful conduct of a strike, Mabel was a tower of

strength. She had been through it all a hundred times before, and she

never got flurried. Everything seemed like a chaos, but through it her

cool-headed generalship kept an effective order.

In a Broadway office the bosses organized "The Association of Vest

Manufacturers." Their headquarters were less noisy than those of the

Union. But quiet does not always mean a higher standard of ethics. As

the Woman's Trade Union League was helping the strikers, so trained men

were lent to the bosses by the Employers' Association. In a few days

skilled vest makers from other cities began to flow into New York. Some

of the shops were able to begin work again at about half their normal

capacity. The press agents of the Association of Vest Manufacturers sent

out announcements to the newspapers that the strike was over.

The Union retaliated by a campaign of "picketing." Isadore Braun took

this work in hand. He marshalled the volunteer "pickets" every morning,

assigned them to their posts, and carefully explained to them their

legal rights. They were free to stand anywhere on the street and to talk

to any one who would listen, so long as they did not attract a crowd

which impeded traffic. They must not detain any one by force, nor

threaten violence, nor use insulting language.

Recently a justice of the Supreme Court of New York has handed down a

decision that "peaceful picketing" is a contradiction in terms. From his

point of view all picketing is inherently violent. As a legal maxim it

is idiotic. The great majority of labor pickets are peaceful. But in any

large and long-continued industrial conflict some of the strikers are

starving, many have hungry children at home. They cannot be expected to

love the "scabs," who are taking their jobs. And it is desperately hard

for the leaders of a strike--no matter how sincerely they try--to

prevent sporadic acts of violence. Braun, himself a lawyer and a

Socialist, was a firm believer in legality. Again and again he impressed

on the strikers the urgent desirability of keeping within the letter of

the law.

The first day Mabel and Yetta picketed together. They stood on the

sidewalk before the largest of the vest shops and tried to talk to every

one who went in. Mabel did most of it. She used the old, time-worn

arguments of the unionists. The only chance for the workers was in

standing together. If the scabs took the strikers' jobs, they were

helping the boss more than themselves. After a strike is settled the

bosses always fire the scabs and take back their old force. If they did

get steady work sooner or later, somebody would scab on them. If they

joined the union they would get enough strike benefits to live on, and

with a strong organization the trade would be a good one. And after all

it is dirty business stealing jobs from your brother workers. Most of

the scabs hurriedly passed them, a few listened sullenly, one or two

replied with insults. To an outsider, picketing looks hopeless. You very

rarely see any one quit work. But long experience has taught the unions

that it does pay. It is not so much the rare cases where a dozen scabs

stop at once as the regular drain of those who are ashamed to face the

pickets and who do not come back to work again.

Mabel was too busy to picket very often. She had her hands full trying

to save what she could out of the wreckage of the skirt-finishers'

strike. And there were a thousand and one things to do for the

vest-makers, arranging meetings, trying to interest the newspapers,

spurring on the Advisory Council to raise money. They had collected a

good deal, but the poverty of the vest-makers was appalling; "strike

benefits" kept the treasury always empty. She had to see to replenishing

it daily. Yetta, however, was on picket duty every day.

Gradually it became evident that the "picket" was successful. Most of

the imported vest-makers, the skilled operatives, had joined the union.

Only a few of the shops were running at all and at great expense on

account of the uneconomy of raw hands. The smaller bosses were going

into bankruptcy. Jake Goldfogle had been the first to fall. Five days

had cleaned him out. The next day two more went under. Credit was

beginning to tighten for even the biggest bosses.

The Association of Vest Manufacturers saw that it was necessary to break

the picket at any cost. There were a number of secret conferences with

city politicians. The police magistrate who was sitting at Essex Market

Court was transferred to an uptown jurisdiction, and his place was taken

by a magistrate named Cornett, notorious for his outspoken hostility to

unionism. The police also got their orders.

Busy days began for Isadore Braun. Pickets were arrested on all sides.

At first he seemed to get the better of the legal battle in the dingy

Essex Market Courthouse. He had the law on his side, and a forceful way

of expressing it. The early batches of pickets were discharged with a

warning. But in a few days the police got the hang of the kind of

testimony which was expected of them. The court began to impose fines,

which of course meant imprisonment, as the girls had no money.

It is an educational maxim of Froebel that we learn by doing. Like most

concise sayings, it is not entirely true. Yetta, for instance, had been

making vests for four years, but she learned more about vest-making in

the first four weeks of the strike than she had in her years of labor.

She began to realize that her "trade" was more than a routine of flying

fingers. Braun at one of the meetings had traced out the complicated

process of industry. Outside of her shop there had been men who were

"cutters," men who prepared the pieces of cloth on which she worked.

Back of them were the people who wove the cloth and spun the yarn, and

further back still were the shepherds who grew the sheep and clipped the

wool. And when the vests had left her shop, they had gone to

"finishers." From them to dealers who were buying coats and trousers of

the same cloth, and at last the complete suits were sold to wearers by

the retailer. And all these thousands of people, who were her

co-workers, had to eat. Some one had to bake their bread. The bakers

were really part of the vest trade. And so were the cobblers who made

shoes for the workers, and the coal miners who tore fuel for them from

the bowels of the earth, and the steel workers who made their machines

and their needles. It was hard to think of any worker who did not in

some way contribute to the making of vests.

Braun had said that all the people of the process were equally exploited

by the same unjust system. They were all "wage-slaves." And in her daily

intercourse with the strikers, sometimes on picket duty, sometimes at

meetings, sometimes at headquarters attending to the clerical work of

distributing "benefits," she came to realize as she never could have

done from her own experience alone, what "wage-slavery" means. The

tragedy of Mrs. Cohen's life was being repeated on every side.

She had never made the acquaintance of hunger--the great Slave

Driver--before. And even now, she only saw it. She at least got a good

breakfast at Mabel's flat. And sometimes she got a lunch or supper.

Mabel, in her immense preoccupation with the details of the strike, did

not realize how often Yetta went through the day on the one meal. But

the flat was twenty minutes' walk from the strike headquarters. Yetta

had no money for car fare and could rarely spend the time to walk there

for lunch or dinner. When there were meetings in the evening and she

walked home with Mabel and Longman, they generally had a cold supper.

But she was of course earning no wages and had taken nothing from the

Goldstein flat which she could pawn. The need of the other strikers was

so much more appalling than her own that she could not find heart to ask

for "strike benefits."

Mabel, having at once realized Yetta's remarkable power of appeal, was

carefully engineering the limelight. With disconcerting frequency Yetta

found herself in its glare. The half-dozen newspaper men who had tried

to get a story out of this sweat-shop revolt had been steered up to

Yetta. And they had all sent around their staff photographers to get her

picture. The papers with a large circulation among the working classes

had made her face familiar to millions. One of them had the enterprise

to get a snapshot of her, arguing with a scab, before the Sure-fit Vest

Company. Even the man who signed himself "The Amused Onlooker" in the

_Evening Standard_, wrote a psychological sketch of this East Side

firebrand. His tone was railing as usual, but he tried to be

complimentary towards the close by comparing her to Jeanne D'Arc.

Whenever there was a chance, Mabel pushed Yetta on to the platform. The

various women of the Advisory Council arranged afternoon teas for her to

address. To Yetta such begging speeches were much more unpleasant work

than picketing. But it was not hard for her to talk to these small

gatherings. She spoke to them very simply. She did not again tell her

own story--in the rush of events she had almost forgotten it. Every day

brought to her notice new and more bitter tragedies. On the whole the

money raised was not much--ten, fifteen, sometimes twenty-five dollars.

But every cent was needed. Mabel, from much experience of her own in

similar circumstances, knew that Yetta was surprisingly successful. But

there was hardly ever a woman present at these uptown teas whose

cheapest ring was not worth many times the amount collected. Yetta,

seeing the jewels and knowing the intense need of her people, counted

over the few dollars and thought herself a failure.

But if these excursions into polite society did not bring the monetary

returns for which she wished, they at least made Yetta's face, her great

sad eyes, and gentle voice, familiar to many women of social

prominence--a result which was to bear fruit in the future.

It also cured her of the envy which had cast a shadow of bitterness over

her first morning in Mabel's apartment. She came to realize even more

clearly the gulf which separated her people from the world of luxury.

She no longer wanted to cross the gulf. The strange country into which

she got these occasional glimpses seemed a very hard-hearted place. It

was always a shock to her to see such laughing, light-hearted

indifference. Sometimes she went on a similar errand to the headquarters

of other unions. There she found her own people and sure sympathy. She

spoke one evening in a barren, ill-lit room, where the "pastry cooks"

held their meetings. They were most of them foreigners, French and

German, just coming out of a disastrous strike, and were very poor. They

had no money in their treasury, but some of them went down in their

pockets, and she got a handful of nickels and dimes. It was not as much

as she had secured from some "ladies" in the afternoon, but it was more

inspiring. She felt very keenly that in some mystic way their gift,

which they could so ill afford, would be of greater use to the Cause

than the dollars from uptown.

The well-dressed women she met seemed to her of small worth compared to

her trade-mates. She was proud of her share in the wonderful heroism of

the women who went hungry. The memory of her father was the most

brilliant of her mental treasures. If she had been brought up by a more

practical man, if her father had taught her to consider elegance, or

social success, or wealth, or culture of more virtue than loving

kindness--as most of us are taught--her verdict would, of course, have

been less severe. But she could not feel that the Golden Rule was taken

seriously by the Christian women uptown. She doubted if they loved

their neighbors as themselves. Certainly their definition of the word

did not reach downtown. The diamonds of their useless ornaments threw a

cruel light on the misery of her people.

In forming this harsh estimate of the world of luxury she had Mabel

beside her as a standard of comparison. Why were the other women

different from Mabel? They were no more beautiful, no better educated,

no more refined. But Mabel was the "real thing." Yetta was ashamed of

her first envy and distrust. Day by day she saw more fully the broad

scope of Mabel's activities--of which this vest-makers' strike was only

one--and her admiring wonder grew. Mabel gave not only her time, but she

was not afraid of what the girls called "dirty work"; she carried a

banner in the street on the day of the parade, she did her turn at

picketing, her share of addressing and sealing envelopes. And she

carried very much more than her share of the heavier responsibilities.

Yetta found it hard to understand how other women, who also knew the

facts of misery, could act so differently. Yet, day after day she told

them the facts, and they were content to give five or ten dollars. No.

Yetta did not want to be a "lady."

Almost every day some of the pickets were arrested and sent to the

workhouse. But others always volunteered to take their places. There is

no surer lesson to be learned from history than that persecution is like

oil to the flame of enthusiasm. Instead of breaking, as the bosses--with

the fatuousness of Nero--had hoped, the picket became more intense and

more effective. The bosses decided that "something decisive must be

done." There were several conferences--very quiet and orderly they

were--with the expert strike-breakers who had been loaned to them by the

Employers' Association. A long statement was prepared, which informed

the public that the vest manufacturers, feeling that they were not

getting sufficient assistance from the city police, had employed a

private detective agency to protect their property and the lives of

their faithful employees from the outrages of the strikers. All the

English papers published this statement without any inquiry as to

whether life and property needed special protection. The more

complaisant ones published the stories which the "press agent" of the

association furnished on the "outrages." So the impression was spread

abroad that the striking vest-makers were smoky-haired furies, who

brawled in the streets and tore the clothes off respectable women.

But there was hardly any one who had ever been involved in a strike,

employer or employed, hardly a cub-reporter in the city, who did not

know what this announcement meant. The bosses had failed to break the

strike by "legal" means. The "private detectives" had been called in to

do it by intimidation and brutality. Girls began coming into the strike

headquarters with bleeding faces, with black and blue bruises from

kicks.

No justice of the Supreme Court has handed down a decision on the

probability of the public peace being disturbed by the use of thugs,

calling themselves "private detectives," in labor disputes.

Mabel, realizing Yetta's special usefulness as a speaker and

money-raiser, tried to persuade her that this other work was more

important than picketing.

"No," Yetta said. "If I didn't spend the morning with the girls, I

would not have anything to say at night."

Mabel did not urge her further; she no longer called her _la petite_

when she spoke of her to Eleanor. Every one who came in contact with her

during these weeks knew that she was growing very rapidly into

womanhood.

Yetta expected to get arrested. Why should she not? In a way she had

started all the trouble. Why should the other girls be knocked about by

the ruffian private detectives and she escape? Day after day she took

her post before one or another of the vest shops and did her duty as she

saw it, as the other women were doing it. There were always two pickets

at each post, and it was in these morning watches that Yetta got her

deepest insight into the lives of her comrades.

She was having a very easy time of it. She had a pleasant place to

sleep. She had her one sure meal a day. There were no children crying to

her for food. The other women were faring worse than she. Some were

sick, almost all were hungry and insufficiently clad. And while Yetta

was often called away to the less fatiguing work of the office, or to

some uptown tea, these women, used to sitting all day before a machine,

were standing hour after hour before their posts. But it was not the

sight of them, pitiful spectacles as many of them were, which hurt Yetta

most. It was their stories--unintentionally told for the most part. The

words dropped by chance, which called up visions of sick husbands and

the hungry babies. Some of the pickets were gray-haired and bent, some

were younger than Yetta, and they all seemed to be suffering more for

the strike than she. And the hungry babies! Her sleep was troubled at

night by dreams of their cries.

That she had been spared by the police and thugs seemed to Yetta the

most unjust thing of all the injustice she saw about her. A week on "the

Island" would mean little to her; she had no one dependent on her. But

always they picked some widow, who had no one to care for her children

while she was in prison. Yetta felt herself strong and healthy. Why did

the thugs always beat up some old woman or some frail consumptive girl?

Although she had escaped trouble so long, she quietly and without

excitement expected it. Whenever she met any of the girls who had been

in the workhouse, she asked about it--in the same way that we, if we

were expecting to winter in Paris, would inquire from friends who had

been there about the rents and shops and so forth.

But when at last her turn came, it happened in a manner utterly

unexpected.

CHAPTER XIV

ARREST

At headquarters on May Day morning Yetta was detailed to the Crown Vest

Company. As she was starting out, she met Mabel, whose mackintosh was

glistening with rain.

"Oh, Yetta," she said, "don't go out to-day. The weather's so bad, and

if you catch cold you can't speak."

But Yetta only smiled. It seemed to Mabel that she had never looked so

beautiful before. Her face had begun to hollow a little from the strain,

her olive skin was a shade paler, her eyes seemed to have grown bigger.

And her shoulders, which had begun to stoop in the sweat-shop, had

straightened up with the month on her feet and the new pride of combat.

She was wearing the same skirt and waist she had worn to the dance, for

she was to speak uptown that afternoon, and she had a warm shawl over

her head and shoulders. The soles of her shoes were worn through, but

Mabel could not see that.

"I've only got a few hours of it," she said. "There's that Advisory

Council again this afternoon."

And she went out into the rain. The Crown Vest Company was on East

Fourth Street, just off Washington Square. As Yetta turned the corner

from Broadway she was nearly blown off her feet. All the winds of

heaven--the biting, penetrating winds of a late spring storm--were

caught in Washington Square as in a funnel, and escaped through the

narrow cañon of East Fourth Street. Although Yetta was late, she was

surprised to find no other picket before the Crown Vest Company. They

were always assigned in couples. Her surprise turned to distress when

she recognized the "private detective" in the doorway. His real name

nobody knew. He called himself Brennan, but the girls called him

"Pick-Axe." He was the one they dreaded more than any other. He thought

himself a wit. It was his custom to tilt a chair against the wall by the

doorway and, lighting his pipe, amuse himself by trying to make the

girls blush. There was no limit to the brutality or nastiness of his

tongue.

"Come in out of the rain, Dearie," he said when he saw Yetta. "There's

room for two on this chair."

She tried not to hear him and began a sentry-like tread back and forth

before the door. At least she was glad it was raining. Sometimes in good

weather a crowd of depraved loungers would gather to listen to

Pick-Axe's wit.

"It's too bad to have to work on a day like this, Little One," he called

as she passed again. "Let's go over to the saloon and have a drink.

There are nice warm rooms upstairs."

Yetta felt she would not shiver so hard if it were not for his cold,

stinging voice. She decided it would be cowardly to let him drive her

out of earshot. That would please him too much. She wondered why the

other picket was not there.

"You needn't be so proud"--when she was again opposite him. "The first

girl this morning tried to be proud. But she got over it. What's the

use? Better come and have a drink, same as she did."

Yetta knew it was a lie. And yet--good God, it was cold! She had had her

fill of eggs and hot coffee that morning. She wouldn't be hungry till

noon, and she was so near home, she could get a good lunch. Some of the

girls were always hungry. Few of them had warm clothes for such weather.

How could they stand it? She wished she had asked the name of the other

girl detailed to the Crown.

"I felt right sorry for her," Pick-Axe went on. "Gawd! she was hungry.

You ought to have seen her eat. Pretty little girl, too. Now she's

having a good sleep."

Of course it was a lie. But Yetta felt herself getting colder and

colder. Pick-Axe got up and came towards her. She tried not to notice

him, but she wanted very much to run.

"Come on," he said. "What's the use of being a fool? Nobody's outdoors.

They ain't no scabs coming to-day. Let's go over to the saloon and make

friends."

Yetta having reached the end of her beat turned mechanically and started

back towards where he stood.

"That's a sensible girl," he said.

But she walked on past him as if he were a lamppost.

"Well," he snarled, "I guess I'll have to go over and wake up your

friend. It'll take you about half an hour to wish you'd come

instead...."

There is no need of printing all that he said.

He walked across the street. Yetta could not help turning her head to

watch him as he entered the swinging door. He caught her glance and

waved his hand. Her fright disappeared in anger. Of course she did not

believe that he had persuaded one of her union girls to go into the

saloon with him. But it was even viler to pretend that he had. Some one

ought to kill the brute.

Just then Yetta saw one of the strikers--little Mrs. Muscovitz--hurrying

up the street. Yetta rushed to meet her.

"Were you detailed here?" she asked eagerly.

Mrs. Muscovitz was coughing and could only nod her head affirmatively.

Yetta wanted to shout with joy. So Pick-Axe's story was after all a lie.

"I'm sorry I'm late," little Mrs. Muscovitz said hoarsely, for she was

"bad with bronchitis," "but I got a little money this morning and I had

to buy some things for the baby."

One glance told Yetta where the money had come from--Mrs. Muscovitz had

pawned her shawl. More than once they had picketed together, and Yetta

knew the little woman's story. Three years before she had married a

young sign painter. Before the honeymoon was over he had begun to cough.

He died before the baby was born. And when Mrs. Muscovitz had been able

to get about again, all the furniture of their little home had gone for

doctor's bills. Her engagement and wedding rings had brought her enough

to establish herself in a garret. She took the baby to a day nursery and

went to work. Now, she was coughing. It hurts to cough when one also has

the bronchitis. Having no shawl, her thin waist was soaked and plastered

to her skin. Yetta could see the muscles of her back work convulsively

whenever she coughed.

"Look y'ere, Mrs. Muscovitz," she said authoritatively. "You go home.

You ain't got no business out on a day like this. You'll catch your

death. There ain't nothing doing to-day. I can hold it down alone."

"It's all right for you to talk, Yetta," Mrs. Muscovitz replied. "You

can make speeches and you can work in the office and do lots of things

for the Union. There ain't nothing I can do but picket. I couldn't pay

rent without the 'strike benefits.' I've got to do something."

Pick-Axe came out of the saloon and seeing them together, knowing that

it was less sport trying to torment two women than one, pulled his chair

well inside of the doorway and cursed the vile weather.

"I tell you what you can do," Yetta went on arguing with Mrs. Muscovitz.

"It'll do more good than standing here. You go over to headquarters and

make some coffee. You tell Miss Train I said it was so cold she must

send coffee out to the girls. You can borrow some pails and cups and

Mrs. Weinstein's boy'll carry it round. Hot coffee'll do the girls good,

and it'll make the cops sore to see us getting it. Making coffee'll do

more good than standing here. Nobody's out; I can hold down this job all

right."

"I hate to leave you alone with that snake."

"Oh," Yetta laughed, more light-heartedly than she felt. "Words don't

break no bones. You run along."

While Mrs. Muscovitz was hesitating, she caught sight of a scab. "Look,"

she whispered. A big-boned young woman of about twenty, poorly clad and

apparently much frightened, was standing on the opposite curbstone. She

looked up at the sign in the window of the Crown Vest Company

advertising the need of workers. And she looked down at the two women

before the door. After a few indecisive minutes she started across the

street.

"You run along to headquarters and get that coffee started," Yetta said.

"I'll talk to her."

"No," said Mrs. Muscovitz. "Let me do it. And then I'll go. I want to do

something."

She started towards the woman. Pick-Axe, bundled up in his overcoat,

back in the entryway, did not see the scab approaching. She had probably

read in the papers lying stories of how the strike breakers were being

attacked. She was very much afraid, and when she saw Mrs. Muscovitz

coming towards her, she screamed. Pick-Axe, not having seen what was

happening,--if one wishes to find excuses for him,--may have really

believed that the little Mrs. Muscovitz had assaulted the husky young

scab. At the sound of the scream he jumped out of his chair and rushed

at Mrs. Muscovitz. She, thinking that he was going to strike her, held

out her hand to guard her face. Pick-Axe grabbed it, and with a vicious

wrench, twisted her down on her knees.

"You slut! You--! You--!" he bellowed and swung his heavy-soled boot

into her ribs.

Yetta--to use a phrase of melodrama--"saw red." Something happened in

her brain. Her rather Platonic conviction of a few minutes before that

somebody ought to kill the brute, was changed into a passionate,

throbbing desire to do it herself.

Just as his foot found its goal in Mrs. Muscovitz' side, Pick-Axe felt

the sudden impact of Yetta's whole weight. It was more of a spring than

a rush. As far as she had any idea, she wanted to choke him. The sudden

jolt bowled him over--he was standing on one foot--and as he fell his

head came down on the stone paving with a sickening thud. If it had not

been for his heavy cap, the blow might have cracked his skull. As it was

it stunned him. His face turned very white. The scab ran up the street

too frightened to look back.

"I hope he's dead," Yetta said with tight-clenched fists.

But Mrs. Muscovitz felt his heart and shook her head.

"Sure?" Yetta asked.

"Yes. His heart's beating. Feel it yourself."

"I wouldn't touch the snake with my foot," Yetta said; "come on."

"Nobody but the scab seen us," Mrs. Muscovitz said.

"Come on," Yetta repeated. "Let's go to headquarters."

Somehow she did not care whether any one had seen her or not. She had

tried to kill a man and regretted that she had not succeeded. She had

read stories of murderers' remorse. And now she knew they were lies. She

would never have been sorry if she had killed that snake.

As they were turning into Broadway, Mrs. Muscovitz, who was always

looking back, suddenly gripped Yetta's arm.

"He's getting up," she said. "There's a man helping him."

They both peered back around the corner and saw Pick-Axe, with the aid

of the stranger, painfully getting to his feet and rubbing his head in

bewilderment.

"Come on," Yetta said. "He'll begin to holler in a minute. I've got a

dime. We'll take a car."

They ran to catch a downtown car. They rode in silence, Mrs. Muscovitz

nursing her aching arm and the bruise in her side. Yetta, surprised at

the calm which had come after the sudden typhoon of passion, kept

repeating, "I tried to kill him, I tried to kill him."

At the headquarters they found Isadore Braun, just returned from

attending to the morning's batch of arrested pickets in Essex Market

Court.

"Come into the committee-room," Yetta said to him quietly. "We've had

some trouble."

"What is it?" he asked professionally as he closed the door.

"It's bad," Yetta replied. "Mrs. Muscovitz and I was picketing the

Crown. And Pick-Axe--well, he jumped on her and--well--I knocked him

senseless."

Braun bounced out of his chair in amazement.

"You? You knocked Pick-Axe senseless? You're joking."

But Yetta shrugged her shoulders affirmatively. And Braun began to

laugh. He knew Pick-Axe. Every few days he encountered the bully in

court, listened to his cold-blooded perjuries. He knew, from the girls,

of his brutality. And he thought he knew Yetta. Her first speech at the

Skirt-Finishers' ball had attracted his attention. He had followed her

development through the four weeks of the strike with increasing

interest. Above all he had been impressed with her quiet, gentle ways.

The idea that she had knocked out Pick-Axe was preposterous.

But Mrs. Muscovitz added her affirmation. As he gradually got the

details from them he grew more and more serious. It was the first time

the enemy had had any real ground to charge them with violence. They

would certainly make the most of it.

"Do you think he knows your face?" he asked Yetta.

"Sure."

Braun realized that his question had been foolish. Yetta was the

most-advertised, best-known person connected with the strike.

"They'll be after you with a warrant," he said.

Yetta shrugged her shoulders.

"Were there any witnesses?" he asked.

"Only the scab," Mrs. Muscovitz said. "She run away. I guess she's too

scared to come back. And the man who helped him get up."

Braun sat for a few minutes, with his chin in his hands, thinking it

out.

"We'll have to lie," he said at last. "This is the story. Mrs. Muscovitz

was talking to the scab. Pick-Axe twisted her arm and kicked her. That's

all true. You tried to separate them. That's true, too, in a way--"

"I tried to kill him," Yetta put in.

"But you mustn't tell the judge that! You tried to separate them, and he

slipped on the wet pavement and bumped his head. You two ran away,

afraid that he'd attack you. You took a Broadway car and came straight

here. Let's see--" he looked at his watch--"You got here about eleven

thirty."

"I'd rather tell the truth," Yetta insisted. "Tell the judge just what

the snake said to me and why I was mad."

"You can't do that. In the first place the judge would not listen to all

of it. And then he would not believe you. They're looking for a chance

to say we are using violence. Why did you do it--Oh, well, there's no

use asking that. It's done. We've got to lie."

Yetta looked unconvinced.

"It won't only be worse for you," Braun went on. "It'll be worse for all

of us, if you tell the truth."

"All right, then," Yetta said reluctantly. "I'll lie."

Just then Mabel rushed in without knocking.

"Pick-Axe and a plain-clothes man are out here with a warrant for

Yetta," she cried. "Where can we hide her?"

"We won't hide her," Braun said. "We don't want to seem afraid of this

charge."

"What's it all about?" she asked.

"Why, Pick-Axe was getting gay as usual," Braun said. "He slipped on the

wet pavement or tripped over something and bumped his head. I guess he's

trying to make an assault charge out of it."

"What?" Mabel asked in astonishment. "He's got the face to say that

Yetta attacked him?"

Yetta started to say, "I did," but Braun kicked her unobtrusively and

she kept still.

"Go out and tell them we will surrender at once," Braun said.

As soon as Mabel had left he hurriedly repeated the story they were to

tell.

"Don't tell anybody the truth," he insisted. "Not any one. Not even Miss

Train. We've got to bluff. And the more people who believe we are

telling the truth, the better the bluff is."

They went out into the main room, and Yetta was formally put under

arrest.

"That's the other woman," Pick-Axe said at sight of Mrs. Muscovitz.

"I haven't any warrant for her," the plain-clothes man said. He had no

especial affection for the ruffian who pretended to be a detective.

"She is coming to court anyhow as a witness," Braun said.

At that moment he caught sight of Longman and a reporter and a ray of

hope. He hurried over to them.

"Longman," he said, "they've arrested Yetta Rayefsky on an utterly

absurd charge of attacking that thug, Brennan, whom the girls call

Pick-Axe. I wish you'd come over to court. I can use you, I think, in

the defence. And"--he turned to the reporter, "it may be worth your

while to come, too. I think there'll be a story in it."

So the little procession set out. Yetta walked ahead between Pick-Axe

and the detective. Braun and Mrs. Muscovitz and Longman and the reporter

trailed behind.

There was hardly anything more sincere about Pick-Axe than his fear and

hatred of Braun, so he kept his mouth shut as long as he was in hearing.

But when the steel door of Essex Market Prison had clanged shut behind

him, as soon as the desk man had entered Yetta's name and age and

address on his book, Pick-Axe gave rein to his filthy wrath. They had

taken her into the "examination room," and Yetta, following Braun's

advice, refused to answer any questions. She crouched in a corner and

tried not to hear what he was saying. She had grown up in a community

where men are not over-careful in their choice of expletives, but she

had never listened to anything like this.

It would have been very hard for Yetta to tell any one--even Mabel--what

that quarter of an hour meant to her. She was not exactly afraid. In a

way she was prepared for it. She had heard Pick-Axe talk before. The

girls had told her that the worst thing they had suffered during their

imprisonment was what they had had to listen to, insults and obscenity

and the mad ravings of the "drunks."

Although Yetta was not afraid nor surprised, her whole being shuddered

under it. Her flesh seemed to contract in an effort to escape the

contagion of such loathsomeness. For years she would turn suddenly pale

at the barest memory of that torrent of abuse. Once Pick-Axe came close

as if he was going to strike her, but the detective pulled him away.

Yetta was almost sorry. It would have been a relief if he had struck her

with his hand.

And yet it was very little for herself that Yetta suffered. She was

being sacrificed for a great host. What they did to her mattered very

little, but in her they were striking at all the myriad "people of the

process"--the women of her trade, the cloth weavers, the wool-growers,

those who grew wheat for their bread, who made beds for them to sleep

in. She felt herself a delicate instrument for the transmission of

sound. Those stinging, cruel words were going out to the remotest

corners of the land, were bringing shame on all the lowly people of the

earth, just as his kick, crashing into Mrs. Muscovitz' side, had made

them all gasp with pain. Once she looked up, she wanted to ask him what

they paid him that made it worth his while to treat her people so. But

she knew it was useless to ask--he would not have understood.

Then echoing down the corridor, she heard a warden bawling her name.

From the point of view of Braun's intended defence, Yetta's arrest had

come at a fortunate time of day. By noon the morning calendar is

disposed of, and he could have her arraigned for hearing at once. The

least delay meant the possibility of the prosecution finding some

witness who had seen Yetta strike Pick-Axe.

Yetta had wanted to tell the judge the truth. It was only because Braun

insisted that it would endanger the success of the strike that she had

consented to lie. But when she was led into the court-room, her scruples

left her.

Telling the truth is like a quarrel--there must be two parties to it.

Nicolas Gay, the Russian painter, has a canvas called, "What is Truth?"

It portrays Pontius Pilate, putting this question to the Christ. And you

realize at once why the Prisoner could not answer. Truth is not the

enunciation of certain words. Nothing which the scorned and scourged and

thorn-crowned Jesus might have said about His Truth could have

penetrated the thick skull of the gross and pride-filled Roman

proconsul.

Yetta, in a somewhat similar situation, understood at once that this

dingy court-room was not an Abode of Truth. Magistrate Cornett, before

whom she was led, although a young man, was quite bald. He sat hunched

up in his great chair, and the folds of his heavy black robe made him

look deformed. His finger nails were manicured. His skin was carefully

groomed, but the flesh under it was flabby. His face and hands were

those of a gourmand.

The clerk read the complaint. It charged Yetta with assault in all its

degrees in that on that very day she had with felonious intent struck

one Michael Brennan on the head with a dangerous weapon, to wit a

blackjack.

"Guilty or not guilty?"

"Not guilty," Braun replied.

The plain-clothes man deposed that he knew nothing about the case except

that he had served the warrant as directed by the court. He had found

the defendant in the strike headquarters of the vest-makers.

The man who had helped Brennan get up was a clerk in a neighboring

wholesale house. He had been sent out with a telegram, and in the

rain-swept, deserted street he had seen no one but the prostrate

detective, who was just regaining consciousness as he came up. He helped

the stricken man to his feet, and that was all he knew.

Then Michael Brennan, alias Pick-Axe, took the stand. Ordinarily he made

a fairly good appearance in court. He felt himself among friends, felt a

reassuring kinship with the policemen, the clerks, and even with the

judge. To be sure they all knew he was a perjurer, and very few of them

would shake hands with him. But still he was a necessary part in the

great machine for preserving social order, by which they all were paid.

But this day he was not at his ease. In the first place his head ached

horribly. In the second, he was so infuriated that he could scarcely

control his tongue. And thirdly, he knew that he was in for a grilling

from Braun. And he was more than usually afraid of this ordeal because

he was not sure what had happened. He remembered kicking Mrs. Muscovitz,

he had a vague conviction that Yetta had rushed at him--and then he

remembered coming to and being helped to his feet.

"Yer Honor," he began, "I was in front of the Crown Vest Company this

morning doing duty as usual. There wasn't nobody around except this here

Rayefsky girl and a woman she's brought as a witness. Well, Yer Honor, I

went into the hallway to light my pipe and just at that minute a scab

comes along--"

"Your Honor," Braun interrupted, "some of my clients have been sent to

prison for using that term. This court has held it to be insulting and

abusive."

"It was a slip of my tongue, Yer Honor," Pick-Axe said with confusion.

"Clerk," the Judge instructed, "strike out that word, and you be more

careful, Brennan."

"Yes, Yer Honor. I was saying a respectable woman came along looking for

work--she wasn't really a woman, just a young girl. I didn't see her

because I was in the hallway lighting my pipe, as I told Yer Honor, but

I heard her holler and, rushing out, I seen this other woman a-laying

into her, beating her up something awful--"

Mrs. Muscovitz tried to protest from the benches, but Longman, at a

signal from Braun, hushed her.

"Well, Yer Honor, I runs up and tries to arrest the woman, and the other

one--this Rayefsky girl--jumps on me with a blackjack and lays me out,

Yer Honor. The first thing I knows I come to, with this gentleman

a-helping me up. How long I laid there senseless, Yer Honor, I don't

know. I came right over here and got the warrant, and Officer Sheehan

and me, we got her at the strike headquarters, like he told Yer Honor."

"Do you wish to question the witness, Mr. Braun?"

"Brennan," he began, "did you see a blackjack in the defendant's hand?"

"No, sir! If I'd a knowed she had a blackjack would I have let her sneak

up behind me? No. I'd have run her in before."

"What makes you think it was a blackjack?"

"The bump on my head." He leaned over the bench so the judge could

examine it. "She couldn't have made that with her hand, Yer Honor."

"It certainly looks like a blackjack," the judge said.

"Are you sure, Brennan, it wasn't a piece of stone?"

"No. It wasn't no stone--I'd have seen her pick it up. It was a

blackjack," he insisted doggedly.

"How do you know it wasn't a piece of gas-pipe?"

"What's the use of such questions?" the judge asked impatiently. "The

crime would be no less serious if the blow had been struck with a piece

of gas-pipe."

"Your Honor," Braun replied, "it is a serious question. Brennan does not

know what hit him and I do. In two more questions I think I can convince

the Court that he does not know. Brennan," he turned to the witness,

"you say that you had gone into the hallway to light your pipe. When you

rushed out to attack the picket, did you see this gentleman coming down

the street? Professor Longman, will you please rise? Brennan, did you

see this gentleman coming down the street with that cane in his hand?"

Brennan had been wondering why Longman had come to the court. He looked

at him suspiciously.

"No," he said. "I never saw that man till I got to the strike

headquarters."

"Well, Brennan, are you quite sure, are you prepared to swear that when

you were kicking Mrs. Muscovitz about this gentleman did not knock you

down as you deserved--as any real man would have done?"

"I didn't kick the woman," Brennan said.

"That's not the question. Are you sure it wasn't Professor Longman who

laid you out?"

For a moment Brennan hesitated. It was hard for him to believe that

Yetta had knocked him senseless. He knew that Braun was trying to catch

him in a perjury. And he had a guilty conscience.

"If it was him that hit me," he roared, "I'll have him sent up. I was

doing my duty."

"Officer," the judge said, "see that this man does not leave the room."

"It is a useless precaution, Your Honor," Braun said. "Professor Longman

was nowhere in the neighborhood. But I think it is quite clear that

Brennan does not know who or what hit him."

The reporter who had come with them, not being regularly detailed to the

court, was not afraid to laugh out loud.

"I have no other questions to ask," Braun went on. "Will the Court have

the defendant's account of what happened?"

The oath was administered to Yetta and she told the story, which Braun

had taught her, more calmly and simply than most people tell the truth.

The judge did not believe that a person who had just committed a

murderous assault could be so cool under the charge. He knew Brennan,

and that he was probably lying now. He himself had slipped on the wet

pavement that morning, his motor had skidded on the way downtown. He

believed Yetta. He had generally believed the strikers against whom

Brennan and the other "private detectives" had testified, but, knowing

just what was expected of him by those on whom he depended for

advancement, he had sent the other girls to jail. He twirled his pencil

a moment, asking her a few inconsequential questions, and regretfully

came to the conclusion that he could not possibly hold her on the

assault charge.

"Are there any other witnesses?" he asked.

"Mrs. Muscovitz, who was picketing with the defendant, is here," Braun

said. "She tells me exactly the same story. She will tell it to the

Court if Your Honor so directs. But it seems rather a waste of time.

There is no case against my client. Brennan has shown the Court that he

doesn't know what hit him. Look at the two of them, Your Honor. If you

think that any twelve men on earth will believe that this slip of a girl

assaulted the complainant, you can of course hold her for the Grand

Jury. But I ask the Court to discharge the defendant."

"Not so fast, Mr. Braun," the judge snapped. "Even admitting the truth

of her improbable story--which I very much question--admitting there is

insufficient evidence to hold her on the assault charge, she confesses

to disorderly conduct in interfering with an officer who was making an

arrest. Clerk, make out a charge of disorderly conduct. I suppose you'll

swear to the complaint, Brennan."

While this detail was being attended to at the clerk's desk, the judge

delivered himself of an informal philippic against the strikers. He

aimed a good deal of his discourse at Mrs. Muscovitz: it was only the

extreme leniency of the Court, he said, which kept him from ordering

her arrest;--as a matter of fact it was past his lunch time. His tirade,

which he seemed to enjoy immensely, as he saw the reporter taking notes,

was interrupted by the Clerk handing him the new papers.

"Yetta Rayefsky, you admit picketing, which means intimidating honest

work-people, before the Crown Vest Company this morning; you admit

interfering with Officer Brennan, while he was engaged in the

performance of his duty. The Court finds you guilty of disorderly

conduct. But the officers inform me that this is the first time you have

been brought to court. As is my custom, I will discharge you if you

promise not to picket any more. Understand that if you are brought

before me again, I will send you to prison. Take my advice and go to

work. Idleness always breeds trouble. Will you promise not to picket any

more?"

"No."

The judge sat up with a jerk.

"Ten days, workhouse," he thundered.

And as they led her away, he rapped on his desk with his gavel, and the

clerk announced adjournment.

"That little Jew girl had more spunk than I gave her credit for," the

judge said a few minutes later, in his chambers, to his secretary who

was helping him on with his fur-lined coat. "I wonder if she did

blackjack Brennan." He had to sit down again to laugh at the idea.

"Don't scold me," Yetta said to Braun, when he came into the prison and

spoke to her through the grating. "I was tired of lying."

Braun said to himself as he went away that it was just like a woman to

get away with a big lie and stumble over a little one.

CHAPTER XV

THE WORKHOUSE

In the afternoon Yetta was loaded into "the wagon" with a lot of

"drunks" and prostitutes and taken up to the Department dock to wait for

the ferry across to the Island.

She had not realized how the month's strain had tired her until the

excitement was over and she was on the tug in midstream. In sheer

weariness, she turned round on her seat and, crossing her arms on its

back, buried her face in them. Presently she felt a hand on her

shoulder.

"Don't take it so hard, Little One," a not unkindly voice said. "It's

fierce at first, but you get used to it." She looked up into a face of

stained and faded gaudiness.

"Oh," the woman said, somewhat taken aback. "You're one of them

strikers. Did they beat you up?"

"No," Yetta replied, "I got off easy."

The woman stood a moment first on one foot and then on the other--she

could not think of anything more to say. She went across the boat and

told one of her cronies what kind of a shame she thought it was "to run

in a nice girl like that."

Yetta was in a strange state of detachment. It surprised her afterwards

to remember how little the discomforts of the prison had troubled her.

She was hardly conscious of the dirty, rough clothes they gave her. The

bitter, hard, and useless work of scrubbing the stone flagging seemed to

her unreal. She hardly noticed the food they set before her for supper.

She was not hungry. And when they let her go to bed, she plunged so

quickly and deeply into the oblivion of sleep that she did not feel the

vermin nor hear the sinister whispers of her cell-mates. Her mind,

utterly fagged out with all the new thoughts and experiences, was taking

a vacation. Even the sense nerves were too tired to record with

exactitude their impressions.

Before Yetta fell into this blissful, dreamless sleep her arrest had

begun to stir up considerable excitement in New York. When Braun and

Longman returned to the strike headquarters from the court-house, they

found Mabel preparing to go uptown to the meeting of the Advisory

Council. The imprisonment of Yetta seemed to her the crowning outrage of

the long list of trivial arrests. She did not dream how nearly the

charge came to being true. Dozens of other girls had been sent to the

workhouse on perjured evidence. But this seemed different. Yetta was

"hers." In the past weeks she had become "her" friend. So are we all

constituted. We read in the morning paper that thousands of Chinese or

Russians or Moors are dying of famine. Perhaps we mail a check to the

Red Cross. But if we should be hungry or one of our dear friends should

starve, it would seem extravagantly unjust.

In this ireful frame of mind, Mabel met the ladies of the Advisory

Council. To them also Yetta was a much more real personality than the

other girls who had been arrested. Their Yetta, their quiet-mannered,

sad-eyed, gentle-voiced Yetta, arrested for assaulting a man? It was

impossible! With the tears in her eyes, Mabel assured them that it was

true.

"We can't permit this," Mrs. Van Cleave said, snapping her lorgnette

ominously. "It is preposterous! The young lady has been a guest in my

house. I have introduced her to my friends. It can't be permitted."

"Well, what can we do about it?" Mabel asked, for once at a loss.

There was a clamor of wild suggestions. It was at last Mrs. Karner, the

woman whom Yetta had liked, and at whose request she had told about

Harry Klein, who brought out a practical plan.

"We've got to do it through the newspapers," she said. "Stir up the

press."

"Oh," Mabel said in despair, "they laugh when I come into their offices.

They're not interested, or they're on the other side."

"They laugh because they're used to you. You haven't any news value,"

Mrs. Karner went on. "But they would not laugh if Mrs. Van Cleave talked

to them."

"Hey? What?" Mrs. Van Cleave asked with a start.

"Oh! you won't even have to go to their offices; you can send for them.

I worked on a newspaper once, and I know. You won't have to go to them.

They'll come. The editors will eat out of your hand--do anything for you

on the chance that you might invite their wives to dinner. Have your

secretary call up the papers, and you'll have a hundred special writers

camped on your doorstep."

"Well, well! What an idea!" Mrs. Van Cleave snorted.

All the women, with various degrees of obsequiousness, begged her to do

it. But it was not the kind of newspaper notoriety she liked.

"No," she repeated a dozen times. "I could not do that. Preposterous!

Preposterous!"

But she hardly heard the urgings. She was looking away beyond the room

at the vision of a little girl who had died many years ago--the only

thing which had not been worldly in all her life. And this little

daughter of hers had had eyes very much like Yetta's. Yes. Very much

like. In fact they were almost exactly the same. And just when the women

were giving up hope she suddenly spoke decisively.

"Yes. I'll do it. My secretary is outside in the motor. Call her in."

"Jane," she said when that very businesslike and faded young woman

appeared, "two things. One, a list of all the women who met that little

working-girl at my house. Two, telephone all the city editors. I want to

give out a statement, a personal statement. My house, to-night. Morning

papers. You can use the telephone in the front office. That will do."

Yetta and Mrs. Van Cleave divided the first column the next morning. In

the two and three cent papers Yetta got most of the space, in the one

cent papers the proportions were reversed. But Yetta's story, more or

less diluted with descriptions of Mrs. Van Cleave's drawing-room and

gown and diamond tiara--she had given the newspaper men a few minutes as

she was leaving for the Opera--was read by almost everybody in Greater

New York. Yetta was invariably described as little, in several cases as

only thirteen. Pick-Axe was ordinarily spoken of as an

ex-prize-fighter--a libel on the profession, which can at least boast of

physical courage.

Among others who read the story was the Commissioner of Correction. He

called up the warden of the workhouse.

"That jackass, Cornett, has stirred up hell down at Essex Market. Seen

the papers? Well, there'll be fifteen hundred reporters bothering you

this morning, trying to interview this Rayefsky girl. Don't let them.

But they'll get at her when she comes out; she'll be telling her

impressions of prison life to everybody. Give her some snap. Feed her.

Damn her soul, don't give her no chance to kick. See?"

It was about nine o'clock when this message crossed the wire. A few

minutes later the warden entered the women's wing of the workhouse.

There were about fifty prisoners on their knees, scrubbing the stone

floor.

"Yetta Rayefsky."

She got up in surprise and came towards him, wondering what new thing

they were going to do to her.

"Know anything about children?" he asked.

Yetta was too much surprised by the question to answer.

"Well," he said, "you don't look like you'd cut their throats. My wife

needs a nurse. Come on."

"Ain't you got any clothes that fits her?" he asked the matron at the

door. "Clean ones. Don't want things like that in the house. Wash her

up. We don't want bugs. And send her over right away."

"Gee," the matron said with sudden, cringing respect. "Why didn't you

tell me you had a pull?"

So Yetta was taken out of the Inferno, before her tired senses had fully

waked up to its horrors. The warden's house was outside the prison. It

had a pleasant lawn, close-clipped, its flower beds well tended, for the

labor of the "trusties" was free. There was already a nurse for the

children, and Yetta did not have anything to do. The yesterday's storm

had been the end of winter, and an almost midsummer heat had fallen on

New York. She spent most of her time on a rustic bench under a great

elm. There was a fine open view across the busy river to the busier

city.

The real nurse was snobbish and would not speak to her, which saved her

from much foolish chatter. Nobody paid any attention to her except the

warden's three-year-old boy, who continually escaped from his nurse and

tried to climb into Yetta's lap. They gave her good meals and a

comfortable bed. It was somewhat unkind of them to jerk the baby out of

Yetta's lap whenever he found his way there. But otherwise she was very

well treated. The only restrictions they put on her was that she should

not leave the lawn and should not read the papers. "It would give her a

swelled head," the warden said. His prohibition had the advantage of

keeping her from the excitement of contact with the strike.

Above everything else, Yetta needed rest and quiet to think. The first

day she dozed. The second day her mind woke up. She had a fear that she

would forget something. So many things had happened in the past month.

Ten days seemed to her a limitless time, so she began at the beginning.

Her earliest recollections were of the dingy little book-store and her

father. The morning passed in rearranging her memories of him. When they

called her for supper, she had reached, in the review of her life,

Rachel's first dance. Afterwards she sat in the little dormer window of

her bedroom and looked out at the twilight falling over the city; she

watched the lights on the river and the stars in their courses overhead

and went over her acquaintance with Harry Klein.

She had learned a great deal during this month out of the shop. From

words dropped here and there, from things she had seen, she had come to

a clearer understanding of the thing she had escaped. She had thought

she was in love with Harry Klein! She went to sleep realizing how hollow

had been her conception of love. The word had a very different content

now that she had seen Walter and Mabel together and had heard the gossip

of the girls. The thought of two such people being in love seemed very

wonderful to her.

After breakfast the next morning she took her seat again in the shade of

the elm tree and, with her chin in her hands, pondered over the strike.

She had a remarkable memory for words and phrases. She could have given

a full synopsis of all the speeches she had heard in that month. Most of

the people who had talked at the meetings had tried to tell what the

strike meant. She went over the various and often contradictory

explanations, and, supplementing them with her own experience and

observations, reached an interpretation of her own. Much of it came as a

direct inheritance from her father. The two speakers who had influenced

her most were Longman and Braun. With the former she believed that all

those who loved liberty were under a sacred obligation to struggle for

it. And Braun's straightforward, concise statement of social

organization seemed to her reasonable. As soon as possible she wanted to

get a chance to study Socialism.

Meanwhile the storm kicked up by her arrest was growing apace. That

morning the papers contained an open letter which the Commissioner of

Corrections had addressed to the ladies of the Woman's Trade Union

League. He had been forced to this action, because the evening papers

had published interviews with other strikers who had been in the

workhouse. They gave impressive details of the nauseous place, of the

rank food, the vermin, the dark cells, and the debased associations. The

Commissioner's letter was a dignified document. It had been written by

his secretary. In a sweeping manner he denounced the accusations made by

the strikers as malicious libel and referred the ladies of the Advisory

Council and the public in general to page 213 of the last report of the

Prison Association, which gave just tribute to the modern sanitation,

the wholesome dietary, and the healthy régime of the workhouse.

"In regard to the case of Miss Rayefsky, about whom this agitation has

centred, the Commissioner begs to point out that he has no manner of

responsibility over commitments. It is not within his province to pass

judgment on the decisions of the courts. He must accept whomsoever is

committed to his custody. In reply to his inquiry, the warden of the

workhouse informs him that, instead of suffering the fantastic tortures

which certain hysterical lawbreakers have tried to persuade the public

are actualities in the workhouse, Miss Rayefsky has been detailed to the

work of nurse to the warden's children, and is living--probably in

greater comfort than she ever knew before--as a member of his household.

"As the Commissioner does not care to ask the public to take his word in

preference to irresponsible newspaper stories, he invites the Woman's

Trade Union League to appoint a committee to visit Miss Rayefsky in the

workhouse and report to the public."

While Yetta was pondering over the meanings of strikes and industrial

warfare, all New York was discussing her case and reading what various

society ladies thought about the way their pet had been treated.

Pick-Axe lost his job as private detective and had to go back to highway

robbery.

After lunch Yetta tackled the hardest problem of all--why had she tried

to kill Pick-Axe? Instinctively she felt that Longman would understand.

But neither Mabel nor Braun would,--Braun least of all. Her act did not

fit in with Socialism. No other speakers had urged the strikers as

vigorously as the Socialists to abstain from violence or lawbreaking.

Longman was not the only one who would understand. There was Casey, the

secretary of the Central Federated Union, and the men of the "Pastry

Cooks' Union." She could have told them about it without any hesitancy.

She tried for some minutes to decide whether her father would have

understood. She was not sure. She wanted to judge herself justly in the

matter, but try as hard as she might, she found it impossible to blame

herself sincerely. Her speculations were interrupted by Longman's voice.

"What are you thinking about so hard?"

She jumped up in surprise to see that Longman and Mrs. Karner had come

across the lawn without her hearing their approach. The warden had

established himself in a chair where he could watch them.

Mrs. Karner had happened to be in the office when the Commissioner's

letter arrived. She had appointed herself, together with Mabel and

Longman, the committee to visit Yetta. They had notified the

Commissioner, and he in turn had warned the warden. But just as they

were about to start, a representative of the Association of Vest

Manufacturers had telephoned to Mabel for a conference. It was too

important to miss. So Mrs. Karner and Longman had come alone.

Yetta rushed into Mrs. Karner's arms and had hard work not to kiss

Longman. She had not realized that she was lonely until she saw the

familiar faces.

"We've only got fifteen minutes," Longman said. "So we must get down to

business. Did they bring you to the warden's house at once?"

"No. At first--the first night I was in a cell. It was about nine the

next morning the warden came and took me out."

"Just as I was telling you," Longman said to Mrs. Karner. "When they

read the newspapers, they got scared and made an exception for her. Your

newspaper campaign did it."

"What?"

And Mrs. Karner told Yetta all about it; how angry her friends were to

hear of her being accused of assault and how they had made an awful row

in the papers. Yetta's face burned. If Longman had been alone, she would

have told him the truth in spite of Braun's interdiction. But she was

not sure that Mrs. Karner would understand.

"It's hard on you, Yetta," Longman said, "to be locked up. But it's

great business for the strike. It was just such a picturesque outrage as

this that was needed to attract attention. The papers are full of it,

and everybody's for the vest-makers. The girls took a collection on the

street yesterday and got nearly a thousand dollars. The bosses are

scared. Their organization is breaking up. Two of the shops have settled

already. It looks like a victory all round."

For ten minutes more they gave her the hopeful news and loving messages.

Then they saw the warden coming across the grass.

"Is there anything you'd like to have me send you?" Longman asked.

"I'd like some books that tell about Socialism."

"Warden," Longman said as the official approached, "we've enjoyed this

visit very much. We're greatly obliged to you for your especial kindness

to Miss Rayefsky. Would you have any objection to my sending her some

books?"

"She can read my books, if she wants to," he said gruffly.

"That's very kind, I'm sure. But she wants to study. It's some books on

economics I want to send her."

"I've no objection," the warden said. "Send them to me. But no

newspapers."

Mrs. Karner kissed her again, and Longman shook hands. There had been

little of such kindness in Yetta's life, and their visit touched her

deeply. The thoughts of the last few days had been tinged with

bitterness. It was softened by the realization that she had friends. In

the great city there beyond the river were people who cared for her. And

what wonderful people they were!

The Department tug swung out into the current, and Yetta saw Mrs. Karner

waving her handkerchief. She jumped up to wave back.

When Mrs. Karner sat down, there were tears in her eyes.

"Do you suppose she'll keep the faith?" she asked Longman.

He was surprised by the question. He had never heard Mrs. Karner use the

word "faith" before. She was ordinarily brilliantly cynical.

"I don't quite understand."

"Oh, yes, you do. Will she have the--what do the long distance runners

call it?--'wind,' 'staying power,' to keep her faith in revolt? In

Socialism? It's a long race, this life of ours, and an obstacle race

every foot--will she last?"... In a moment she went on. "Oh, I hope she

will. It's beautiful! I hope she won't be fooled into something else.

Nothing on earth is worth so much as faith--Why don't you say

something?"

"I'm--"

"Oh, you're surprised to hear me talk like this. But don't be mean and

rub it in, even if I have sold out. Once upon a time--" she broke off

suddenly and then began again. "Do you really suppose any one ever lived

who has not had some youth and faith? I was a girl once. Time was when

there weren't any wrinkles on my soul. Why! Once upon a time, I was

going to write the Great American Novel! Sometimes I try to comfort

myself by saying that newspaper work was too hard for a woman. I ought

to make a pilgrimage somewhere--on my knees--to thank the gods I wasn't

born a vest-maker. I did not have the nerve--the staying power. I sold

out.

"And when this dinky little boat gets to the dock, I'll ask you to get

into my car and come up to Sherry's for tea. It will save me from going

to that great Social Institution, that bulwark of America's

greatness--The Home. I'd invite you to it, only it would seem like an

insult. There's a big room looking out on the Drive--full of Gothic

furniture; some of it was made in the Middle Ages and some was made in

Milwaukee. Bert has a fad for Gothic. Home's a sort of Musée du Cluny.

This isn't my day, but some women are sure to drop in. Some in skirts

and some in trousers, and they'll talk nonsense and worse. And once upon

a time I was a real woman, and worked with real men and had thoughts.

It's so long ago I almost forgot about it till this little vest-maker

came along, with her big eyes and her faith."

The boat bumped against the pier.

"Don't be scared at my melodramatics," she said. "Come up to Sherry's

and I'll tell you the latest scandal. Some of it is quite untellable.

We'll forget the little Jewess with her disturbing eyes. Curses on them!

You know, looking into them makes me understand why they crucified

Christ at such an early age.--Will you come?"

"Can we stop on the way and get those books for Yetta?"

Late that night Longman took out one of his printed sheets of foolscap

and added Mrs. Karner's credo to his collection. It was the first of

his questionnaires he had filled out since he had begun preparations for

the expedition to Assyria.

The next morning the warden handed Yetta a bundle of books. On the

fly-leaf of the smallest one--Thoreau's _Essays_--Longman had written:

"Thoreau lived before Socialism commenced. But I don't think any of the

modern writers have bettered 'On the Duty of Civic Disobedience.'"

In the six days which were left of her sentence, Yetta had time to read

and reread all the books Walter had sent her, and to think her way to a

surer footing in Life.

CHAPTER XVI

CARNEGIE HALL

The ten days when Yetta had nominally been in prison, but was really

resting her body and improving her mind on the warden's pleasant lawn,

had been great days for the vest-makers.

The sudden publicity which her arrest had given their Cause turned the

tide in their favor. None of the English papers gave an accurate nor

intelligent account of the struggle, but in a vague way the generally

listless public came to realize that a picturesque conflict was raging

on the East Side between hundreds of half-starved women and the Powers

of Greed. One could hardly call it sympathy, for sympathy requires some

degree of understanding. But the conviction became widespread that it

was not a "fair fight." The pathos writers were daily turning out

miniature _Uncle Tom's Cabins_. And the society writers continued to

give space to the new fad.

The strikers might have won considerable concessions without this

fortuitous aid. They had tied up their trade for five weeks at the

height of the rush season. Their enthusiasm and _esprit du corps_ had

grown with hunger and persecution. Even the biggest bosses had begun to

wonder if it would not be cheaper to make some compromise. But

certainly the strikers would not have won so quickly nor so largely if

this unexpected force had not come to their assistance. The judge in

Essex Market Court no longer dared to be so high-handed. The hired thugs

were afraid that every passer-by was a reporter, every picket a society

pet. The second day two of the bosses deserted the Association of Vest

Manufacturers and settled with their forces. Once started, the stampede

became general; every day more shops settled, and by the time Yetta was

discharged the strike was practically over.

It was four o'clock of a Thursday afternoon when she was given back her

own clothes and told that she was free. As she waited on the Island dock

for the ferry to carry her across an unexpected wave of fear came over

her. The city beyond the river looked hostile to her. Sooner or later

the vest strike would end. What should she do then? She knew that the

"strike" would not be over for her--it would last as long as she lived.

But where was she to live, how was she to gain a living? How could she

get the chance to study, which she felt to be her greatest need? This

last was what troubled her most. It did not matter where she slept nor

what she ate, but she needed the knowledge which is power. As the tug

fought its way against the current and the city came closer and closer,

it looked to her like some jealous monster which stood guard over a

great treasure. Somehow she must do battle with it, for the prize must

be hers. She felt herself very weak, and her armament seemed pitiable.

On the New York dock she found Mabel and Walter and Mrs. Karner waiting

for her.

"Yetta, Yetta," Mabel laughed and cried, with her arms about her.

"Remember what a crowd of girls came up to welcome the first ones who

came out? Why do you suppose they're not here to welcome you? They're

back at work. We've won! We've won!"

Yetta opened her big eyes very wide, but her heart was too jerky for her

to speak. Over and above the joy of the dear victory was the

exhilaration of friendship. It seemed as though these three friends had

come down to meet and arm her for the fight for the treasure. Mabel's

embrace was like armor, Mrs. Karner's kiss was a helmet, and in

Longman's frank grip she felt a sword placed in her hand.

"Come on," Mrs. Karner said. "Climb into the motor. You're all going to

have dinner with me. You've got to speak to-night, child--the biggest

audience you ever saw--Carnegie Hall. They had lots of foolish plans to

bother you, but I said 'No! I'll take her in hand and see that she gets

a bath and clean clothes and a good meal and a little quiet to think out

her speech.' Climb in."

As the car sped across the city, they explained to Yetta that Mrs. Van

Cleave had donated the rent of Carnegie Hall--this before the strike had

been won--and that, as all the arrangements were made, they had to have

the meeting anyhow. It promised to be a big thing, as all those who were

Mrs. Van Cleave's friends, or wanted to be, had scrambled for boxes, and

all the two and one dollar seats had been sold.

Mrs. Karner was as good as her word. Once in the imposing house on

Riverside Drive, she left Longman uncomfortably balanced on a Gothic

chair in the library, and she and Mabel rushed Yetta into a bath even

more dazzling than that which had so impressed her in the Washington

Square flat.

"When any one gets herself arrested and wins a strike all by herself,

and is going to make a speech to the Four Hundred, she has to let other

people do things for her. So I got you some clothes."

At one of the meetings of the Advisory Council Mrs. Van Cleave had said,

"Of course some one must see to it that she is decently dressed." Mrs.

Karner had volunteered to attend to that, and, talking it over with

Mabel, who brought some of Yetta's scanty wardrobe as a model, they had

arranged a simple, becoming suit of soft brown corduroy.

"If you're tired, you can take a nap. We'll wake you for dinner."

"No," Yetta said. "I ain't sleepy. I want to hear about the strike."

So they arrayed her in the new dress and fussed around with her hair and

at last brought her out into the library. For a while the four of them

discussed the strike.

"Yetta," Mabel asked, changing the subject abruptly, "what are you going

to do now?"

They had to wait several minutes before she answered.

"I don't know. I've been trying to think about that. There'll be more

strikes, and I want to help in them. When there ain't nothing like that

to do, I want to study. I've got to study a lot. You see I ain't been to

school since I was fifteen, and you've all been to college. Of course I

can't never go to college, but I'd like to learn all I can.

"I don't know what I'll do. I'd like to keep on being business agent of

my union, if they ain't elected nobody else. But they can't pay me

nothing. I suppose I'll go back to the trade. I don't know no other way

to earn money. But I'd like to get out of it so I could study. I want to

know more, so I can be of more use. Yes. I've got to study. I'll have to

think about it."

"Well, there are two things we've got to suggest," Mrs. Karner said. "I

suppose I'd better tell her Mrs. Van Cleave's offer first. You see,

Yetta, you've made a great hit with her, and she's got oodles of money.

She thinks you're very wonderful, just the way the rest of us

do"--somehow Mrs. Karner's flattery was so kindly and laughing that it

hardly made Yetta feel uncomfortable--"and she thinks you ought to have

a college education. Look at the child's eyes open! Yes. It's true. She

wants to pay all your expenses in preparatory school and Bryn Mawr. If

you worked very hard, you could graduate in six or seven years. Mrs. Van

Cleave really wants you to do it. Nobody asked her to nor suggested it.

And she's very generous when she gets started. She'll give you a fat

allowance, and you can dress just as well as the other girls. Miss Train

and I have both been to college and we know what fun it is. Dances and

all that. And it's nice to have good clothes. It's a great chance.

You've got brains and lots of common sense, and you don't have to worry

about any of the other girls being better looking than you are. You'll

probably spend your vacations with Mrs. Van Cleave. You'll like as not

marry a mil--"

Yetta knew that Mrs. Karner was mocking.

"Is it a good college to study?" she asked.

The two women were silent. Mabel was from Wisconsin and Mrs. Karner had

gone to Mount Holyoke. Neither thought very highly of the college of

Mrs. Van Cleave's choice. Longman answered the question.

"There isn't any woman's college in the country which has a higher

standard of scholarship. It is one of the best there is in that way. If

you want to be a 'scholar,' if you want to go in for Greek or

mathematics or one of the sciences, a degree from Bryn Mawr is something

to be proud of. But most of the girls are rich. I don't mean that they

would be unkind to you. With Mrs. Van Cleave back of you, you don't need

to worry--they'd probably go to the other extreme. But I don't believe

you'd find many of the girls--or many of the faculty--interested in the

problems of working people. Mrs. Van Cleave is very kind, but I think

even she is more interested in you than in 'strikes.' As I say, if you

want to be a 'scholar,' it's a good place. But if you want to be a labor

agitator, if you want to fight for freedom, I don't think Bryn Mawr

would help you much."

The excited glow in Yetta's eyes, the heightened color of her cheeks,

died out.

"What's the other offer?" she asked. "You said there were two."

"Oh, it isn't any fairy godmother proposition, my dear Cinderella," Mrs.

Karner said. "It's just everyday work. Nothing so fine as a college

degree. It's in Miss Train's line, so she'd better tell you."

"No, Yetta," Mabel said. "This other offer is a pretty drab-colored

affair. You know my old plan to try to ally all the garment workers,

vests and coats and pants and cloaks and overalls, all in one big

federated union like the building trades. Well, this vest strike has

been so successful, I've been able to interest some of the ladies in my

bigger scheme and they've put up the money so the league can hire a new

organizer. It isn't as much as you could earn at the machine, but it is

enough to live on. We all think you'd be the ideal person. You could

keep on as business agent for the vest-makers. I know they want you, and

even if they can't pay you anything, it would give you a standing with

the Central Federated Union and even among the unorganized workers. They

all know about how this strike won, and there's sure to be others soon.

Of course there would be lots of work, but the ladies would be willing

to let you have your mornings free to study. It isn't like going to

college. But if you really want to educate yourself, you could do it.

We'll all help you. I don't want to urge you. I want you to do the thing

you think is best for yourself. And Mrs. Van Cleave's offer is very

generous. But you know how much I would like to have you working with me

in the League."

Yetta got up and went to the window. She knew that all the eyes were

fixed on her back. She knew what they were thinking, and she resented

it. They had all had a college education given them as a matter of

course. They could not know what it meant to her. She could not get her

wits together under their silent regard.

"I guess I'll go and lie down till dinner," she said. "I must

think--about to-night's speech."

When she had disappeared, Longman broke out.

"Why can't you women be frank and say what you think? Mrs. Karner's

proposal is better than Mrs. Van Cleave's. She'll make a horrible

mistake if she ties up with a lot of millionnaire snobs."

"Mabel," Mrs. Karner said solemnly, "let us keep perfectly still and

listen to some man-wisdom."

In the face of this jibe, Longman had nothing more to say.

"Does the lord of creation think," Mrs. Karner went on, "that little

Yetta Rayefsky is only deciding whether she'll go to college or not?"

"Well, for God's sake, why don't you try to help her instead of making

it harder for her?"

"Has the philosopher not yet discovered that some things are not decided

until one decides them alone? Saint Paul had to go off to Arabia.

Yetta's gone to my guest-room. You can help a person pay her rent and,

if you've lots of tact and taste and insight, you can help her choose a

becoming hat, but you can't help a person to do the brave thing."

"That's witty," Longman said sourly. "But I didn't happen to be joking."

"When we want to vote, Mabel, the men say we have no sense of humor. But

now he accuses me of joking--and apparently," she said after a

pause,--"he thinks Yetta doesn't know just how we feel."

The subject of their conversation had not lain down, she had curled up

in a big chair drawn up before the window, looking out across the Hudson

to the setting sun over the Palisades. She was trying desperately to

understand the fable of the fox and the grapes after it is turned inside

out. The enticing bunch was in easy reach. Were the grapes really sour?

It was nearly an hour before they called her, but she had not yet begun

to think out what she should say at Carnegie Hall.

There is something grotesque about most large public meetings. Very

rarely a speaker gets the feeling, at his first glance over the upturned

faces, that there is some cohesion in the assembly, some unity. He

realizes that they have come together from their various walks of life,

their factories and counting-houses, because of some dominant idea. It

is then his easy task, if he is anything of an orator, to catch the

keynote of the assembly and carry his hearers where he will.

It was not such an audience which gathered that night at Carnegie Hall.

After Walter had given a quick glance from the door of the dressing-room

over the mass on the floor, the circle of boxes, and the packed tiers of

balconies, he turned to Mabel.

"The people in the boxes," he said, "have come to stare at Yetta, and

the rest to stare at them."

"Don't tell her that, for goodness' sake," Mabel said.

But Yetta saw it herself. For the first time she had a sort of

stage-fright as she peeked out at them. The people in the boxes

irritated her. She had talked to that kind of women before, and they had

only given a few dollars. She wondered how many of them had been to Bryn

Mawr.

Mabel called Yetta from the doorway to introduce the Rev. Dunham

Denning, the rector of Mrs. Van Cleave's church, who was to act as

chairman. And then she was presented to an honorable gentleman named

Crossman, who had once been a cabinet member and had gray hair, and a

wart on his nose. These two elderly gentlemen embarrassed Yetta very

much by their courtly attentions. She did not have the slightest idea

what to say to them.

When at last the speakers stepped out on the platform, there was a break

of polite hand-clapping from the auditorium and a perfect storm of

applause from the back of the stage. Yetta turned in surprise to find

that banks of seats had been put up and that they were closely packed

with her own vest-makers. She had not seen them from the door of the

dressing-room. She stopped stock-still with tears in her eyes. Mabel had

to pull her sleeve to get her to come forward and acknowledge the

greeting of the main audience.

But the noise behind her had shaken Yetta out of the lassitude which the

sight of the well-dressed, complacent people of the boxes had given her.

She must do her best. She felt herself very small and the thing she

wanted to say very big. She pulled her chair close to Mabel's and

slipped her hand into that of her friend.

The Rev. Dunham Denning in a very scholarly way reminded the audience of

several things which the Christ had said about the neighbors and which

he--the reverend gentleman--feared were too often forgot. He introduced

the Honorable Mr. Crossman, who was known to all for his distinguished

services in the nation's business, his justly famed philanthropies, and

his active work in the Civic Federation, which was striving so

efficiently to soften the bitterness of the industrial struggle. Mr.

Crossman had very little to say, and said it in thundering periods. It

took him nearly an hour.

Then it was Mabel's turn. She spoke, as was her wont, in an

unimpassioned, businesslike way. She outlined the work of the

organization which she represented and spoke of the vest-makers' strike

as an example of what the league could do if it had sufficient means.

When she sat down, the chairman began to cast the flowers of his

eloquence at Yetta's feet.

"If I may use such an expression," he said, "while Miss Train has been

the brains of this strike, which we have gathered here to approve, the

next speaker has been its very soul. My own acquaintance with her is of

the slightest. But it has been sufficient to convince me past any doubt

that the charge on which she was sent to the workhouse was an infamous

libel. Who can look at her sweet face and believe her capable of vulgar

assault? But you are to have the opportunity to judge for yourself. She

will tell us of this victory to which she has so glowingly contributed,

and it is my hope, as I am sure it is that of this vast assembly, that

she will tell us about her own experiences.--Ladies and Gentlemen, I

present Miss Yetta Rayefsky."

Yetta squeezed Mabel's hand and, getting up, walked down to the edge of

the platform. She wanted to get near them so they could hear her.

The laughter and the conversation in the boxes stopped for a formal

round of applause. But as they clapped their hands and stared at the

curiosity, something about her fragile beauty made them clap more

heartily. At close range, Yetta looked abundantly healthy. But far away,

standing alone on the great platform, she seemed frail and exotic. The

two-dollar seats took their cue from the boxes and made as much noise as

they could. The gallery and the mass of vest-makers behind her cheered

and howled and stamped their feet without thought of the proprieties.

And Yetta stood there alone, the blood mounting to her cheeks, looking

more and more like an orchid, and waited for the storm to pass.

"I'm not going to talk about this strike," she said when she could make

herself heard. "It's over. I want to tell you about the next one--and

the next. I wish very much I could make you understand about the strikes

that are coming.

"But first I ought to say a few words to you for my union. We're very

much obliged to all who have helped us. We couldn't have won without

money, and we're thankful to everybody that gave us a dime or a penny.

"It's a wonderful victory for us girls and women. We're very glad. For

more than a month we've been out on strike, and now we can go back to

the sweat-shop. Because we've been hungry for a month--some of us have

got children and it was worse to have them hungry,--because a lot of us

have been beaten up by the cops and more than twenty of us have gone to

jail, we can go back to the machines now and the bosses can't make us

work no more than fifty-six hours a week. That's not much more than nine

hours a day, if we have one day off. And the bosses have promised us a

little more pay and more air to breathe, and when we've wore ourselves

out working for them, they won't throw us out to starve so long as they

can find any odd jobs for us to do. We've had to fight hard for this

victory, and we're proud we won, and we're thankful to all you who

helped us. But better than the shorter hours and everything else is our

union. We've got that now, and that's the most important. We won't

never be quite so much slaves again like we was before.

"But we've won this strike now, so we've all got to think about the next

one. I don't know what trade it will be in. Perhaps you never heard of

the paper-box makers, or the artificial-flower makers, or the tassel

makers. There's men with families in those trades that never earned as

much as I did making vests. And the cigar makers--they're bad too. And

if you seen the places where they bake bread, you wouldn't never eat it.

It don't matter which way you look, the people that work ain't none of

them getting a square deal. They ain't getting a square deal from the

bosses. They ain't getting a square deal from the landlords. And the

storekeepers sell them rotten things for food. There's going to be

strikes right along, till everybody gets a square deal.

"Perhaps there's some of you never thought much about strikes till now.

Well. There's been strikes all the time. I don't believe there's ever

been a year when there wasn't dozens here in New York. When we began,

the skirt-finishers was out. They lost their strike. They went hungry

just the way we did, but nobody helped them. And they're worse now than

ever. There ain't no difference between one strike and another. Perhaps

they are striking for more pay or recognition or closed shops. But the

next strike'll be just like ours. It'll be people fighting so they won't

be so much slaves like they was before.

"The Chairman said perhaps I'd tell you about my experience. There ain't

nothing to tell except everybody has been awful kind to me. It's fine to

have people so kind to me. But I'd rather if they'd try to understand

what this strike business means to all of us workers--this strike we've

won and the ones that are coming. If I tell you how kind one woman wants

to be to me, perhaps you'll understand. You see, it would be fine for

me, but it wouldn't help the others any.

"Well. I come out of the workhouse to-day, and they tell me this lady

wants to give me money to study, she wants to have me go to college like

I was a rich girl. It's very kind. I want to study. I ain't been to

school none since I was fifteen. I guess I can't even talk English very

good. I'd like to go to college. And I used to see pictures in the

papers of beautiful rich women, and of course it would be fine to have

clothes like them. But being in a strike, seeing all the people suffer,

seeing all the cruelty--it makes things look different.

"The Chairman told you something out of the Christian Bible. Well, we

Jews have got a story too--perhaps it's in your Bible--about Moses and

his people in Egypt. He'd been brought up by a rich Egyptian lady--a

princess--just like he was her son. But as long as he tried to be an

Egyptian he wasn't no good. And God spoke to him one day out of a bush

on fire. I don't remember just the words of the story, but God said:

'Moses, you're a Jew. You ain't got no business with the Egyptians. Take

off those fine clothes and go back to your own people and help them

escape from bondage.' Well. Of course, I ain't like Moses, and God has

never talked to me. But it seems to me sort of as if--during this

strike--I'd seen a Blazing Bush. Anyhow I've seen my people in bondage.

And I don't want to go to college and be a lady. I guess the kind

princess couldn't understand why Moses wanted to be a poor Jew instead

of a rich Egyptian. But if you can understand, if you can understand why

I'm going to stay with my own people, you'll understand all I've been

trying to say.

"We're a people in bondage. There's lots of people who's kind to us. I

guess the princess wasn't the only Egyptian lady that was kind to the

Jews. But kindness ain't what people want who are in bondage. Kindness

won't never make us free. And God don't send any more prophets nowadays.

We've got to escape all by ourselves. And when you read in the papers

that there's a strike--it don't matter whether it's street-car

conductors or lace-makers, whether it's Eyetalians or Polacks or Jews or

Americans, whether it's here or in Chicago--it's my People--the People

in Bondage who are starting out for the Promised Land."

She stopped a moment, and a strange look came over her face--a look of

communication with some distant spirit. When she spoke again, her words

were unintelligible to most of the audience. Some of the Jewish

vest-makers understood. And the Rev. Dunham Denning, who was a famous

scholar, understood. But even those who did not were held spellbound by

the swinging sonorous cadence. She stopped abruptly.

"It's Hebrew," she explained. "It's what my father taught me when I was

a little girl. It's about the Promised Land--I can't say it in good

English--I--"

"Unless I've forgotten my Hebrew," the Reverend Chairman said, stepping

forward, "Miss Rayefsky has been repeating God's words to Moses as

recorded in the third chapter of Exodus. I think it's the seventh

verse:--

"'And the Lord said, I have surely seen the affliction of my people

which are in Egypt, and have heard their cry by reason of their

taskmasters; for I know their sorrows;

"'And I am come down to deliver them out of the hand of the

Egyptians and to bring them up out of that land unto a good land

and a large, unto a land flowing with milk and honey.'"

"Yes. That's it," Yetta said. "Well, that's what strikes mean. We're

fighting for the old promises."

"Pretty little thing, isn't she?" a blonde lady in Mrs. Van Cleave's box

asked her neighbor.

"Not my style," he replied. "Even if you had no other charms, if you

were humpbacked and cross-eyed, that hair of yours would do the trick

with me. Haven't you a free afternoon next week, so we could get

married?"

"I didn't know old Denning was so snappy with his Hebrew," another broke

in.

"Which reminds me of a story--"

"Is it fit to listen to?" the blonde lady asked.

"Yes--of course. It's about a Welsh minister--"

But the lady had turned away discouraged, to the boredom of the man who

really wanted to marry her.

But perhaps in that crowded auditorium there may have been some who had

understood what Yetta had been talking about.

Later in the evening, when she was standing with Longman on the deserted

stage, waiting for Mabel, who--to use Eleanor's expression--was

"sweeping up," he asked her what she was doing the next day.

"I want you to have dinner with me," he said. "Mabel and Isadore Braun

are coming. And if it isn't asking too much, I wish you could give me

some of the afternoon before they come. I'd like to talk over a lot of

things with you. You know I'm sailing the day after to-morrow. It's my

last chance to get really acquainted with you."

"Sure. I'd like to come," Yetta replied. "But where are you going?"

She listened in amazement to his plans. She had thought he was going to

marry Mabel. When he had left them at the door of the flat, Yetta asked

her with naïve directness if she wasn't engaged to Longman.

"No," Mabel laughed. "Where did you get that idea?"

"Why, all the girls think you are."

"Well, they're all wrong. I'm not."

"And aren't you in love with him?"

"Not a bit. You Little Foolish, can't people be good friends without

being in love?"

Yetta went to sleep trying to think out this proposition. She hardly

remembered the choice she had made between college and work, nor the

strain of the great meeting. It was very hard to believe that Mabel and

Walter were not in love.

CHAPTER XVII

THE OPERATING ROOM

Walter's study seemed to Yetta an ideal room. There was no appearance of

luxury about it--nothing to remind one by contrast of the hungry people

outside. There were no "decorations," except two portraits of his

grandparents and a small reproduction of one of the great cow-faced gods

of the Haktites which stood on the mantelpiece above the fireplace. The

rest of the room was made up of comfortable chairs, a well-padded

window-seat, and books. The cases were full and so was the table and so

were some of the chairs and there were books on the floor. Knowledge was

a goal which her father had set before Yetta as almost synonymous with

"goodness" and "happiness." It was a thing she had forgotten about in

the sweat-shop, but for which her recent experience had given her an

all-consuming hunger. No one who has been "sent to college," who has had

an education thrust upon him, can realize how much she venerated books.

When Longman brought her to his room, it seemed to her as if she had

entered the home of her dreams.

The greatest thing that had come to Yetta in the new life was the gift

of friends. In the days since her father's death, with the exception of

the few weeks when Rachel had given her confidences, she had had only

loveless relatives and shopmates. And now she could hardly count her

friends. From the very first she had given Longman the niche of honor in

this gallery. The reason was something more subtle than his dramatic

entrance into her life. She seldom thought of him as her rescuer. But

she felt that his regard for her was more personal and direct than that

of the others. She could not have explained it coherently to herself,

but she felt it no less keenly. Mrs. Van Cleave was fond of her because

she had eyes like those of the long-dead daughter. Mrs. Karner was

attracted to her because she typified her own lost youth. Isadore Braun

and Mabel valued her because of her flaming spirit of revolt.

Over on "the Island," the warden's little three-year-old son, in spite

of her prison dress, in spite of the jealousy of his own nurse, had run

into her arms at first sight. Instinctively she felt that Walter liked

her in a similar fashion. If, during the strike, she had sold out,

turned "scab," Braun and Mabel would no longer have been her friends.

But Longman would have come to her in his gentle, lumbering way and

asked her about it. He might have been disappointed, even angry, but

still he would have been her friend.

Yetta wanted to begin at once with some questions about Socialism.

"You'd better save them till Isadore and Mabel come," Longman laughed.

"He's got all the answers down by heart--the orthodox ones. And Mabel

isn't a Socialist. I'm neither fish, flesh, nor good red herring. It

will start a beautiful shindy if you spring those questions to-night."

He told her about his projected book on Philosophy, and how he would

like to add her credo to his collection. The big scope of the idea

caught her fancy, and she said she was willing.

It was slow work at first. The earlier questions on his list led her

into unfamiliar fields. She had never troubled her mind over

metaphysics. She was not sure what kind of a god she believed in--nor

whether It really ought to be called "God." She had given no thought to

the question whether this is the best or worst possible world. The

prophecies, which her father had loved so much, inclined her strongly to

the idea that it might be made a better one. But she had never even

tried to determine whether the Universe is an elaborate and precise

mechanical instrument, a personally conducted puppet show, or a roulette

wheel. Her inability to answer these questions--and the way he put them

made them seem very important--shamed her. He seemed to be sounding the

depths of her ignorance. Did she believe in a future life? She threw up

her hands.

"I don't know."

"Nobody knows. It's a question of belief. You loved your father very

much, and when you were a little girl he died. Was that the end of him?"

She shook her head. He waited patiently for words.

"No. It wasn't the end of him. Anyhow the memory lasts."

"Do you ever talk to him now?"

"Sometimes. I pretend to."

"Is it as good as if he was really here?"

"Almost--sometimes."

"Well. After you die do you think you'll meet him?"

Yetta curled herself up a little tighter on the window-seat, her

forehead puckered into deep wrinkles.

"Yes," she said after a while. "I think--once, anyhow--I'll have a

chance to talk to him--tell him everything and ask him what was right

and wrong--and he'll tell me."

"How will he look?"

"I don't know. But I'll know it's him."

The ordeal became easier as the questions began to deal with more

mundane problems. But before long they got into deep water again.

"Do you believe that honesty is the best policy?"

That took a lot of thinking and brought back the wrinkles.

"Honesty--telling the truth," she said at last. "I guess it's the best

something, but it ain't always the best policy. If I hadn't perjured

myself, we wouldn't have won this strike."

"What?"

"I don't mind telling you. I lied in court. I swore I didn't hit

Pick-Axe; but I tried to kill him."

Longman whistled softly.

"Tell me about it."

When she had told him all,--what Pick-Axe had said and done, how

suddenly blind rage had overcome her, how at length Braun had persuaded

her to lie,--she asked him if he thought honesty would have been the

best policy in this case.

"I'm asking questions this afternoon, not answering them," he said

gravely. "This interests me a lot. So you think it's sometimes right to

lie in a good cause."

"No," she said quickly. "I don't think it's never right to lie. But I

guess sometimes you've just got to. If I'd told the truth, they'd have

sent me to prison, instead of the workhouse. I wouldn't have cared. It

ain't nice to lie, and like Mr. Thoreau says, there's worse things than

being in the worst prison. But it would have been awful for the others.

Just because I told the truth all the papers would have lied and said

all the girls were murderers. We'd have lost the strike. I'd have felt

better if I'd told the truth. But there's more than two thousand girls

in our trade.

"It's like this, I think. If you make up your mind that something is

good, you got to fight for it; you can't be afraid of getting beat up,

or arrested, or killed, and you can't be afraid of hurting your

conscience either. Mr. Thoreau has got an essay about John Brown and how

he fought to free the black slaves. Well, suppose somebody'd come to him

and told him how he could do it, if he'd commit a big sin himself. I

guess he'd have done it. If he'd said, 'You can beat me or put me in

prison or hang me for those black men, but I won't sin for them,' he'd

have been a coward. I'd rather go to prison than tell a lie like I done.

But I ain't afraid to do both."

She had sat up stiffly on the window-seat while she was trying to say

all this. Again she curled up. She watched Walter, as he sat there in

deep thought, absent-mindedly drumming on the table with his pencil. She

could not have talked like this to any one else in the world. She had

expressed herself poorly; in her intensity she had slipped back into her

old ways of speech, but she knew he did not care about doubled

negatives, nor "ain't's." She knew he had understood. And just when she

had found this wonderful friend, she was losing him. He was going away

in the morning for years and years. Central Asia sounded far away and

dangerous. Something might happen to him and he never come back. She was

afraid she would cry if she kept silence any longer.

"What do you think?" she asked.

"I was wondering if you are afraid of anything."

"Oh, yes. Lots of things."

"For instance?"

"Well, I'm afraid of the Yetta Rayefsky who tried to kill Pick-Axe. And

I'm afraid of myself for not blaming her for it. And I'm afraid of being

useless. I'm afraid of waste. I'm afraid--more than anything else--of

ignorance." She sat up again. "Yes. That's the worst thing the bosses do

to us--they keep us ignorant. I don't think even you can understand

that. You've had books all your life. You've been to school and college,

you're a professor,"--the awe grew in Yetta's voice,--"your room is full

of books. I sit here and look at them and try to think what it must mean

to know all that's in so many books and I want to get down on my knees,

I'm so ignorant."

"Good God! Yetta," he said savagely, jumping up. "Don't talk like that.

I'm not worth your stepping on."

He came over and took her hand and surprised her by kissing it humbly.

"I'm going away to-morrow--for a very long while--and I want to tell

you, before I go, that you're a saint, a heroine. Did books mean so much

to you? And you decided to work instead of going to college? Books?" He

grabbed one from the table and hurled it violently across the room.

"Books? They are only paper and ink and dead men's thoughts. Truth and

wisdom don't come from books. They can't teach you those things in

college. Yes. I've had books all my life. I live with them." He stamped

up and down and shook his fists at the unoffending shelves. "If I know

anything Real, if I've got the smallest grain of wisdom, I didn't get it

from them. There's only one teacher--that's Life, and before you can

learn you've got to suffer. I don't know much because things have been

easy for me. How old are you? Nineteen? Well, I'm over thirty. You talk

about getting down on your knees to me! Good God! I've ten years start

and every advantage, but I don't know--Capital K-N-O-W--as much as you.

And good? I ought to ask your pardon for kissing your hands. I'm _no_

good! God! I want to break something!"

He looked around savagely for something which would make a great noise.

But he suddenly changed his mind, and pulling up a chair to the

window-seat, where Yetta was sitting bolt upright, he began again in a

quieter tone.

"Yetta, I'm a lazy, self-indulgent imbecile. I've never done anything in

all my life that I didn't want to do. I've never sacrificed anything for

any cause, not my easy-chairs, nor my pipe, nor my good meals, nothing.

Nothing but automobiles and yachts which I didn't want. God gave me a

brain which I am too lazy to use. And besides my general uselessness and

selfish waste, I'm a coward. Why am I going off to Persia? Is it because

I think it will ever do anybody any good, ever make life sweeter or

finer for any one, to have me decipher the picture puzzles of the people

who worshipped that stupid-faced cow on the mantelpiece? No. I'm not

that foolish. Is it because I don't know what I might do, if I was as

wise as you are--wise enough to know that we must give our lives to win

our souls? No! I know that just as well as you do, Yetta. But I'm a

coward. I'm running away, because I'm afraid of life."

He jumped up again and began to pace the room.

"Oh, well!" he groaned. "Enough heroics for one afternoon. But don't let

books hypnotize you, Yetta. Schopenhauer said once that the learning of

the West crumples up against the wisdom of the East like a leaden bullet

against a stone wall. There's nothing in books but 'learning.' And

you've got some of the Eastern wisdom, Yetta. It's part of your Semitic

heritage. Treasure it. Don't ever let books come between you and your

intimacy with life. One pulse beat of a live heart is worth all the

printed words in a thousand books. I--"

But he interrupted himself and sat down gloomily and looked out over

Yetta--who had curled up once more--at the budding green tree tops of

Washington Square.

His tirade had disturbed Yetta much more than he dreamed. It was not

until long afterwards that she was to bring out his words from the

treasure-house of her memory and come to understand what he meant by all

his talk of Knowledge and Wisdom. She would never think as lightly of

book learning as he did. She even less appreciated his ardently

expressed admiration of her, and his self-condemnation. It was his pain

which impressed her. He had fallen from his godlike majesty. He was no

longer a calm-browed Olympian, who deigned to let her drink from the

fountain of his wisdom. He was just a simple man, who suffered. And so

Yetta began to love him.

In the wonder of it she forgot that he was going away.

"Yetta," he said abruptly. "Where are you planning to live? Are you

going to stay on with Mabel and Miss Mead?"

"Why, no," she rushed dizzily down through the cold spaces which

separate Dreamland from New York City. "I--I don't suppose so. I'll find

a room somewhere. On the East Side, I guess."

"That's not a good plan," he said in a businesslike tone, for in spite

of all he had been saying about heartbeats, he did not suspect the

disturbing rate of Yetta's pulse. "The intellectual life on the East

Side is too feverish. You'll get into their very bad habit of all-night

discussions, which lead only to brain-fag. And besides you'd be living

too near your work. You're going to study, and you'll need a place where

you'll be undisturbed. I've got a suggestion. I think it would be good

for you; it certainly would be a favor for me. Why not live here? I've

got a long lease on the place. I wouldn't want to give it up, even if I

could. I'd been planning to leave the key with Mrs. Rocco and have her

come in once a month to air the rooms and chase the moths. Then I was

going to pay one of the stenographers up at the University to attend to

my mail. There are a few bills coming in every month, and the letters

must be forwarded to me. Not half an hour's work a week, but somebody's

got to do it. If you would care to, it would save me a little expense,

and you'd save room rent. It's a good place to study--better than the

East Side. And some of the books are worth reading. What's the matter?"

"Everybody's so kind to me," Yetta said, blinking her eyes to drive

away the tears.

"This isn't kindness," he protested. "It will save me about ten dollars

a month."

Taking her silence for consent, he went on to explain to her how she was

to open the letters and mail a printed card explaining his absence to

the writer and every week forward the bundle of mail to the French

Legation in Teheran. And then he explained the money matters, how she

was to pay the rent and his subscriptions to various learned and

philanthropic societies and so forth.

All the while, Yetta, curled up on the window-seat, was trying to

realize how very empty her life would be after he left. It would at

least be some comfort to live here in his room with his ghost.

While he was still explaining the details about his mail and the bank

account he would open in her name, a couple of waiters arrived laden

with linen and dishes. They were from the Lafayette, where Walter was a

regular patron. He knew the _chef_ and the _garçons_ by their first

names and they had laid themselves out to make his farewell dinner

memorable. The books and papers on the table were piled on the floor.

And just as one waiter was giving a last pat to the cloth and the other

was lighting the candles, Mabel and Isadore arrived.

CHAPTER XVIII

WALTER'S FAREWELL

Mabel had come to the dinner with some reluctance. She feared that the

farewell might take too personal a line for pleasure. Walter's heart was

so full of bitterness that he was glad when things went to the other

extreme and turned into a celebration of the strike victory.

When at last the waiters had removed the débris of the feast, and Walter

was nursing the coffee urn, Mabel and Isadore began to discuss Yetta's

plans. They had a great deal to say about her work in trying to ally the

garment trades. But Walter, when he had distributed the coffee, broke

into the conversation abruptly.

"You people seem to think," he challenged them, "that Yetta's principal

job is to organize the garment workers."

"Well, isn't it?" Mabel asked.

"No! And I hope she won't let you two bluff her into thinking it is. Her

main job for the next few years is study. The garment workers will be

organized and reorganized fifty times before they get a definite

formation. She's only one opportunity to form her intellect. It must

last her all her life. It's more important than this work you talk about

because it's to be the basis of the bigger jobs to come. All the time

she's going to be torn by what looks like conflicting duties. Every day

she'll wake up with the feeling that there's something she can do which

would or might help in this immediate campaign. The temptation to give

all her time to the union work is the worst one she'll have to face. If

she yields to it, she'll regret it all her life. Three years hence the

work she did in the mornings will look very small indeed and the study

she neglected will look very, very big.

"When you talk about 'sweat-shops,' Mabel, you curse the bosses for

robbing the girls of leisure and all chance of culture. Watch out that

you don't 'sweat' Yetta, that you don't let her 'sweat' herself. It's

criminal nonsense to talk work, work, work. Plenty of people will be

saying that to her. I think she's got sense enough to keep her head, but

you who are her friends ought to be telling her study, study, study."

"You're right, Walter," Mabel said with unusual humility.

"What we ought to do," he went on, "is to outline a course of study for

her. What do you suggest, Isadore?"

"We've just published a new pamphlet which outlines a course of

reading," he said. "It's called 'What to read on Socialism.'"

"That's a fine idea of a liberal education." Mabel snorted. "She isn't

going to be a Socialist spellbinder. Her job's with the unions. The

Webbs' _Industrial Democracy_ would help her a lot more than your

Socialist tracts."

"It's just as iniquitous to sweat her intellect as her body," Longman

groaned. "Can't you two blithering idiots realize that before you read

any of these books you read hundreds of others, studied for years? I

hope she won't specialize--in her study--on Socialism or trade-unions,

either, for several years. She needs to keep her mind open and absorb a

background. She ought to read Westermarck's _History of Human Marriage_

before she tackles Bebel's _Woman_. She ought to read Lecky and Gibbon

and John Fiske and Michelet and a lot of astronomy and geology and

physics and biology--a person's an ignoramus to-day who hasn't a broad

knowledge of biology--and she ought to know something about psychology

before she tackles the Webbs. She ought to put in some time on pure

literature. You people are thinking about Yetta Rayefsky, the labor

organizer of the next few years. Well, I hope she's going to live still

three score years and more than ten. It's going to do her more good to

read Marcus Aurelius than Marx and Engels. She wants to know something

of the traditions of the race, the great men of the past, Homer and

Shakespeare and Rabelais and Swift. And above all she needs to know the

ideas of our own times, Ibsen and Tolstoi, Shaw and Anatole France.

She'll pick up the Socialist and trade-union dope as she goes along.

It's the background we, her friends, can give her."

And so for an hour or more they squabbled over a large sheet of paper

and at last evolved a course of reading for her. There were to be two

mornings a week to natural science, two to history, two to social

science and psychology, and one to literature. Yetta sat back and

listened to it all, very much impressed by the way these three

intellectual giants hurled at each other's heads the titles of books of

which she had never heard. There was indeed very much for her to learn.

Mabel generally concurred in Walter's suggestions, but Isadore doggedly

insisted that more Socialist matter should be included. He was

especially rabid on the question of history.

"What's the use of learning a lot of rot you've got to unlearn? Why read

Michelet and Carlyle on the French Revolution? These old idealists did

the best they knew how. Carlyle really thought Mirabeau made the

Revolution and Michelet thought it was Danton. But nobody, not even the

antisocialists, believes in the 'great man theory' any more. All our

history has got to be rewritten from the modern point of view. It hasn't

been done yet, and the only way to get things straight is to saturate

yourself in the social idea, get it into your head that this is a world

of economic classes, not individuals, then you can read anything without

danger--you know how to discount it.

"You talk about 'background'--well, that's what I'm insisting on. Let's

get it right. It's the lack of a deeply social background that makes so

many of our well-intentioned modern reformers sterile. People still

believe that great changes can be made by strong individuals. A lot of

peace advocates believe that Mr. Carnegie is going to abolish war. But

most seem to think that things can be reformed piecemeal. This crusade

against infant mortality is a good example. Its ideal is fine. But it

tries to isolate it from all the rest of the social problem and cure it

alone. It can't be done. It's tied up with rotten tenements and

landlordism, with bad milk and commercialism, with poor wages and

industrialism. Just like war, it is a natural, inevitable part of

capitalism.

"It's the same thing with the trade-unions. They try to separate their

economic struggle with their bosses from the political aspect of the

social problem, and it can't be done. The unionists make a pitiful

showing just because they are still slaves to the old culture; they lack

broad insight. The actual things they try to do are good, but they're

barren because their background is wrong."

"Thanks," Mabel said sarcastically. "I'm so glad to know what's wrong

with us."

"Now, Yetta," Longman said, with the gesture of a circus man introducing

his curiosities, "the show is about to commence. On your right you see

the 'pure,' the hidebound, the uncompromising Socialist, Isadore Braun.

To your left you see the 'suspect,' the 'bourgeoise,' step-by-step

reformer, Miss Mabel Train. They are about to engage in a bloody

combat."

"But," interposed Yetta, "what are you?"

"Yes," Braun echoed. "What are you?"

"That's an uninteresting detail. I'm only the referee of this bout."

"He can poke fun at a serious position," Braun said. "But he's afraid to

or can't define his own."

"I'll tell you what he is, Yetta," Mabel volunteered. "He's a--"

"No, I'll tell her myself," Walter interrupted. "If you want it in one

word, I'm a _syndicaliste_. We haven't any English word for it."

"He believes in a general strike," Mabel explained, "although not one

trade strike in ten really succeeds."

"Exactly and because," Walter assented emphatically.

"He believes," Braun supplemented, "that although the working people

haven't enough class consciousness to vote together we can ask them to

fight together."

"Exactly and once more exactly! I hate to talk, Yetta, because--as I

confessed to you before these two noble examples of self-sacrifice came

in--I haven't the nerve to practise my beliefs. I hate to talk, and I've

never done anything else. But I've got just as definite a creed as

Isadore.

"A general strike has more hope of success than a dozen little strikes,

because it's a strike for liberty--and that's the only thing that

interests all the working class. The trade strikes are for a few extra

pennies. And when one of them does succeed, it's because of some bigger

enthusiasm than was written in their demands. You went right to the

heart of the matter last night when you said you had been striking so as

not to be slaves. I'll bet you've seen it when you talked to the other

unions. Which of your demands interested them most? Dollars to doughnuts

it was 'recognition of the union.' They all have demands of their own

about wages and hours. But when you say 'union' to them, you're saying

liberty. You're appealing to something bigger than considerations of

pay--to their very love of life.

"The basis of a General Strike must be an ideal which is shared by every

working-man. The simon-pure unionists, the A. F. of L., the Woman's

Trade Union League, are fighting for little shop improvements, different

in every trade. Sometimes--often--one set of demands is in conflict with

another. The one thing that holds the movement of the workers closer

together is this brilliant idea of union. And the leaders are busily

preaching disunion.

"Read any history of labor and you'll see. First it was every man for

himself. Then shop unions and each shop for itself. Then all the workmen

of one town. Now, its national trade-unions. To-morrow it will be

industrial unions. The change has already begun. We already have the

Allied Building Trades. Mabel's keen on allying the various branches of

garment workers. The miners have gone further. They have a real

industrial union. That's the next step. We'll have the typesetters,

pressmen, folders, newsboys, all in one big newspaper union. Engineers,

switchmen, firemen, conductors, roundhouse and repair-shop men all in a

big brotherhood of railroad men. Twenty gigantic industrial unions in

place of the hundreds of impotent little trade organizations. No one can

look the facts in the face and deny either the need of the change or the

actual progress towards it.

"Braun shudders at the thought because the men who are now urging this

change--the Industrial Workers of the World--are displeasing to him.

They are not good party socialists. Mabel don't like them because they

tell unpleasant truths about the crooks in her organization. I don't

like them personally, either, because they are just as narrow-minded as

Isadore, and I guess some of them are as crooked as any of the

trade-union leaders. But the idea is bigger than personalities. You mark

my words, Yetta, industrial unionism is going to be a bigger issue every

year with the working-men. It's going to win. And the outcome of

industrial unionism is the General Strike and Insurrection.

"Isadore pooh-poohs the idea of bloodshed. The social revolution is

going to be a kid-glove affair. He will admit the possibility of

sporadic riots. But the great victory is to be won at the voting booths.

Justice is to be enthroned by ward caucuses and party conventions.

Victor Berger instead of Dick Croker. The central committee instead of

Tammany Hall. He really believes this, but it is based on two

suppositions, both of which seem to me very uncertain. First, reason is

to conquer the earth and the great majority is to vote reasonably--that

is, the Socialist ticket. Second, the grafters and all the contented,

well-fed, complaisant people are going to resign without a struggle.

"I don't think they will. They may not have the courage to defend their

privileges themselves. But bravery, the fighting kind, is one of the

cheapest things on the human market. Our government buys perfectly good

soldiers for $13.50 a month. The privileged class always has hired

mercenaries to defend their graft and I think they will in the future.

They've already begun to do it with their State Constabulary in

Pennsylvania. Read about how the French capitalists massacred our

comrades after the Paris Commune. That was only thirty years ago. I

don't see any reason to hope for a very startling change in their

natures.

"And then is reason going to rule the world--the cold intellectual

convictions that Isadore means? I doubt it. The great movements in the

world's history have come from passionate enthusiasms. Take the

Reformation, or the English Commonwealth, or the French Revolution. Not

one man in ten of all the actors in those crises were what Isadore would

call reasonable. Reason is powerless unless it is backed by a great

enthusiasm. And if we have that, we can turn the trick quicker with a

general strike and insurrection than we could by voting.

"This question of violence or peace is a thorny one. We've got to

separate what we would like to see from what seems probable. Bloodshed

is abhorrent. But it is pretty closely associated with the history of

human progress. Before the great Revolution the mass of the French

people were in the very blackest ignorance. They've had a century of

revolution and bloodshed, and to-day they are the most cultured nation

in the world. The same thing is happening to-day in Russia. We read in

the papers of assassinations and executions and insurrections. It means

that the intellect of a great people is coming to life. And the mind of

our nation has got to be shaken into wakefulness, too. We've got to

learn new and deeper meanings to the old words justice and liberty. I'd

like to believe we could learn them in school, by reading socialist

pamphlets. But all the race has ever learned about them so far has been

in battle-fields and behind barricades. I hate and fear bloodshed. I

believe it's wrong. Just as you said you thought it was wrong to lie.

But I love liberty more.

"And there's one other point: Until we learn these lessons, we've got to

see our strong men and women cut down by tuberculosis, we've got to

stand by and watch a slaughter of innocent babies that makes Herod's

little massacre look like a schoolboy's naughtiness. The socialists

don't like the word 'violence.' The reality is in the air we breathe.

The landlord wracks rent out of the poor by violence--no amount of legal

drivel can hide the fact that every injustice of our present society is

put through by the aid--on the treat--of police. The whole force of the

state is back of the grafters. It's violence that drives people into the

sweat-shops, that drives the boys to crime and the girls to

prostitution. And all this deadly injustice will go on until we've

learned the lessons of justice and liberty. Let us learn them as

peacefully and legally as possible, but we must learn them. Blood isn't

a nice thing to look at, but it isn't as unspeakably horrible as the

sputum of tuberculosis."

"What you are saying is rank anarchy," Braun protested.

"I've told you a hundred times you can't scare me by calling names.

'Anarchy' is just as much a word of progress as 'Socialism.' I think

you've got the best of it when it comes to a description and analysis of

society and industrial development. But the Anarchists have got you

backed off the map in the understanding of human motives and social

impulses.

"I'm an optimist, Yetta, about this social conflict. I don't think it

matters much what form people give to their activity. The important

thing is not to be neutral. The thing that is needed is a passion for

righteousness. Once a person sees--really sees--the conflict between

greed and justice, and enlists in the revolution, it doesn't matter much

whether he goes into the infantry or cavalry or artillery. I see in

society a ruling class growing fat off injustice, a great, lethargic

mass, indifferent through ignorance, and a constantly growing army of

revolt. Anybody who doubts the outcome is a fool. History does not

record a single year which did not bring some victory for Justice. But a

person's equally a fool--I mean you, Isadore--who tries to prophesy just

how the war will be conducted. There isn't any omniscient general back

of us, directing the campaign. The progress towards victory is the

result of myriad efforts, uncoordinated, often conflicting. It is

entirely irrational--just like evolution. The anthropoidal ape, sitting

under a prehistoric palm tree and picking fleas off his better half, did

not know how--through the ages--his offspring were going to become men.

Even with our superior intellects, our ability to study the records of

the past and guess into the future, we cannot presage the steps of the

progress. The directing force is the instinctive common sense of life.

It's a more mysterious force than any theological God. It's always on

the job, always pushing life through new experiments, through

'variations' to the better form.

"All evolution has been a history of life struggling for liberty. It was

a momentous revolution, when the first tiny animalcule tore itself loose

from immobility, when it conquered the ability to move about in quest of

food and a larger life. And so one after another life conquered new

abilities. It's abilities, not rights, that constitute liberty. Think

how many fake experiments life made before it turned out a man. The same

process is going on to-day. You can't crowd life into a definition.

Justice is being approximated, not because of one formula. The victory

will come not because the people accept one theory, but because of

thousands and thousands of experiments. And the ones that fail are just

as much a part of the process.

"Gradually this common sense of life is awaking the minds of the

lethargic mass. This is sure progress. It matters not at all whether the

mind of the individual come to life in the trade-union, the Socialist

party, or the Anarchist Group--or the Salvation Army. The important

thing is that a new person has conquered the ability to think for

himself. It doesn't even matter whether the words that woke him to life

were true or not.

"Life isn't logical. And socialism seems to me to have almost smothered

its soul-stirring ideal in a wordy effort to seem logical. The

trade-unions are illogical enough. At least you can say that for them.

But it's only once in a while--by accident--that they sound the tocsin."

This kind of talk disturbed Isadore. From first to last it ran contrary

to his manner of thinking. But in an illusive way it seemed to have a

semblance of truth--a certain persuasiveness. The error--if error there

was--was subtle and hard to nail down. As he listened he knew he was

expected to answer it. He must defend his colors before Yetta. It was

not an easy thing to do. His whole life was built on an abiding faith

that the hope of his people lay in the activities of the Socialist

party. There was no cant nor insincerity about him. He felt that the

spread of such ideas as Longman's would render doubly difficult the work

of his party. It vexed him not to be able at once to demolish his

friend's heresies. But he was used to arguing with opponents who thought

any change was unnecessary or impossible. Walter admitted all this and

went further. Isadore was off his accustomed field.

"You're a hard person to argue with," he said, "because your ideas are

so unusual. I don't mean to say you're wrong just because you are in a

minority of one. But it's hard to reason against oratory. I wish you

would put your position down on paper, so I could give it serious

thought."

"Maeterlinck has come pretty close to it in _Notre devoir social_,"

Walter replied.

"Oh, that!" Isadore said contemptuously. "That isn't an argument, it's a

sort of fairy story."

"Still calling names! There's truth in some fairytales--a whole lot of

truth you can't express in your dialectics."

"That!" Isadore said, jumping at a point of attack, "is, I guess, the

fundamental difference between us. You're a sort of mediævalist, living

in a realm of romance and fairy stories--ruled over by your instinctive

sense of life. You forget that we live in the age of reason. You said

liberty consisted in abilities. Well, I believe that abilities bring

obligations. Instead of jeering at reason and dialectics, I think it's

our preëminent ability. We, reasoning animals, have a duty to use and

perfect--and trust--our intellects. And the Socialist theory is the

biggest triumph of the human mind. The theory of evolution is the only

thing to compare with it. But Darwin had only to fight a superstition.

It wasn't much of a feat to convince thinking people that it took more

than one hundred and forty-four hours to create the world--then his

case was practically won. Marx had to fight not only such theological

nonsense, but the entire opposition of the ruling class. Socialism had

always been proscribed. A college professor who taught it frankly would

lose his job. But it has never had a set-back. It has gathered about it

as brilliant a group of intellects as has Darwinism. It's growing

steadily.

"Having no trust in reason, you are driven back to violence. But I do

believe in intelligence. I don't want to hang my hope of the future on

such illogical things as dynamite and flying bullets.

"If you don't respect intellect and logic, of course you don't

sympathize with Socialism. But you can't ask me to give up the results

of my own reasoning, backed as they are by the best brains of our times,

to accept your imaginings."

"I don't ask you to give up Socialism," Walter laughed. "On the

contrary, as long as it seems truth to you, give up all the rest. Your

ability seems to find its right setting in the party--just as Mabel's

does in the trade-unions--just as I'd be ill at ease and useless in

either.

"The point I want to insist on is my faith that, back of your reasoning

and activity and back of my speculations and laziness, this instinctive

sense of life is working out its own purpose. Only future generations

will be able to know which--if either of us--is right."

This argument thrilled and fascinated Yetta. In the years that were to

follow she was to hear such debates repeated endlessly. The new circle

of friends she was to make were as passionately interested in such

questions of social philosophy and ethics as are the art students of

Paris in the relative value of line and color or the concept of pure

beauty. In time talking would lose its charm; she was to realize

that--as Walter had said--it often leads to brain-fag. But this, her

first experience, was an immense event.

The two men leaned back in their chairs, their faces relaxed. They

seemed to have talked themselves out. Yetta turned to Mabel, who sat

beside her on the window-seat.

"You're not a Socialist?" she asked.

"No." Mabel replied. Such discussions bored her. "Nor an Anarchist

either. I happen to be living in the year of grace 1903. I'm not

interested in Isadore's logical deductions nor Walter's imaginings. They

both know that if the working people want enough butter for their

bread,--let alone Utopia,--they've got to organize. Cold experience

shows that they can be organized on economic step-by-step demands, and

that we can build up stable, practical unions along these lines--which

every day are bringing to the working class a great spirit of unity. And

cold experience also shows that the labor organizations which ask for

the earth don't last. There have been dozens just like the Industrial

Workers of the World before, and where are they now? Those people

haven't enough practical sense to organize a picnic.

"If I were a theorist, instead of a rather busy person, I would have

nothing against Industrial Unionism. It's on the cards, and I am working

for it. But I haven't any time for these fanatical dreamers. I haven't

anything against the Socialist idea of the working people going in for

political representation. Whenever I get a chance I put in a word for

it. But once more I've no time for people who don't do any real work and

spend their time writing pamphlets about nothing at all and quarrelling

over party intrigue. They're very wonderful, no doubt, with their reason

and their imaginations--master-builders, the architects of the future,

and all that. I'm quite content to be a little coral insect, adding my

share to the very necessary foundations, which they forget about.

Anyhow, to-night isn't '_Le Grand Soir_'--and as dreaming isn't my job,

I can't afford to sleep late. Come on."

In the doorway, as the four were going out, Mabel called Isadore, who

was pairing off with Yetta, and asked him about the injunction in the

cigar-makers' case. Walter dropped behind with Yetta. He was almost glad

that Mabel had denied him these last few minutes of _tête-a-tête_ with

her. He had been looking forward to it all the evening. But there was

not anything for him to say to her. So he talked to Yetta, as they

crossed the Square.

"There's one thing I almost forgot. Mrs. Karner has taken a great fancy

to you. I know she'd appreciate it if you went up to see her every once

in a while. Don't let her know I suggested it, but something she said

the other day made me see how much she likes you. She tries very hard to

pretend not to care about anything, but at bottom she's serious--and

good. In the League work you'll have to play around a good deal with

some of the swells, and she's a good one to practice on.

"Well, here we are. I'll send the keys over by Mrs. Rocco when I go. You

can move in any time you want to."

Mabel went up the steps and fitted her latch-key into the door. She

reached down to shake hands with Walter.

"So long," she said with an even voice. "Good luck."

"About once in every long while," he said, "we'll get mail. I'd like to

hear from you now and then."

"I'm not much of a letter-writer," she said, "but I won't forget you."

For the first time, Yetta really believed that Mabel did not love him.

"Good-by, Mr. Longman," she said. "We'll all be waiting for you to get

back."

"Thanks! And I hope you'll write too--give me the news when you send me

my mail. And the good chance to you. Good-by, Mabel."

"Good-by, Walter," she called back over her shoulder.

"Isadore," Walter said, as the door shut behind the girls, "come on over

to the Lafayette and have a drink."

Braun looked at his watch.

"Oh, damn the time. Come on. I want somebody to talk to me."

BOOK IV

CHAPTER XIX

YETTA'S WORK

In the next few months Yetta learned a new meaning for the word "work."

In the sweat-shop, day after day, she had sat before the machine, her

mind a blank, three-quarters of her muscles lifeless, the rest speeding

through a dizzying routine. Only when a thread broke had there been any

thought to it. In the new work there was no repetition, none of this

dead monotony. Every act, every word she spoke, was the result of a

consciousness vividly alive. In the keen, exhilarating thrill of it she

had little time to mope over Walter's absence.

It is a strange paradox of our life that, while no other social

phenomenon touches us at so many intimate points as the organization of

labor, while very few are of more importance, most of us know nothing at

all about the details of this great industrial struggle. Our clothes

bear the "union label" or are "scab." In either case they are an issue

in the conflict. Heads have been broken over the question of whether

this page, from which you are reading, should be printed in a "closed"

or "open shop." Around our cigarettes, the boxes in which they are

packed, the matches with which we light them, the easy-chairs in which

we smoke them, and the carpets on which we carelessly spill the ashes, a

tragic battle is raging. Nine out of every ten people we meet are

concerned in it. The man who takes our nickel in the Subway, the waiter

who serves our lunch, the guests at dinner, the unseen person who pulls

up the curtain at the theatre, the taxicab chauffeur who takes us home,

are all fighting for or against "unionism."

From the human point of view there is no vaster, more passionate drama.

Intense convictions, bitter, senseless prejudices, the dogged heroism of

hunger, comfort-loving cynicism, black treachery, and wholehearted

idealism are among the motives which inspire the actors. The

stage--which is our Fatherland--is crossed by hired thugs from the

"detective agencies" and by dynamiters. In the troupe are such people as

Jane Addams and Mr. Pinkerton, shedders of blood and preachers of peace.

There are hardly any of us who do not at some time step upon the stage

and act our parts.

From the viewpoint of politics, the conflict has a deeper significance.

What is the statesmanlike attitude to the growing unrest of those who do

the work of the world--an unrest which is steadily and rapidly

organizing? Close to two million of our citizens pay dues to the unions,

their number grows by a quarter of a million a year. This is a momentous

fact in politics. What is to be done about it? No one who thinks of such

things can deny that sooner or later we--as a nation--must answer that

question.

Profound in its political significance, rich in human color, the

organization of labor touches us on every hand. But very few of us have

any idea of the life of those men and women who devote themselves to

this imposing, threatening movement. What, for instance, is the daily

work of the secretary of the Gasfitters' Union in our town? What is an

"agitator"? What are his duties? How does he spend his time? Why?

It was into this little-known life that Yetta was plunged. First of all

she was "Business Agent"--or as we more generally say "the Walking

Delegate"--of her Vest-Makers' Union. She had to attend to all business

between the organization and the bosses.

When a complaint reached her that some employer was violating the

contract he had signed with the union, she had to investigate. If the

charge was justified, she could call the girls out until the offending

boss decided to observe his agreement.

It is just as hard for a labor organization to find a satisfactory

"business agent," as it is for a mercantile concern. One will be too

aggressive, another too yielding. One will be always irritating the

employers and causing unnecessary friction. The next will make friends

with the bosses and be twisted about their fingers. Once in a while a

"business agent" sells out, betrays his constituents for a bribe, just

as some of our political representatives have done.

Even in trades where the union has existed for a long time and somewhat

stable relations have grown up between it and the employers, the

position of "business agent" calls for a degree of tact and force which

is rare. It is impossible for the delegate of the men to reach a cordial

understanding with the bosses. He has at heart the interest of the

entire trade, men working in different places under varied conditions,

while the boss thinks only of his own shop. One is trying to enforce

general rules, the other is seeking exceptions. The employer may be

friendly with the union and in some sudden rush ask a favor which the

men themselves would like to grant. But the walking delegate, knowing

that all bosses are not so well disposed, that he may not grant to one

what he refuses to others, cannot make exception, even if it seems

reasonable to him.

Yetta's position was doubly difficult. The boss vest-makers were

smarting under their defeat. They regarded the union as an unpleasant

innovation, an infringement of their liberty. A visit from Yetta seemed

an impertinence. On the other hand the new union was pitifully weak. The

treasury was empty. The bosses knew this, knew just how much hunger the

strike had meant to their employees. They tried to take advantage of the

situation. The Association of Vest Manufacturers, after the

disorganization which followed the strike, was getting together again.

Their frequent meeting promised a new attack. All the girls felt trouble

in the air. There were causes for quarrel in almost every shop. But a

new strike--if it failed--would surely wreck the union. Everything was

to gain by delaying the new outbreak. Yetta's common sense, supplemented

by Mabel's experienced advice, pulled them through many tight places.

The crisis came in about a month at the very Crown Vest Company, before

which Yetta had tried to kill Pick-Axe. The boss, Edelstein, was just

the kind of man to have employed such a thug. He began the attack by

discharging three girls who had been prominent in the strike. A clause

in the settlement, which he had signed, had said there should be no

discrimination against the unionists. If Edelstein was allowed to

violate this agreement, the other bosses would surely follow suit, and

one by one the little advantages so dearly won would be lost.

Yetta tried to reason with the man. He tilted his cigar at a pugnacious

angle, put his feet on the desk, and insolently hummed a tune while she

talked.

"If you think you can run my shop," he said, "you can guess again. The

union wants to know why I fired these girls? Well, tell the union I

didn't like the way they wore their hair."

"It's nine o'clock now," Yetta said. "If you don't reëmploy those girls

by three--that's six hours--or give the union a serious reason for their

discharge, I'll call a strike on your shop."

"Go ahead and call it," he said savagely. "My girls have had enough of

your dirty union. They won't try striking again."

Although Yetta had managed to deliver her ultimatum with outward calm

and a show of confidence, the next six hours were the most unpleasant

she had ever spent. Would the girls walk out at her call? If they did

not, it would surely kill the union. Edelstein was certainly offering

them all sorts of inducements to stay. The other bosses were back of

him, urging him on. They wanted to break the union. What had she to

offer the girls but hunger and an ideal? There were not ten dollars in

the treasury. Most of the girls were still in debt from the first

strike; many of them would be dispossessed by their landlords if they

struck again.

But Yetta's side was stronger than she realized. The success of the

strike had taught the girls the tangible value of loyalty. The break-up

of the employers' association had had the opposite effect. Each and

every boss had tried to desert his fellows first and so make better

terms with the union. Edelstein did not trust--would have been a fool to

trust--the other employers. They were using him as a catspaw, and he

knew it. If he succeeded in breaking the union, they would gladly profit

by it. But, after all, they were his competitors; if he got into trouble

single-handed, they would just as gladly profit by that. He consulted

his forewomen. They all believed that enough of the force would go out

to tie up his shop. So the three girls were reëmployed.

This victory gave Yetta new strength and confidence. She had taken the

measure of her opponents and was not afraid any more. She went about her

work with a firmer tread, with a greater faith in the eventual triumph

of her cause. Her decisive stand with Edelstein had turned the balance.

The bosses began to accept the union as an inevitable thing. Yetta did

not have to call a strike for many months, not until the girls had

recovered their breath and gathered enough strength to demand and win a

new increase in wages.

Her work as business agent absorbed only a small amount of her time.

Most of it went into efforts to organize the other garment workers. The

success of the vest-makers had made a great impression on the sweated

trades. The idea of "union" was popular. Sooner or later they were bound

to organize--as the inevitable logic of events forces labor to unite

everywhere. It was not smooth sailing by any means. But Yetta gradually

grew to the stature of her work. Although she was sometimes discouraged

at the slowness of her progress, Mabel was always radiant and talked

much of her remarkable success.

But in her effort to ally the various garment trades, Yetta was face to

face with the thorniest problem of labor organization. In union there is

strength, and if we do not hang together, we will surely hang

separately. But if you re-read the history of our country during the

years between the Revolution and the ratification of the Constitution,

and recall the various efforts at secession which culminated in the

Civil War, you will be impressed by the difficulty of living up to this

beautifully simple idea of united action in politics. It is not

different in labor organization.

In almost every industry there are small trades of highly skilled men

who occupy a favorable strategic position. It is so with "the cutters"

in the business of making clothes. Their union was the oldest of all.

Practically every man in the country who knew the trade was a member.

They could not be replaced by unskilled "scabs." They were in a position

to insist that the bosses address them as "Mister." Why should they join

forces with these new and penniless unions? What had they to gain by

putting their treasury at the disposal of the struggling "buttonhole

workers"?

Why should the opulent province of New York enter into a union with tiny

Delaware or far-away Georgia? In the proposed Congress how could

representation be justly distributed? The cutters would not listen to

any proposal which did not give them an overwhelming voice in the

Council. It is against such cold facts as these that the theory of

Industrial Unionism, which had sounded so alluring to Yetta as Longman

outlined it, has to make headway.

At first Yetta was confused by the conflicting organizations which were

struggling for support from the workers. There was the American

Federation of Labor, to which Mabel gave her allegiance. Its organizers

were practical men, interested first, last, and all the time in shop

conditions. Effective in their way, but their cry, "A little less

injustice, please," seemed timid to Yetta. Then there was the Socialist

party. Their theories were more impressive to her--they went further in

their demands and seemed to have a broader vision. But of all the

Socialists she knew, Braun was the only one who interested himself

actively in the organization of the workers. The rest seemed wholly

occupied with political action. There was also the Industrial Workers of

the World. They cared very little for either firmly organized unions,

which were Mabel's hobby, or for the party in which Isadore put such

faith. They placed all their emphasis on the Spirit of Revolt. In a more

specific way than the other factions they were out for the Revolution.

They appealed strongly to that side of Yetta which was vividly touched

by the manifold misery she saw about her, the side of her personality

which had struck out blindly at Pick-Axe. She recognized that it had

been a blind and dangerous impulse. It was not likely to come again. But

this phase of her character, although she feared it, she could not

despise. It was not dead, it was only asleep. And she knew that the same

thing was present in the hearts of all the down-trodden people--her

comrades in the fight for life and liberty.

The triangular debate, which she had heard for the first time at

Walter's farewell dinner, she heard repeated on all sides. She felt it

no longer as an interesting academic discussion, but as the vital

problem of the working-class. It was an issue towards which she would

have to take a definite attitude.

The welter of ideas, the perplexing conflict between alluring theories

and hard facts, was sharply illustrated to her by a mass meeting at

Cooper Union which had been called to raise funds for the Western

Federation of Miners. All classes of society were shocked at the news of

violence and bloodshed in that spectacular outbreak of social war in

Colorado. One thing was clear to all--there was no use preaching peace,

no use talking about the harmony of interest between labor and capital,

there was nothing the Civic Federation could do. The curtain had been

torn aside. It was war.

Few of the workers in the city approved of the violent methods to which

the miners had resorted. But in the heat of battle such considerations

became insignificant. The working-class of New York wanted to help.

Two or three orderly speeches had been made, when confusion was caused

by the miners' delegate. Instead of telling the story of the strike, as

had been expected of him, he utilized his time in denunciation of the

American Federation of Labor and in chanting the praises of Industrial

Unionism. The audience had gathered to express their sympathy for the

miners. He insulted the organization to which most of these Easterners

belonged.

Yetta had never heard a more forceful piece of oratory. He had led a

charge against the State militia, and he was not afraid of a hostile

audience. His appearance of immense strength dominated the more puny

city dwellers. His mighty voice rang out above the tumult and reduced

it.

"The A. F. of L.," he shouted, "is a rotten aristocracy. Everywhere it

is holding down the less fortunate workers. More strikes are

double-crossed by 'labor leaders' than are lost in a fair fight. Until

we smash it there's no hope for the working-class. Out in the mines

we've already won a three-fifty day. Not for the skilled trades, but for

every man who goes down. We don't have any leaders who go to the Civic

Federation and drink champagne with the capitalists.

"Look at the unions you're proud of. You know as well as I do that the

Big Six scabbed on the pressmen. Nobody in the printing industry has got

a chance. The typographers have pigged it all.

"Nobody's got a look-in with the labor fakirs unless they've got enough

money to pay initiation fees.

"You craft unionists have won your house and lot and 'benefits.' But I

tell you that the Revolution is coming from the unskilled who can't pay

your fees. If you don't get out of the way, you'll get run over with the

rest of the aristocrats and grafters.

"Your graft is no good, anyhow. It won't last. It depends on your skill,

and machines are killing skill every day. Look at the glass-blowers.

That was a fine craft--wasn't it? You couldn't blow glass unless you had

served a long apprenticeship. And when you once knew the trade, it was a

cinch--a graft for the rest of your life. Sweet, wasn't it? Just the

thing 'Old Sell-'em-out' Sam Gompers dreams about. All of a sudden

somebody invented a machine. Now the glass-blowers are yelling about the

Child Labor Law--a kid of twelve can do more work with a machine than a

dozen men by hand.

"You craft unionists ought to go out and look at a machine--an

automatic that's knocked Hell out of some other trade. You'd see what's

coming to you and your A. F. of L.

"My father was a 'grainer,' painted the graining on wainscoting and

bureaus--fine trade it was, too. He had a nice little house with a

garden to it; the old woman had a servant. Some aristocrats we were. He

was going to send me to college--he was. Then they invented a machine.

He hit the trail to Colorado, and I went down in the mine when I was

thirteen.

"Just think about that machine a minute. It could do the work better

than men, so it put the 'grainers' out of business. It ain't got no

feet, so it don't use shoes. Kind of hard on the cobblers. It ain't got

no head, so it don't wear out three hats a year like my old man did.

Kind of hard on the hat makers. The machine ain't got no belly, it don't

eat nothing. That's a jolt for the butcher and baker--and the farmer

too. The machine don't get sick. No use for a doctor. The machine"--he

paused for his climax--"the machine has no soul--it don't even need a

minister.

"The machine is killing the craft unions. It's bringing about the day of

the unskilled. The answer is--Industrial Unionism."

The audience was too angry at his attack to applaud. The collection,

when it was taken up, was not half what had been expected.

"Perfectly insane," was Mabel's comment as they walked home.

"But what he said sounded true to me," Yetta protested.

"True?" Mabel demanded. "What was the true reason he came? To raise

money for the striking miners--who need it. He didn't even come here at

his own expense. They sent him--to raise funds. He spouts a lot of his

crazy ideas and spoils it all. I don't believe we collected enough to

pay his railroad fare. Is that your idea of truth?"

Yetta could not find an answer.

But the effort to solve such problems as this was a big factor in her

mental development. It gave her added incentive to study. She sought

learning not because "culture" is conventionally considered a good

thing, but because she had a vital need for a wider knowledge in her

daily life.

As Walter had foretold, she found constant temptation to neglect her

study. She resisted it bravely. But when the "knee-pant operatives,"

whom she had organized, went out, she could not find heart for books.

She gave all her time to the strike. It was only a three weeks'

interruption. But the next year the buttonhole workers were out for two

solid months, the hottest of the year--and lost. It was Yetta's first

defeat. The last weeks had been a nightmare. Children had died of

hunger. Some older women had hanged themselves. When at last it was

over, Yetta dragged herself up to the Woman's Trade Union League and

wrote out her resignation.

"What on earth do you mean?" Mabel asked.

"Oh! I'm no good. I can't ever go down on the East Side again. I might

see one of them. It's all my fault. I called them out. I promised them

so much."

The moment Yetta had left the office Mabel telephoned to Mrs. Karner at

her country home at Cos-Cob-on-the-Sound.

Yetta had followed Walter's advice in regard to Mrs. Karner, and a real

friendship had grown up between them. Mabel did not understand why this

blasé society woman, with her carefully groomed flippancy, cared for the

very serious-minded young Jewess, but she knew that they frequently

lunched together. So she told Mrs. Karner over the telephone how Yetta

had broken down.

On the window-seat of her room, Yetta cried herself to sleep,--the

troubled, haunted sleep of pure exhaustion. She was waked at last from

her nightmare by a pounding on her door. It was Mrs. Karner.

"You poor youngster! I dropped into the office a moment ago to sign some

papers for Mabel and she told me about your resignation. I'm so glad!

Now you haven't any excuse not to visit me. I'm lonely out at Cos-Cob.

The motor's at the door. Put on your hat."

Before Yetta knew what was happening to her she was in the motor. In

fifteen minutes they were out of the city, and Mrs. Karner put her arm

about her.

"It was such a very little they asked for," Yetta muttered. "Not so much

as we vest-makers demanded."

Mrs. Karner did not see fit to reply, and Yetta fell back into a sort of

doze. At last they turned through a stone gateway into the Karners'

place. She got only a hurried glance at the well-watered lawn and the

open stretch of the Sound. She was rushed upstairs and to bed. In the

morning Mrs. Karner would not let her get up. It was the first time

Yetta had spent a day in bed.

When she was allowed to get up, she found the estate a strange country

to be explored. The greenhouses, the tame deer, the spotless stables,

the dairy, the kennels, the boat-house, all were endlessly interesting

to her. Interesting enough to make her forget for a while the horrors of

New York. It was the third day that she made friends with the gardener,

and after that she got up with the sun to help him harvest the poppies.

On Friday Mr. Karner appeared, with a man and his wife, whose name Yetta

never troubled herself to remember, and they all went off for a week-end

cruise. Most of the time the older people played bridge. Yetta made

friends with the sea and a gray-haired old sailor from the Azores, who

could speak nothing but Portuguese. Once while at anchor he helped her

catch a fish. She would have enjoyed the cruise more if they had let her

eat in the forecastle with the crew. She liked Mrs. Karner very much

when they were alone together, but it was unpleasant to see her with

these others.

In time the color returned to Yetta's cheeks, and hearing that Mabel had

torn up her resignation, she went back to Washington Square and to work.

Except for such crises, Yetta followed rigorously the course of reading

which Walter had mapped out for her. The afternoons and evenings

belonged to the work of the League, to the very busy life of the real

world. The mornings belonged to Walter. Her first thought was always of

him. While the coffee was heating, she attended to his mail. After

breakfast, with his prospectus spread out before her, she settled

herself in one of his chairs and took up one of his books. Following his

suggestion she made copious notes, and, when a book was finished, she

wrote a thousand words or so on the main ideas she had gained from it.

She carefully saved all these notes. When he returned he would see how

thoroughly she had followed his directions.

On the other side of the world from Yetta, Longman was leading a rough,

exciting tent-life among dangerously fanatic natives. It would have been

hard to imagine two more sharply contrasting environments. He never

dreamed of the loving devotion which was being offered him, so many

thousand miles away. He did not suspect how his occasional letters, in

reply to her weekly ones, fanned this flame. He was wholly occupied in

racing against time and difficulties to complete his work.

The expedition was not having an easy time of it. The ruins about which

they were digging were regarded by the natives with superstitious

veneration. The little group of scientists had only a score of

unreliable soldiers for defence, so the real men--Le Marquis

d'Hauteville, _Chef de l'expédition_, a wiry, gray-haired veteran of the

Algerian Wars; Delanoue, a dandified-looking Parisian, who had carved

his name as an explorer in all sorts of outlandish places; Vibert, the

photographer, and Walter--had their hands full. They were the rampart,

behind which the half-dozen querulous, rather old-maidish specialists

measured skulls, gathered fragments of pottery, took rubbings of

inscriptions, and collected folk-lore.

It is very much easier to love a person who is absent than to live

amicably at close quarters with his daily faults and foibles. As the

months passed, Walter Longman--or rather the ghost which Yetta conjured

up to that name--took on new graces, was endowed with ever more

brilliant characteristics. Yetta hardly knew the real man. In their

half-dozen meetings she had seen certain charming traits. He came to

typify the kind of life she would like to lead. A life of cleanliness

and comfort, but free from the shame of luxury. A life of books, but so

close and sympathetic to the struggling mass of humanity as to escape

the reproach of pedantry.

Her dreams of him--thanks to his absence--could not be contradicted. If

an act in the life about her seemed good, she did not doubt that Walter

could and would have done it better. Of the unpleasant pettinesses which

she saw among her associates, she was sure that he was free. The authors

she read seemed to her very wise, but their attainments could not be

compared to Walter's mystic wisdom. It is very easy to laugh at such

folly--and so much easier to cry.

The idolatrous incense which she burned at the altar of the Absent One

was a great incentive to her study. Knowledge was not only the road to

power, but also to his approbation. But his greatest contribution was

the memory of his scorn for intellectual ruts, for cut-and-dried

formulæ. "You can't crowd life into a definition," he had said. "Beware

of simple explanations. Living is a complex business."

Such phrases--sticking in her memory like illuminated mottoes--held her

back from joining the Socialist party. Sooner or later it was inevitable

that she should do so. She was a logical Socialist, with the logic of

events. It would have been difficult to erect any other structure on the

foundations life had laid for her. She was a machine worker who had

revolted before the grinding monotony had killed her faith and vision.

She could still hope. She had the insight to see beyond the personal

pettiness of squabbling dogmatists to the great principles of Justice

and Brotherhood, which their heated advocacy sometimes obscures. Her

life would have been poorer in any other setting.

But it was a real gain to her that she did not join the party hurriedly.

She might have resisted the urgings of Braun longer--even after she had

read largely pro and con, even after she had familiarized herself with

the traditional theoretical "objections to Socialism," and, weighing

them against the facts of life, which she saw about her, the bent and

aged women of thirty, the young men smitten with tuberculosis, the

thousands of babies that never grow up, had found them light indeed--she

might still have held back longer from the personal and entirely

illogical reason that Walter had never joined if it had not been for a

dramatic meeting with her old boss--Jake Goldfogle.

His shop had failed in her first strike. She had lost all track of him.

About nine o'clock one bitter winter night she was walking home along

Canal Street. The row of pushcarts, lit by flaring oil lamps, were doing

a scant business. It was too cold for sidewalk bargaining. She was moved

by a deep pity for these men and women, who were forced out on such a

night, to hawk their wares. It was not only the victims of the

sweat-shop who find living a hard matter. Suddenly her notice fell on a

dilapidated pedler, who was holding out a meagre tray of notions. He did

not have even a pushcart. A heavy black patch hid one side of his face,

but she recognized Jake at once. Her first impulse was to hurry past

with averted face. But his shivering poverty--he had no

overcoat--checked her.

"Hello, Mr. Goldfogle."

He turned his unbandaged eye on her in bewilderment. His frost-bitten

face flushed with resentment.

"Come on and have a cup of coffee," she said. "I want to talk with you."

The idea of coffee stopped the curses which were gathering on his

tongue, and, ashamed of his lack of spirit, he followed her. They sat

down opposite each other at a dingy little tea-room table. Jake

remembered Yetta as a frightened shop-girl. The last time she had seen

him, he had threatened her with arrest. He had solemnly sworn that he

would never give her back her job. And now she was giving him a cup of

coffee. He drank it in silence. Once upon a time he had dreamed of

marrying her as though it would be a great condescension.

The coffee warmed him so that he told his story. The failure had been

complete. He and his sister and brother-in-law had gone back to the

machine. The sister had given out first with the East Side

commonplace--a cough. For a while the two men had stuck together, once

more a little money had begun to pile up. Then a belt broke; the flying

end had caught Jake in the face. He lifted up the black patch and showed

Yetta the horrible scar where his eye had been. When he had come out of

the hospital, his brother-in-law had disappeared. For a while Jake had

hoped to get some compensation out of his employer, but he had fallen

into the clutches of a "shyster lawyer," who compromised the case out of

court for a hundred dollars and kept seventy-five for his fee. This had

happened about a month before. Jake had been dragging out a miserable

existence, sleeping in the lowest doss-houses, and of the stock he had

bought with his twenty-five dollars, the half-filled tray was all that

remained. And if Yetta had not started the strike, he would have been a

rich man. "Und I vas in luv wit you, Yetta," he ended.

It happened that she had just received her month's pay, so she was able

to buy Jake an overcoat and give him a few dollars for meals and

lodging. And the next day she found work for him as a night watchman.

But although his gratitude for this job was voluminous it did not ease

Yetta's conscience in the matter. There was something sardonically

grotesque in the encounter. It convinced her, more surely than books

could ever have done, of the Socialist doctrine that all life is knit

into one whole; that Jake, just as much as Mrs. Cohen, had been a victim

of a vicious system.

"As long as this bitter industrial competition continues," she wrote to

Walter, "there are bound to be such pitiful specimens as Jake. You see a

lot in the papers nowadays about how the trusts are eliminating

competition. The more I think about that the more horrible it seems.

They are eliminating competition in the sales departments, in the

distribution of the product, because there the waste is in dollars and

cents. But in production--where the competitive waste is only human

beings--the struggle is as bitter as ever. The high-salaried,

'gentlemanly' managers of the different plants of a trust coöperate in

selling and in buying raw material, but in the actual work of the mills

they have to compete to see who can exploit the workers hardest--just as

Jake was driven to overwork us girls. I don't see any possible cure

except Socialism, and I'm going to join the party."

Many months later, when the courier brought this letter into the camp

among the ancient ruins, the exile opened it with feverish hands, ran

his fingers down page after page until he came to Yetta's name. It was

not until he had read this part several times that he gave any attention

to the fact that Yetta had become a Socialist.

CHAPTER XX

ISADORE BRAUN

It was shortly before her visit to Cos-Cob that Isadore Braun asked

Yetta to marry him.

In a way he was almost ashamed of himself for doing so. His tempestuous

desire for her was something he could not understand, something which

forcibly escaped from the control of reason, to which all his life had

been submitted.

Yetta had walked into his cold, impersonal life in an utterly disturbing

way. It was as if some sudden leak had let a glare of sunlight into a

photographer's dark room. All the care which had been expended in

fitting that laboratory for a specific--and valuable--piece of work was

rendered useless.

With the methodical forethought of his race and the narrow vision of a

fanatic, Isadore had arranged his future. He had planned not only each

day's work, but his life-work. With dogged singleness of purpose he had

trained himself to be an efficient machine. Such an irrational thing as

Love had no place in his scheme. To be sure, he believed that marriage

was good. Sometime--say at thirty-five--he would look around for a

convenient comrade, a woman of similar ideals and purpose, and they

would mate without any serious derangement in the life of either. But

he condemned Romance. It was irrational.

Romance had accepted the challenge and had worsted him. His first

interest in the Yetta of the vest-makers' strike had turned into respect

and admiration--and finally into something much more serious and

dynamic. It was not until he caught himself neglecting some important

work to attend a meeting where nothing called him except the chance for

a few words with her that he discovered what was the matter with him.

Again and again he rallied all his intellectual forces for the combat,

but always after a short struggle he found himself flat on his back,

with Romance performing the dance of victory on his chest.

At first he tried to comfort himself with the thought that after all

Yetta was just such a mate as his intellect would have chosen. She also

was a Socialist. But he was too honest with himself to admit this

sophistry. It was not because of her theories that the flame burned

within him. He would have been just as helpless, just as irrationally

enslaved, if she had been a chorus girl. She was not reason's choice,

for the intellect is colorless and Yetta was resplendent.

To admit the dominance of this irrational emotion was to abandon all his

gods, to turn his back on his only religion. It is hard for most of us

to realize the deep tragedy of Isadore's position. Few of us believe

ardently in anything. We have a comfortable ability to keep our faith in

things we know are false, a lazy credulity for exploded theories. We go

on burning our incense at shrines the gods have deserted. We pretend to

a love of liberty we do not feel. We are inclined to laugh at the

spectacle of a man naïve enough really to care, to rend himself in a

passionate quest for Truth--and may God have mercy on such of us.

It was a month or more before Isadore surrendered to unreason. It was a

defeat which told on him in shrunken cheeks. There were some who thought

he was sick. But he knew better. Absolute reason, the god on whom he had

staked his faith, was crumbling. Longman's talk about the lack of logic

in life had seemed to him drivel. But now reason--the all-powerful

deity--had gone down before the non-intellectual gleam in a young

woman's eye, had turned tail and fled before the curve and color of a

cheek.

He tried to propose by letter. Night after night in his dismal, unkempt

furnished room, he laid out his writing-paper. Sometimes he scribbled

furiously, pouring it all out on paper predestined to be crumpled up and

thrown away. More often he chewed the end of his pen in a sort of

mechanical tongue-tiedness.

And then one day--to his complete surprise--he proposed to her in the

office of the Woman's Trade Union League. They had gone into the

committee-room to consult over the "demands" for the Skirt-Makers'

Union. Yetta had drawn up a rough copy and Isadore was to put them into

more legal shape. They were leaning together over the big table under

the great picture of Jeanne d'Arc, when the grace of Yetta's wrist

intruded between his consciousness and the troubles of the skirt-makers.

He was always discovering some such new attractiveness about her.

"Good God!" he exclaimed, straightening up in vexation of spirit.

"What's the matter?" Yetta asked.

Isadore realized that this was neither the time nor the place, that

neither of them was in the right mood, but he could not help telling

her.

Yetta stopped him as soon as her amazement had given place to

understanding. With the simple directness which was her most outstanding

characteristic, she refused even to consider his suggestion.

Emphatically she did not love him.

For a moment it seemed tremendously important to Isadore to light a

cigarette without letting his hand give way to its insane desire to

tremble. When it was lit, he looked Yetta squarely in the eyes and knew

there was no use in argument.

"Well," he said, after a few puffs, "let's finish up these demands."

The incident brought their cordial intimacy to an end. Yetta no longer

called him by his first name. As before, their work threw them

frequently together. Yetta, at first, was afraid of a fresh

outbreak--and so was Isadore. He had lost faith in his self-control. But

no outsider could have guessed the constraint which underlay their

comradely intercourse.

Isadore was as much in love as Walter had been with Mabel, but he was of

a more masterful disposition. The Work, to which he and Yetta had

dedicated their lives, was more important than personal pain. When the

business of the day required him to see her, he did not shirk it, but he

no longer sought her out. If she did not love him, that ended it. He did

not want the hollow mockery of friendship.

Yetta's heart was full to overflowing with her romantic dream of Walter.

Isadore, the real, the daily, had no chance. If some one had asked her

about him, she would have described him in glowing terms, with an

enthusiastic tribute to his unusual loyalty and ability. Her respect for

him was deep. There was no man of her race nor near her own age whom she

held in such high esteem. But when it came to loving him,--unfortunately

he was real.

His proposal had seemed to her almost preposterous. Not that she felt

herself too good for him. On the contrary her love for Walter had

increased her very real humility. It was the concreteness of his offer

that shocked her.

She rarely looked forward to Walter's return, and when she did, it was

with no definite visualizing thought of marriage. The concept of sex was

vague to her--and decidedly fearsome. Not even Harry Klein, her first

lover--and she always thought of him as an incident in a dim and very

remote past--had really stirred her woman's nature. He had appealed to

her as an instrument, a key by which to escape from her dungeon. The

sentiments, which his meagre caresses had raised, had by the fright of

the adventure been driven back in dismay.

Sometimes, to be sure, a sort of sweet dizziness overcame her when she

remembered how Walter had kissed her hand. The spot below the middle

finger of her left hand which his lips had touched was a holy place. But

more often she thought of his words. When in her dreams he seemed

nearest, he was halfway across the room, in the big leather chair, while

she was curled up on the window-seat. She was not yet twenty-one. Her

girlhood had been sacrificed to the machine. Orderly, symmetrical

development had been impossible. Now that she was a woman in body, in

mind, in work, her imagination was still in the first flower of

adolescence.

On the mantelpiece of his old room, where she lived, a snapshot of the

white men of the Expedition leaned against the cow-faced god of the

Haktites. Like Saul of old, Walter towered head and shoulders above his

mates. Khaki and a pith helmet are not exactly silver armor--but to

Yetta he seemed the Shining Prince. And Isadore wanted her to live with

him in an East Side flat.

If falling in love with her had disturbed Isadore, his inability to put

her out of his mind after her emphatic refusal troubled him a thousand

times more. He got no ease from his pain except in work. The anxiety of

his friends increased. But, brushing aside their protests, he sought out

ever new activities. He hated to be idle, he came to fear being alone in

his room. But not even the most strenuous endeavor to forget relieved

him.

In the beautifully illogical way life has, help came to Isadore from a

source he would never have dreamed of. He came home early one night to

write an article for the _Forwaertz_. To his dismay he found that he had

left his notes in the office. The article would have to wait, and here

he was with nothing to do, alone in his room, where of all places he

found it hardest to escape from the aching hunger of his heart, the sad

confusion of his thoughts.

It was not much of a room--an iron cot, a big deal table, a few cheap

chairs and bookcases. It was not even decently clean. In the five years

he had lived there he had been quite oblivious to its sordidness. But of

late it had become abhorrent to him. He was already half undressed. The

bitter summer heat had driven the tenement dwellers out on the street.

The perspiring humanity which crowded the sidewalks offered no

comfortable escape.

He turned to his bookcases. But he needed something of more compelling

interest than the census and immigration reports to fill the time till

sleep would come. Most of his little library were reference books, the

rest he had read and reread. On the bottom shelf was a bundle he had

never unwrapped. They were books Walter had given him after one of their

discussions over the meaning of Life. He had never read them, because he

was sure he would find no interest in the hodge-podge, haphazard kind of

thinking which Walter seemed to enjoy. He pulled them out now--at least

they would offer the interest of novelty. The first book he opened was

Henri Bergson's _L'Evolution Créatrice_. Walter, as was his custom, had

annotated it copiously. On the fly-page he had written, "A superb

discussion of the limitations of Pure Reason." The phrase caught

Isadore's eye as he listlessly read the note. Was not this "limitation"

of reason the very thing that was troubling him?

No book that he had read in years seemed to vibrate so compellingly with

a sense of actuality. This was partly due no doubt to the master

craftsmanship of the author. But very likely it would have made no

impression on Isadore if he had read it when Walter had asked him to.

The jar and conflict of the last few months had opened up the

compartments of his brain to a long-lost receptivity. The facts of life

had shaken his intellectual structure until he was prepared to

understand.

This suave and erudite Frenchman was calmly announcing that the Age of

Reason was a myth, rationalism a superstition. From every field of human

knowledge Bergson was gathering his evidence, from the microscopic data

of biology to the gigantic stellar facts beyond our vision, with

merciless logic he was proving that the instrument with which we reason

is not divine. "The God which has failed you," he said to Isadore, "is a

false god. The brain, with which you created it, is only a faulty animal

instrument, as liable to error as your eyes, for which you have been

compelled to buy rectifying glasses."

While the message of Bergson is iconoclastic, a titanic warfare against

the formal gods, it is by no means destructive. It holds a more

magnificent, a more humanly satisfying optimism than metaphysics has

dared, a promise of greater intimacy with the living truth than cold

reason ever formulated. Above all it offered to Isadore to restore his

self-respect.

He had to refill his lamp before he finished the book. And when he had

reached the end, he could not sleep. A strange bodily unrest seized him.

He wanted to get away. When the heavens opened and a great light shone

upon Saul of Tarsus, he felt at once the need of going out to some

distant desert place to rearrange his life in accordance with the new

light. Isadore also had need of an Arabia.

Some time before he had received an invitation to visit a Socialist

magazine writer named Paulding at his lake-side camp in the Adirondacks.

Although Isadore knew the invitation had been sincere, that he would be

welcome, he had refused it, because in his troubled frame of mind he had

been frightened by the bare idea of idleness. He had been afraid to

leave the rush of work. Now there was nothing he wanted more. So as dawn

was breaking over the city, he packed his bag, putting in with care the

books Walter had given him, and telegraphing that he had changed his

mind, set out.

It was the first real vacation he had ever taken. All the "country" he

had seen had been from car windows and the crumpled patches one

encounters on labor-union picnics. The camp was the barest of

log-cabins. Mrs. Paulding was also a writer, and all the mornings his

hosts were busy over their typewriters. So Isadore was much by himself.

It was an entirely new experience for him to chop firewood. It took a

week or more before he lost his diffidence before the pine trees. It was

even longer before he became sufficiently familiar with the canoe to

enjoy being out of sight of the landing. Paulding was an enthusiastic

nature lover, and the struggles and adventures of the myriad animals of

the forest and the lake which he pointed out were like enchanting fairy

stories. Isadore had read such things in books, but it was endlessly

strange for him to watch them in process. And all this strangeness

helped him to the rest which, in spite of his denials, he desperately

needed.

Gradually, as the weeks slipped by, he fought his way to a new outlook

on life. Bergson and the pragmatists had shaken him out of his

intellectual rut. His dogmatism had resulted from his manner of life. He

had begun to think about social problems before he had come into

intimate contact with social facts. His development had been the

opposite of Yetta's. She had begun with facts and had judged all

theories by them. He, having accepted a philosophy while still in the

cloistered life of college, had been too busy preaching it to have much

time to observe the complex reality of life. Bergson and his love for

Yetta had jolted him out of this attitude. He was man enough to see his

error and correct it.

When he returned to the city in the fall, his comrades noticed the

change in him. His former domineering conviction that he was right had

given place to a gentler, more tolerant, and smiling self-confidence. He

was no longer a doctrinaire. He was less cocksure, but more certain. His

native sympathy with suffering humanity, which had been the real motive

of his Socialism and which for years he had suppressed as sentimental,

came to life again. It was in his public speaking that the new man

showed clearest. He no longer made his appeal solely to reason; there

was more red blood in his discourse, more pulsing life in his words. He

had come to see that his hearers must feel as well as think. His

Socialism had lost some of its sharp definitions, some of its logical

simplicity, but it had come to bear a closer similitude to life.

One day, shortly after his return, while walking down the Bowery with a

friend, he stopped and gave a nickel to an alcoholic-looking tramp. His

friend expostulated. Such erratic almsgiving was worse than useless. It

encouraged vagrancy; it was unscientific, unreasonable. Suddenly Isadore

realized the change which had come over him. He grinned defiantly. "The

poor devil," he explained, "looked as if he wanted a drink." His friend

was scandalized. But if Walter had heard of the incident, he would have

rejoiced as the Angels in Heaven rejoice when a lost lamb finds the

fold.

The change in Isadore had been more concrete than the acceptation of a

new outlook on life. Up in the mountains he had questioned not only his

metaphysics, but his habits. He had pondered over the practical tactics

of Socialism as well as its philosophy. The loosening of his fundamental

concepts had solidified his attitude towards practical problems. The

rather diffuse propaganda work he had been doing no longer satisfied

him. He wanted to concentrate on one tangible thing. And it seemed to

him that what the movement needed more than anything else was a daily

English paper. Back in New York, with a new and unconquerable

enthusiasm, he set himself to this task.

But if his new point of view had healed his intellectual humiliation, it

in no wise softened the torture of Yetta's indifference. Day after day,

month after month, he lived with the ache of his love. But he came to

laugh more readily, became less of a machine and more of a man.

It was several months after Yetta's refusal before he reopened the

subject. He did it by a letter--so worded that it required no reply. He

would not bother her, he wrote, with repeated urgings. He could not see

the use of pleading. They were grown up, too serious-minded to act such

a comedy. But he wanted her to know that he was steadfast. If in the

future her regard for him grew into the love he hungered for, he trusted

that she would tell him. And so the matter rested.

Other suitors sprang up a-plenty, and their noisy importunity made Yetta

very thankful to Isadore for his dignified reserve.

CHAPTER XXI

_THE STAR_

The second summer after Walter had left, a desperate and successful

strike of the cloak-makers brought Yetta's name once more into the

papers. Mrs. Karner used the opportunity to open a new line of work to

Yetta.

Mr. Karner owned _The Star_--the "yellowest" paper in the city. It was

not only vulgar to the edge of obscenity, it was notoriously corrupt in

politics. Being a one-cent paper, it of course posed as a "friend of the

working-man," but it stood--unless the other side had collected an

unusually large campaign fund--for Tammany Hall and the traction

interests.

One morning at breakfast--while the cloak-makers' strike was a "live"

news item--Mr. Karner spoke enviously of a woman who gave sentimental

advice to love-lorn damsels on the magazine page of his keenest rival.

"I wish I could find some counter attraction," he said. "Our circulation

among working girls is pitiful."

"Why don't you try Yetta Rayefsky?" Mrs. Karner suggested. "All the East

Side girls know her. Do you happen to be advocating trade-unions this

month?"

"Mildly--as usual."

"Yetta is keen on that. You remember her. She was out at Cos-Cob last

summer. Rather caught your eye, I think."

"That little Jewess? She was good-looking. Has she any other

qualifications as a journalist?"

Mrs. Karner shrugged her shoulders.

"I thought you prided yourself on developing raw material."

Two days later Yetta was summoned to Mr. Karner's office. She went to

the appointment, wondering what the great newspaper man could want of

her--hoping that she might interest him in her girls.

"Glad to see you," Mr. Karner said cordially as she was ushered into his

beautifully furnished sanctum. "This cloak-makers' strike is a big

story. But we're not making the most of it. There's more in it than news

copy.

"There ought to be something for our magazine page. I don't know whether

you've ever read it, but it's the page that gets the women. They're not

interested in arguments--not much in facts. It's the human interest

story--something to make them cry--that gets over with them. About their

own people. If they say 'That's just like Sadie or Flossie,' it's the

right thing for us. We're always looking for that kind of copy.

"There must be some stories in this strike. Couldn't you give us two or

three?"

Yetta was surprised at the offer and decidedly uncertain.

"It won't do any harm to try," he urged her.

He pressed a button, and when a rotund, merry-looking man appeared, he

introduced him.

"Mr. Brace, this is Miss Rayefsky. She has just promised to send us

some copy about the cloak-makers' strike for your magazine page."

They discussed it for a few minutes, and when Yetta had gone, Karner

kept Brace a moment.

"My wife," he said, "thinks we could train this Rayefsky girl to write.

If we could get some one to put a crimp in Lilian Leberwurtz' 'Balm for

Busted Bussums,' it would help a lot. Look over her copy when it comes

in. Buy enough anyhow to pay her for her trouble. And if it shows any

promise, see what you can make of her. And keep me informed."

Yetta floated out of _The Star_ office on clouds. In a sudden flame of

enthusiasm she pictured herself as a great author. But as she went home

a horrible doubt struck her--she might fail. The doubt increased as she

laid out a sheet of paper.

After much hesitation and several false starts, she decided to stick as

closely as might be to reality. She wrote the story of one of her girls

who, although she worked on the highest-priced opera-cloaks, was so poor

that she had never worn any wrap but a frayed old shawl.

It was natural for Yetta to be simple and direct. The copious notes she

had written in connection with her study had taught her some familiarity

with her pen. Above all, her public speaking had helped her. It had

taught her to think ahead and plan her climax in advance. The women who

would read the magazine page were--or had been--shop-girls, such as the

audiences she spoke to night after night. And Mr. Brace had told her to

write just as she talked.

At last she mailed three sketches. Within twenty-four hours she received

a letter from Mr. Brace asking her to come and talk them over. She had

a difficult time looking unconcerned as she entered _The Star_ office.

Her stories had seemed rather good when she had finished them, but they

had so sunk in her estimation by this time that she wished she had not

written them. This sinking process was most rapid during the few minutes

she was kept waiting on a bench in the big reporters' room outside the

glass door of Mr. Brace's private office.

There were long tables on two sides of the room; they were divided off

into sections by little railings. Most of the places were filled by

reporters writing feverishly on yellow copy paper or banging away at

typewriters. Boys and men rushed about, carrying copy or proof in and

out of the various glass doors about the room. Almost every one looked

curiously at Yetta and the others on the waiting bench. There were three

people ahead of her: a woman who looked like an actress, a white-haired

old man, with a beard almost to his belt. He held a heavy manuscript on

his knees with great care, evidently afraid some one would steal it.

Next to her was a perspiring young curate in a clerical collar.

Presently Mr. Brace ushered a disappointed poet out of his office and

called "Miss Rayefsky." "By appointment," he added, as those who were

ahead of her moved restlessly in protest.

He pulled up a chair for her beside his desk, and picking up his blue

pencil, began a little lecture on the advertising rate of the magazine

page. It was ten cents a word. His blue pencil scratched out a sentence

from one of her stories. It would certainly not do any one a dollar and

a half's worth of good. It began to look to Yetta as if there would be

nothing left except blue pencil marks. But he glowed with pleasure

during the process. When he had come to the end, he announced with pride

that he had killed at least twenty-five dollars' worth of padding. She

wished he would let her go quickly. She was afraid she might cry if he

jeered at her any more.

"I hope we can arrange for some more of this soon," he said abruptly,

handing her a check.

It was for seventy-five dollars! She had never had so much money at one

time before in her life. And she had earned it in four days!

But this was a small matter beside seeing her story in print that

afternoon. Here was a tangible sign of her progress to send Walter. She

was just reaching the end of his outline of study, and she was already

writing for the papers! Her pride was somewhat tempered as she reread

her story and realized how much it had been improved by Mr. Brace's

vigorous slashing.

Her new sense of importance became almost oppressive when, a few days

later, they offered her a contract at what seemed to her a magnificent

salary--to conduct a column on Working-girls' Worries.

Mabel also was enthusiastic about it. It was a great and unexpected

chance to give publicity to their work of organizing women. _The Star_

had more than a million readers. Yetta could never have hoped to reach

so large an audience with her voice.

But when Isadore saw the flaring posters which blossomed out on the East

Side, announcing that Yetta Rayefsky was writing daily and exclusively

for _The Evening Star_, he was mightily disturbed. Such conscienceless

journalism as Mr. Karner's seemed to him the worst crime of our

civilization. He could hardly believe that Yetta had thrown in her lot

with it. It shook him out of his reserve, and he rushed over to her

room.

In her new pride, in the excitement of her new career, Yetta seemed more

disturbingly beautiful to him than ever. Face to face with her he forgot

all his carefully thought-out arguments.

"Oh, Yetta," he blurted out, "is it really true that you're going to

work on that dirty paper?"

"They have offered to let me conduct a column for working girls, and

I've accepted," she replied defiantly.

"You know it's a dirty paper," he stuck to his point. "Dirty in every

way,--in its news, in its advertisements. Most of all in its rotten

politics. These yellow journals are the worst enemy Socialism has to

face. They mislead the people. They're paid to. All the editors are

crooked--sold out. But Karner's the worst."

"I haven't anything to do with their news nor their advertising, nor

with Mr. Karner's politics--I've been talking to working girls as hard

as I know how for the last two years. Suddenly I get a chance to speak

louder, so that thousands will hear. I might just as well refuse to

speak in some of the East Side halls, because on other nights they are

used for rotten dances."

"Oh, Yetta," he broke in, "you don't know what you are doing. I know it

isn't the salary that makes you do it. But that's sure to be big. And

Karner's not a philanthropist; he's not giving you money for nothing.

He's buying something. You've got to give him his money's worth. He's

buying your name. He's after circulation. He's using your name--have you

seen the posters? He's using your popularity, Yetta, to sell his dirty

paper to our people. He's paying you to persuade our working girls to

read the filthiest paper in New York. Yetta, you don't realize what it

means. It's a sort of betrayal--"

"Are you through?" she interrupted angrily.

"No, I'm not. I've got to say it all. Not because it's you and me,

Yetta, but Comrade to Comrade, because we're both Socialists. They won't

let you say what you want to. No capitalist paper could, least of all

this rotten one. If the class struggle means anything at all, it means

that they are our enemies. They won't pay you to fight against them.

They'll tie you up with some sort of a contract and gag you. They are

bribing you, fooling you with the promise of a big audience. But they

won't--can't--let you say what you believe."

"Mr. Braun," she said, trying hard to keep her temper, but at the same

time to annihilate him, "I've talked this over with a number of friends.

They all urged me to accept. So you see there is room for difference of

opinion. You are the only one who has opposed it. Much as I respect your

opinion in most matters, in this case I must--"

"No. You must not!" he stormed, jumping up and losing control of himself

more than ever before. "I say you must not."

"What right have you--"

"Right? Who's got a better right? You know I love you. I'd rather a

thousand times see myself disgraced than you, Yetta. What do Mabel Train

and the other women care? They see a chance to advertise their pet

scheme. What do they care about your reputation, your self-respect? They

think it will be good for their little Trade Union League. But I see

you, Yetta--selling yourself to a bunch of crooks--not being able to do

the good you want to--and always with the shame of it on you! Oh, it's

too terrible."

He sank down in the chair, his head in his hands. Yetta's hard words

melted as she saw how he was suffering.

"I'm sorry we can't agree on this, Comrade," she said. "We do on most

things. Of course I may be making a mistake. But I've got to do what

seems right to me--haven't I?"

"Yetta," he said, looking up at her suddenly, "are you in love with

Walter Longman?"

She stiffened up at the question, but Isadore cut short her indignation.

"Oh, I know, Yetta. Just loving you doesn't give me a right to ask that

question. But sometimes I've thought you loved Walter. He's my best

friend. He wouldn't want you to go into this."

He looked at her tensely. It was a minute before she took up his

challenge.

"I care a great deal for Walter's good opinion," her voice was low, but

even. "I am quite sure he would be glad I had this chance. But even if

he thought it was unwise for me to accept it, he would not try to

browbeat me."

Isadore had shot his last bolt, it had rebounded on his own head. He

fumbled for his hat.

"Good night, Yetta," he said.

"Good night, Mr. Braun."

The first month, Mr. Brace went over Yetta's contributions in detail,

cramming into her all the advice he could think of. About the time his

stock of journalistic epigrams ran out, the reports from the circulation

manager were so favorable, that he decided he could give his attention

to other things. Mr. Brace, like all good newspaper men, was a mystic in

such matters. God only knows what the public will like. It was his

business to scatter seeds. If they took root and grew into

"circulation," he had sense enough to leave them alone. And Yetta's

column had "caught on."

At the end of three months the contract was renewed with a substantial

increase in salary. The posters which advertised her work became more

flamboyant. The size of her mail grew daily. The letters dealt with all

the worries working girls are heirs to. Some of them were frivolous,

most were commonplace. But once in a while among the misspelt, poorly

written scrawls, there would be a throbbing story of life. Such letters

tore at Yetta's heart--giving her new determinations, new enthusiasm for

her work. As their number increased Yetta knew that her audience, her

influence, was growing. The Fates were smiling at her. She was earning

more money than she had ever hoped. Better still, she had as much time

as before for the League work. She was rarely kept in the office after

noon. It did not occur to her that she might have demanded an increase

in salary on the ground of the free advertising she was giving _The

Star_ by her frequent speeches.

She was disappointed, however, not to be able to establish more cordial

relations with her fellow-workers. These newspaper people, men and

women, worked under as great a strain as any sweat-shop girls, but they

seemed more foreign to her--to her class--than the rich uptown women she

had met through the League. They had many good qualities which she

appreciated--their _esprit de corps_, their hearty, open manners, the

camaraderie with which they lent each other money. But they were shot

through with a cynicism which shocked her. The whole situation was

typified in the case of Maud Ripley, a special story writer, who tried

to "take her up."

She was a tired-eyed, meagre woman of near forty. She was brilliant.

Every one in the office referred to her for facts and figures instead of

going to the encyclopædia. Some of the things she wrote appealed

strongly to Yetta, others were utterly futile. Besides her signed

articles, mostly interviews with prominent foreigners,--she was fluent

in half a dozen modern languages,--she composed "The Meditations of a

Marriageable Maid." She was rather proud of this cheap wit.

She seemed to like Yetta, but always introduced her as "_The Star's_ new

sob-squeezer." Apparently she saw nothing in the new recruit but a

successful pathos writer--a rising star in the profitable business of

starting tears.

This attitude, which Yetta encountered on all sides, hurt her. She read

some of "Lilian Leberwurtz'" writings. She had discovered that the real

name of this woman with whom she was expected to compete was Mrs.

Treadway. It was hopeless slush; it sickened her. She tried vainly to

picture the type of woman who could write such drivel seriously.

"Dine with me Sunday," Miss Ripley asked her one day. She always talked

in the close-packed style of a foreign correspondent who telegraphs at a

dollar a word. "My flat. People you ought to know."

Yetta was essentially inclusive, she did not like to turn her back on

any proffered friendship. So at one the next Sunday she rang the bell of

the uptown flat where Maud lived alone. There was one woman and three

men in the parlor.

"Who are they," Yetta whispered as she was brushing her hair in Maud's

bedroom.

"Matthews writes 'best sellers'--doesn't expect his friends to read

them. Conklin has money--afford to write high-brow books that don't

sell. Have to read between the lines. I'm too busy. Potter's a decadent

poet. A bore, but all the rage. Mrs. Treadway--Lilian

Leberwurtz--motherly old soul. Never know to look at her that she's the

best-paid woman in the game--come on."

Of course Yetta was most interested in Mrs. Treadway. She would hardly

have called her motherly, although she sometimes referred to her son in

Harvard and frequently used the phrase--"when you get to be my age."

She was a large-bosomed, gaudy person with an almost expressionless

face. Her gown looked cheap in spite of its evident expensiveness, and

her jewellery was massive. But it was not her appearance nor her

ponderous condescension which troubled Yetta. Mrs. Treadway in her first

half-dozen words showed herself to be utterly sophisticated. She did not

try to hide the insincerity of her work--she seemed to glory in it. Her

first concern was to make it apparent that she was not such a fool as

one would judge from her sentimental advice.

Matthews exuded prosperity from his lavender socks up to his insistent

tie--but the brilliancy did not seem to go higher. Conklin was

apologetic in comparison. His face was spare, and when he was amused,

deep curved wrinkles formed on either side of his mouth like brackets.

The parenthetical effect of his smile was heightened by the fact that

the rest of his face remained sombre. The poet looked his part.

When Yetta arrived, they were all looking at the latest number of _La

vie parisienne_. Mrs. Treadway was shaking--like a gelatine

pudding--over the predicament in which one of Fabriano's naked women was

portrayed. Potter began a ponderous argument on the humor of Audrey

Beardsley's lines and the wit of Matisse's color. He pronounced Fabriano

"too obvious." He was happily interrupted by the announcement of dinner.

The conversation rambled on through the meal. No one stuck to a subject

after their epigrams had run out. Nobody was deeply interested in

anything. Much of it dealt with things about which Yetta was proud of

her ignorance.

The dinner was almost a disaster to her. "Of course," she told herself

as she walked home, "this group is not typical. There are people, there

must be people, who take their writing seriously." But the attitude of

Maud Ripley and her friends had shocked Yetta deeply. The worst of it

was that they respected her in a way--because she was "making good." But

the fact that she was in earnest did not interest them. She would not

have dropped the least in their esteem if she had been utterly

insincere. She felt as if she had been insulted.

The next day a new incident increased Yetta's feeling of foreignness in

the office. She was waiting in the reporters' room for a chance to see

Brace. Cowan, the gray-haired sporting editor, was telling whimsical

stories of the "old days" when he had been a cub. Although older in

years than the others, he was the youngest-hearted of them all. Yetta

felt more drawn to him than to any one else on _The Star_.

Suddenly a curly-haired Irishman, O'Rourke, burst in. He always entered

a room with a deafening bang.

"Gee," he said--"some story this morning. A greenhorn bank-examiner, who

didn't know his A B C, dropped into Ex-Governor Billings' bank yesterday

and found a pretty mess. The old boy never had a bank-examiner come in

unexpectedly like that before in his long and useful life. It nearly

gave him apoplexy. And he just putting up his name for the Senate. But

this blundering bank-examiner was not such a fool after all. The story

goes that Billings had to come across with an awful wad to hush him up."

"Why? Did the examiner find something wrong?" Yetta asked.

"Yes, my child," O'Rourke said with playful pity. "He was that foolish."

"What did he find?" Yetta persisted.

"Unsecured loans. Billings had been lending himself the depositors'

money, using his calling card as collateral."

"What'll happen to Billings?"

"It's a shame for you to go around town without a nurse," O'Rourke

teased her. "It was decided a long time ago that Billings was to be the

next United States Senator from the glorious State of New York. A little

accident like this can't be allowed to interfere."

"It's a rotten shame," Cowan said. He was old enough not to have to try

to appear blasé. "They're going too strong--putting over a crook like

that on the people. Everybody with any memory knows his record. In the

good old days when yellow journalism was just beginning, before we got

so respectable we couldn't print the truth, we showed Billings up--how

he came through for the railroads on that Death Avenue grade crossing."

"Oh, that's ancient history. It's only six months ago--" another

reporter began. One after another they added details to the

Ex-Governor's record of infamy. But that afternoon's paper contained a

eulogistic article on his patriotic achievement. An editorial which

Yetta knew O'Rourke had written praised him to the skies, and said the

people of the State were to be congratulated that so worthy a man had

consented to accept the nomination. Yetta could not understand the

psychology of these men who, having in hand the evidence to defeat an

unworthy candidate for public office, did not use it. This was worse

than cynicism--it was shameful.

As she was leaving the office a few days later, Cowan rode down in the

elevator with her.

"If you don't mind, Miss Rayefsky," he said, when they had dodged the

cars and had safely reached City Hall Park, "I'd like to give you a

little advice. Perhaps I'm butting in where I'm not wanted. But you see,

my youngest daughter is older than you are. And I guess breaking into a

new job and a new crowd isn't the easiest thing in the world for a

girl. I won't mind if you do snub me."

"Let's sit down a minute," Yetta said. "I'd like to talk to you. I

certainly do feel lost."

"Well--" He was evidently embarrassed. He seemed to give up hope of

being tactful and dove into his subject. "I overheard one of the men say

that you'd been to a dinner at Maud Ripley's. She's a clever woman. But

I'd not like to see one of my daughters tie up with her."

"I didn't enjoy myself," Yetta said. "I'm not going again."

"Good. That's all I had to say. She probably wouldn't do you any

harm--certainly wouldn't try to. But newspaper men don't think much of

her--except her brain. Excuse me for butting in."

He started to get up, but Yetta detained him. She was very deeply

touched by his kindly interest in her.

"There are a lot of things I would like to ask you, if you've the time."

She began on the affair of the Ex-Governor. Why did not Cowan and

O'Rourke and the others use their knowledge against him? The answer to

that was simple. They would lose their jobs. Karner and Billings were

friends. But this did not satisfy Yetta. They argued it out for half an

hour. Nobody saw the defects and limitations of journalism more clearly

than Cowan, and yet he was utterly loyal.

"If my son doesn't turn out a newspaper man, I'll disown him," he said

emphatically. "Now don't you go and get sore on newspaper work because

it isn't all honest. It's one whole lot better than when I began. The

Press is the hope of Democracy, and it is also its measure. Of course

Karner's ethics are a bit queer. But no crookeder than the people will

stand for. He'd be honest if it paid.

"The people can have just as good and clean a paper as they really want.

They get better and more democratic ones to-day than they did twenty

years ago, and when they want one that is really straight, they'll get

that.

"Of course it's bad if you want to look at it that way. It's a

compromise game. But there isn't any class of people in the country who

are doing more for progress than this bunch of cynical newspaper men.

They are the real patriots. Every new recruit pushes the flag a little

farther forward. But you've got to make up your mind to compromise."

"I haven't had to do it yet," Yetta said.

"Perhaps not yet. But sooner or later you will have to, if you're going

to play the newspaper game."

"That's the trouble with you people," Yetta exclaimed, as if she

suddenly saw a light, "you call it a game. I'm not playing with life.

I've got to consider myself and my work serious. I won't compromise. If

it's the rule of the game--why, I'll quit playing it."

The surprising thing was that she was not asked to compromise. Mr. Brace

seemed to take very little interest in what she wrote. When he spoke to

her about it, it was to make some technical suggestion about the use of

"caps" or "italics." No party Socialist could have accused her

contributions of lack of orthodoxy. She was giving her readers the

straight gospel. Day after day Isadore read them and wondered.

Mrs. Karner also wondered. Coming home late one night, she encountered

her husband in the hallway; he had just shown out some friends who had

been playing poker. She swept by him with a curt "Good night." He was a

little drunk. But she stopped halfway up the stairs.

"I say, Bert. Explain to me the mystery of Yetta Rayefsky. Her column

this afternoon is straight Socialism. What does it mean? Has a ray of

light penetrated into the subterranean gloom of your office? Has the

editorial staff fallen in love with her?"

Karner had been winning and was in good spirits.

"That's so. I've forgotten to thank you for suggesting her. She's a gold

mine."

"Yes. But how can _The Star_ stand the tone of decency she gives it?"

"Don't worry," he winked profoundly. "There'll be money enough for your

trip to Europe. A column and a half won't hurt us."

"But why do you let her do it? What's the answer?"

"As simple as A B C. I'm surprised you don't see it yourself. The little

lady's bugs on sweat-shops. And sweat-shops don't advertise. See? As

long as she sticks to the East Side, she can damn any one she likes to.

And as for Socialism--the girls don't vote."

"It was stupid of me not to understand," Mrs. Karner said as she went on

up to her room. "Goodnight--Cynic."

She never realized how much her jibes stung her husband.

"Damn the women," he muttered. "She married me for my money and don't

like the way I earn it."

Mr. Karner had loved his wife more than anything--except the pleasure of

cutting a figure in the world. His paper made him a power in the

community. Presidential candidates bid for his support. No one had dared

to blackball him when he had recently put up his name at a club which

was supposed to be composed of gentlemen. But his wife neither respected

nor feared him. He stood gloomily in the hallway--the fumes of champagne

making things oscillate gently--wondering whether he dared to go to her

room. He decided he was afraid, and, calling for his hat and coat, went

out.

But to the other people who were asking the same question which Mrs.

Karner had put to her husband, no answer was given. Isadore's daily

amazement at Yetta's outspoken Socialism gradually grew into a

conviction that he had been wrong. He wrote her a loyal letter of

apology, and Yetta in a condescending reply forgave him.

But trouble came as Christmas was approaching. Some ladies from the

Woman's Consumers' League called on Yetta, and, after praising her work

for factory women, tried to enlist her aid in the cause of the

department-store girls, who are so shamefully overworked in the season

of holiday shopping. They wanted her to speak at a mass meeting. It was

not hard to interest Yetta in such a cause.

"Give me some of the facts," she said, after she had promised to speak,

"and I'll run some stories about it in _The Star_."

But her first department-store article did not come out. It had been

"killed" in favor of a receipt for preserving the gloss on finger-nails.

A copy-reader, being wise in newspaper business and anxious to gain

favor, had run to the advertising manager with the proof. The

advertising manager had rushed angrily to Mr. Brace. Brace had gone to

Mr. Karner. Mr. Karner had thrown it into the wastepaper basket and

suggested the finger-nail story.

When Yetta called up Mr. Brace about it, she found him inclined to treat

the matter as a joke. "After all," he laughed, "you know there are

limits. You can't take a man's money for advertisement on one page and

spit in his eye on another. There is plenty of work for your scalping

knife among people who don't advertise."

Yetta began to understand. It was her first introduction to serious

temptation. In six months newspaper work had got into her blood. Besides

the pleasant thrill of it, there was the usefulness. There were hundreds

of girls who depended on her largely. It was hard to give up such an

audience. And it was pleasant work--well-paid. It was a wonderful thing

for a sweat-shop girl to have climbed so high. Should she go on "playing

the game"? For a while she tried to shift the responsibility to other

shoulders. What would people think? She knew what Mabel and Isadore

would think. Mabel would tell her to compromise. Isadore the opposite.

What would Walter think? And then it suddenly came to her clearly that

it didn't matter at all what anybody else thought. She had to decide it

by herself. Whatever happened, she would always have to live with

herself. Self-respect was more important than the regard of even the

closest friend. They were asking her to do just what she had

emphatically told Cowan she would never do. She put on her hat and went

to Mr. Karner's office.

"This matter does not concern me," he said. "I employ Mr. Brace to edit

the magazine page, and I trust his ability and judgment. If he

considered it unwise to run your article, that ends it."

"Mr. Karner, if _The Star_ is afraid to touch department stores, I'll

resign."

He spun round in his chair.

"Afraid? That's strong language."

"It's very easy to prove it unjustified," she said quickly.

He looked at her sternly for a few minutes, taking her measure. It was

his ability at this process which had enabled him to build up his paper

from a third-rater to its present position.

"Miss Rayefsky, you want a flat answer. We're in business to make money.

We won't attack our heaviest advertisers."

Yetta got up.

"Don't be in a hurry. Nobody gets a chance to resign from my staff

twice. Think this over for a couple of days. We've been satisfied with

your work; I hoped you were. I hoped that you thought what you were

doing was worth while. You can go on doing it indefinitely as far as I

can see. You're about to throw up this work because you can't do the

impossible. It isn't just _The Star_. It's a limitation of journalism.

No editor in the city could print that story."

"Within twenty-four hours I'll mail it to you in print," Yetta said,

moving towards the door.

"So!" he growled. "That's it, is it? Somebody else has offered you a

better contract. You forget, of course, that we taught you how to

write--that we advertised you--made you. You forget all that as soon as

somebody else offers you--"

But Yetta had slammed the door in his face.

Back in her room, she called up Isadore and told him the story.

"I'm mailing you the article to print in _The Clarion_."

So she made the honorable amend.

"I was half wrong, anyhow," he tried to comfort her. "I never would have

believed they'd let you free as long as they did. And besides--you've

learned to write. I hope you'll give us some more."

What hurt Yetta most was that a cable had come from Teheran saying that

Walter had started homeward. He would hear of the mess she had made.

Mr. Karner, when he received the Socialist paper, with Yetta's article

in it, vented some of his profane rage on his wife. The quarrel which

resulted brought Mrs. Karner to life.

CHAPTER XXII

WALTER'S RETURN

When the Archæological Expedition reached Constantinople, the married

men were met by their wives.

To the suburbanite who comes home after each day's work, the dinner is

likely to seem as important as his spouse. The waiting wife has a deeper

significance for the sailor and explorer. For three years these men had

seen no white women, except in a Scotch Mission compound, four days'

ride from their camp.

The Marquise d'Hauteville was much younger than her husband. She was a

daintily gowned Parisienne of the _Quartier St. Germain_. She was on the

dock with her two boys, seven and four. The sight of her explained to

Walter the nervous impatience which had kept the Chief pacing the deck

restlessly ever since they had left Batoum.

Dr. Bertholet, the querulous specialist in measuring skulls, suddenly

began to smile when he caught sight of Madame--a fat _bourgeoise_ in

black silk, who looked like _la patronne_ of a café. Beckmeyer, the

German authority on the ancient religions of Persia, waved his

handkerchief wildly to a flaxen-haired Gretchen. They had lost a son

while he was away, and when the gang plank was down, they rushed into

each other's arms and sobbed like children.

The unmarried men stood on one foot and then on the other until the

first transports had quieted and were then presented to the ladies. The

Marquis gave them a rendezvous in Paris for the next week. It was

understood that the married men were to have a few days with their

families before the expedition should formally report its return.

Delanoue, Vibert, and Walter rushed their baggage through the customs

and had just time to catch the Orient Express. All three of them were in

a hurry to reach Paris. The two Frenchmen were like bathers on a

spring-board about to dive into the sea. They let their imaginations run

riot, trying to devise a suitable orgy to recompense them for their

three years of deprivation. Delanoue wished them both to be his guests.

He proposed to lead them to his favorite restaurant and order everything

on the bill of fare. Afterwards they would invade Montmartre. Unless

Paris had seriously deteriorated, he felt sure he could make them

realize how sad and colorless were the wildest dreams of the Arabian

Nights.

Vibert gleefully accepted the invitation. But Walter quietly refused. He

also was in a hurry to reach Paris--he hoped to find a letter from

Mabel. When the train reached the _Gare de l'Est_, in spite of their

jibes at his Puritanism, he left them.

At the Consulate he found three packages of mail. He hurried to a hotel

and opened them eagerly. There was only one letter from Mabel, hardly

more than a note. Yetta, she wrote, had told her that he had started

homeward. She hoped the Expedition had been successful. She would be

glad to see him again. She was, as usual, very busy, but both she and

Eleanor were well.

What a fool he had been made by hope! He had not been able to accept her

definite refusals--he remembered them all now. These three years he had

shut his eyes to reality and had lived in a baseless hope. A man needs

something more than routine work to keep him going. In all the idle

moments scattered through his busy, exciting life--the minutes before he

fell asleep, the times some jackal's cry had waked him in the night, all

the intervals of waiting--he had thought of Mabel. And always he had

asked himself if their long intimacy was to lead to nothingness. It

seemed impossible. Surely she would feel his absence, miss him from her

life and want him back. His friendship must have meant something to her.

She was proud and hard to change. But time would work the miracle. She

would call to him. It seemed to be written in the stars, in the glory of

the desert dawns, in the haunting afterglows of the sunset.

The last months this dream had been more concrete than any reality. When

he reached Paris after his long exile, he would find her summons.

Perhaps she would come there to meet him. There was only this cold and

formal note.

In his barren hotel room he sounded the very depths of loneliness. Of

all his recent comrades he alone was unwelcomed. He thought of the

dainty Marquise d'Hauteville and her children. They had stopped off at

Semmering in the Austrian Alps. He did not know where the Bertholets

were celebrating their reunion. Beckmeyer and his Gretchen had gone up

to their village home on the edge of the Black Forest. And somewhere on

the side of _La Butte joyeuse_, Delanoue and Vibert were finding

companionship and a hearty welcome. Here he was in his dismal hotel

room, alone with the Dead Hope he could not forget, a misfit, a

mistake--_une vie manquée_.

The winter night fell over Paris, but he was too gloomy to notice the

darkness. It was the cold which at last stung into his consciousness. He

went to bed like a man who had been drugged.

The next morning he was awakened by a batch of reporters. Somehow the

news that the Expedition had returned had leaked out. The reporters had

heard some vague rumors of "the siege" when for two weeks the fanatics

had attacked the camp, and how Walter, dressed in native clothes, had

slipped through the lines and brought relief. But he refused to talk,

taking refuge behind the etiquette which requires subordinates to hold

their peace until the chief has spoken.

He had hardly got rid of the reporters, when Delanoue and Vibert broke

in with an incoherent account of their adventures. They were both drunk

and decidedly tired. While Walter was shaving, Delanoue fell asleep on

his bed, Vibert on his lounge. And they were not quiet about it.

The coffee went cold in Walter's cup. What should he do? It was

impossible to spend the morning listening to uneasy grunts and snores.

Where should he go? On previous visits to Paris he had enjoyed himself.

He knew many people. But he did not feel that they would amuse him this

time. Anyhow it was too early to make calls. His coffee was hopelessly

cold. He was trying to overcome his listlessness and ring for more, when

the _chasseur_ brought him a _petit bleue_ and the announcement that a

new swarm of reporters wanted to see him.

"Hello, hello, Mr. Walter Longman," the _pneumatique_ ran. "The morning

papers announce your advent. Come around for dejeuner. By all means

come. I'll lock the door. I warrant the newspaper men are hounding you.

If you are one half as agreeable as you used to be, you'll rescue from

the very bottom of boredom an unfortunate woman who signs herself

Your friend

BEATRICE MAYNARD KARNER."

Walter had hardly thought of Mrs. Karner since leaving America. But five

minutes after he had torn open the despatch, he had dodged the reporters

and was out on the sidewalk. It was his intention to call a taxi and go

at once to Mrs. Karner's, but he realized abruptly that it was much too

early. He had an hour and a half to kill before time for dejeuner. He

sat down in one of the Boulevard Cafés and tried to interest himself in

the papers. But once more the ugly mood came to him. He let his coffee

grow cold again. He sat there glowering at an indefinite spot on the

polished floor--wondering dully if there was any further interest left

for him in life. He felt so unsocial that he gave up the idea of going

to Mrs. Karner's. He would be bored. But as lunch time approached he

became disturbed at the idea of eating alone. Certainly anybody's

company would be better than his own.

Mrs. Karner welcomed him gayly. She seemed bent on being merry. There

was a subtle change in her manner of dressing. She was less of a _grande

dame_ than she had been in New York. She was feeling her way back to

her youth. There was a dash of reckless uncertainty in her manner as of

a boy at the beginning of his vacation or a convict just released.

"How I envy you all the excitement you've been having! Tell me about

it."

He had just started to reply when dejeuner was announced and they went

out to the dining-room. He hardly remembered what they talked

about--details of the Expedition mostly. But when the meal was ended and

they went back to the salon, Mrs. Karner stretched out on a _chaise

longue_ and he sat down on the ottoman by the open fire. A constraint

fell on them. For lack of a better remark he said--

"I've a pocket full of choice Caucasian cigarettes. Won't you try one?"

She accepted his suggestion, but he could think of nothing further to

say.

"You're not exactly cheerful to-day," she said. "Anything wrong?"

He made a vague gesture.

"Bad news from home?"

"Home?" He tried to make his tone flippant. "Is there any such place?"

"Fine!" she said. "You're coming on, Walter. Your worst fault used to be

your belief in such superstitions."

It was her turn now to hide her seriousness behind the mask of

flippancy.

"Do you notice anything particular about the furniture in this room?"

"It's fine old Empire."

"Well, it doesn't matter whether it's _Empire_, or _Louis Seize_, or

_Henri Quatre_, or _Chinois_. It isn't Gothic! That's the important

point. Yes," she went on in answer to the question in his eyes, "I'm

expecting the final papers any day. I'll take my maiden name. Beatrice

Maynard."

She threw back her head and blew out some rings of the fragrant smoke.

"It took me a long time to learn this trick," she said, as if it were a

very serious matter. "The man who kept the Morgue on _The Star_ taught

me--in the old days."

But Walter hardly heard her irrelevant words. He was thinking of the

implications of her smash-up, and overlaid on these thoughts was the

impression that her throat was very beautiful. He had never noticed it

before.

"Fine cigarettes, these," she commented, still watching the smoke rings

to avoid meeting his eyes.

But Walter did not reply. A sudden pity for her flooded him. How

hopelessly lost they both were, splashing about aimlessly in the great

muddle of life. They sat silent for many minutes, staring blankly at the

dead past and the future which promised to be stillborn.

It is strange how much we sometimes know of other people which has never

been told. Mrs. Karner, although Walter had never taken her into his

confidence, knew with amazing clearness the import of his barren

romance. And he, in the same way, sensed what was wrong with her, felt

the deadening tragedy which lay behind her mocking words.

She--frightened by the feeling that in this poignant silence they were

becoming dangerously intimate--brought their reveries to an abrupt end

by jumping up.

"We're a sorry couple, aren't we? We've messed things up frightfully,

and we want to cry. It's much better business to laugh. Let's shake

hands and cheer up."

The wide sleeve of her morning gown fell back from her arm as she

stretched out her hand to him. Her skin seemed inordinately,

preposterously white to him as he stood up. But the thing which

impressed him most was the intricate network of tiny blue veins on the

inside by the elbow.

"In France," he said, "I claim French privileges."

As she did not pull her hand away when he raised it to his lips, he

kissed the blue veins inside her elbow. He did not realize what he was

doing--what he had done--until he heard the sharp intake of her breath.

The look on her face made the blood pound in his temples.

It was only a matter of seconds that they were both silent. But it

seemed an interminable time.

Walter looked down into the glowing fireplace--struggling with the thing

which burned within him more hotly than the coals. After all--why not?

It is horrible to be lonely.

"You foolish boy," she said, with an uneasy laugh, "I didn't mean to be

taken so literally."

"I guess it's the only way for us--if we want to cheer up."

He snapped his half-burnt cigarette into the grate and turned towards

her. Her face suddenly went white, and she swayed unsteadily. One hand

waved aimlessly in the air, seeking support. He took it in his.

The next few days the papers were full of the Expedition. The Marquis

d'Hauteville came back from Semmering, and a large part of his statement

was a tribute to Walter's ability and courage. The other members of the

Expedition, with the delightful courtesy of the French, emphasized his

part in the Siege and exaggerated the perils he had run while bringing

them relief. Paris dearly loves such sensations. Nothing pleases the gay

city more than to idolize a foreigner. He did the best he could to

escape the lionizing.

There was much work still to do in the preparing of the report. He moved

from the hotel to a quiet cottage in Passy and settled down to work--and

play. Beatrice scrupulously respected his "duty hours," but once he was

free from his desk, he plunged with her into a swirl of gayety, such as

he had never before permitted himself. The follies of the

"_Transatlantique_" set--the rich Americans of the Étoile

district--interested him from their sheer novelty. Beatrice's incisive

comments on the bogus aristocracy--the Roumanian Grand Dukes and Princes

of the Papal States--who fattened off the gullibility of his countrymen

amused him immensely.

Their intimacy was strange indeed. Before his infatuation with Mabel,

Walter had not been exactly a Puritan, but he had never experienced

anything like this. No word of love ever passed between him and

Beatrice. The hallowed phrases of affection were under the ban. They

were feverishly engaged in trying to forget, in helping each other

forget how hollow such words had proved. A feeling of delicacy

restrained him from using the word "home," it had been such a mockery to

her. And to have spoken to him of fidelity would have seemed to her rank

cruelty.

Only once did they talk together of the past. What he had to tell was

told quickly. Her story was longer, and part of it she did not tell.

Her father had been a doctor. His death, when she was in college, had

left her almost penniless, alone with an invalid mother. Literature had

always been her ambition; so, leaving college, she had come to New York

to try newspaper work. She had fought her way to a very moderate

success. It was not the kind of work which interested her,--the

dreariest kind of pot-boiling,--and it did not pay enough to keep her

mother in the comfort she was accustomed to. There was no immediate

prospect of bettering their position. Beatrice was very much

discouraged. She thought she had it in her to write novels, but by

wearing herself out with hack work she could not earn enough for her

mother's needs and had no energy left for the things she longed to do.

Then Bert Karner had come along. He was a young millionnaire from the

West. He bought _The Star_ on which Beatrice worked. Although rich, he

was not of proud family. He never told how his father had made his

stake. His outspoken ambition was "to make New York sit up and take

notice." He had a decided genius for journalism. And it was not long

before the steadily increasing circulation of his paper--and his

piratical methods--attracted attention. There was no statute by which he

could be sent to jail, so he became "a leading citizen."

At the very first he fell wildly and tumultuously in love with Beatrice.

Although his passion for her was very real, it was not entirely free

from calculation. His project of "being somebody" required a skilled

manager. Beatrice was beautiful, she knew how to dress. She was witty,

she would make a distinguished-looking hostess. He could also rely on

her taste in selecting his neckties. He was morbidly afraid of appearing

vulgar, and especially in this matter of neck-wear he was afraid to

trust his own judgment. These considerations made him ask her to be his

wife instead of his mistress. Her first refusal surprised him. But he

was used to buying what he wanted, and he kept raising her price.

If Mrs. Maynard had complained, her daughter would very likely have been

more egoistic. But her mother, whom she always referred to as an Angel

in Heaven, never complained. And so at last Beatrice sold herself.

But--and this, for some unaccountable reason, she did not tell

Walter--she had had an outspoken explanation with Karner. He knew what

he was buying, knew that she did not love him.

Three months after the marriage Mrs. Maynard died suddenly. This was

what had annihilated Beatrice. It was so horribly grotesque. If her

mother had only died before the wedding! If the gods had only given

Beatrice courage to hold out a little longer! To give her mother these

three months of comfort, she had sold all her life.

In her first fit of despair she had burned the half-finished novel. What

did a failure like herself have to tell the world? But her mother's

death had not been Bert's fault. So at first she tried to fulfil her

contract with him, did what she could to organize his home and help him

in his social climbing. But the Fates had not finished their

bludgeonings. Into this dumb indifference which followed her mother's

death came a sudden demonstration of her husband's rascality. When she

had married him, she had at least thought he was an upright man. If her

spirit had not been broken, she would have left him at once. But she was

too shattered to care any more. She had gone through the forms of life,

seeking listlessly after distraction. The thing which had come nearest

to reality had been her interest in the Woman's Trade Union League. She

had gone on the Board because her husband urged her to make friends with

Mrs. Van Cleave. It held her interest because her own hunger-years had

given her a deep sympathy.

Although she did not realize it, it was Yetta who had at last driven her

to leave her husband. She had caught some of Yetta's life-giving faith.

It takes us a long time to recover when once we are dead, and Mrs.

Karner had been a long time dead. She did not know what was happening,

but the grain of faith, which the little East Side vest-maker had

planted in her, grew steadily. Slowly it had forced out roots into the

dead matter about it, pushed the stem which was to bear fruit up through

the hardened soil to the light. When Mr. Karner had profanely explained

how Yetta had left his office, his wife suddenly realized that she was

alive again. The sham was over. The next day she had called on a lawyer

and had left for Europe shortly afterwards.

Walter and Beatrice did not have another serious talk for several

months. He had nearly finished his work, and she at least had begun to

wonder what would come next. An early spring day had tempted them to

motor down the river to St. Cloud. After supper, Walter was contentedly

filling his pipe, his back against a great chestnut tree, while she was

repacking the dishes in the lunch basket.

"If you want any help," he said lazily, "I'll call the chauffeur. He's

paid to do such things."

She ignored his remark until she had finished. Then she came over and

sat beside him.

"Walter," she said, "in three weeks now I'm going to leave Paris--for

Switzerland."

"It doesn't begin to get hot here till the end of June."

"Well, I'm not going in search of coolness. Quiet is what I want. I've

got to settle down to work--a novel. I must get away from this turmoil

of a city and its disturbances."

"Am I one of the disturbances?" he asked after a moment's thought.

"Yes."

"It'll be very lonely for me when you go."

"Let's have a cigarette," she said.

It was not till it had almost burnt out that either of them spoke. She

broke the silence.

"Yes. I will be lonely too. But it looks to me like my only salvation."

She stopped to press out the spark of her cigarette on the sole of her

slipper. "I'm not a success as a light-minded woman, Walter. I'm no good

at dancing a clog. I rather think you saved my life. I've been leaning

on you more than you have known, I guess. I've caught my breath--thanks

to you."

He put out his hand in protest:--

"There's lots of thanking to be done, but it's the other way round."

But she did not seem to hear him. Her brow was puckered up trying to

find words for the thing she wanted to say.

"I've got to stand on my own feet--alone. I didn't want to take any

money from Bert. A good friend lent me some. Enough for a year or two,

but I can't always be dependent."

"Why not lean on me a little more effectively," he broke in impetuously.

"Why not go on just as we are--at least till you find your footing."

"No," she shook her head decisively. "That wouldn't do at all. Look

here, Walter, we're grown up--we can talk it out straight. What future

is there for us if we go on? Only two alternatives. We'll get to hate

each other--or--we'll get to--we'll become a habit. Woof! Habits are

hard to break. No. If I'm really going to live, I've got to avoid habits

as I would leprosy. There'll never be any decent life for me till I've

convinced myself that I can go it alone. I've got a whole lot of things

to fight out. My plan is best. Three weeks more of vacation, three weeks

more of ribbons--and then armor."

"As you think best," he said.

The last day, he bought her ticket for her, engaged her berth in the

morning, and then they went out again to St. Cloud to spend the day.

After lunch they spread out a rug under the great trees.

"Boy," she began. She was not as old as he, but being a woman she liked

to pretend she was. "I've come to a momentous conclusion about you. You

ought to be married."

He sat up with a jerk.

"Don't be frightened," she said. "I'm not a candidate. I've had too much

of it already. But seriously--you're different. I don't mean to be

insulting, but you were made to be a family man. Our little holiday has

been pleasant without end, but it's not what you were meant for. After

all you're not too old to reform. You've been on the rocks. But there's

a good deal left of the wreckage. I got into trouble because I didn't

have the nerve to hold tight enough to my dream. Watch out that you

don't make the opposite mistake. Let me diagnose your case."

She moved around in front of him, and from time to time shook her

slender finger at him solemnly.

"You've ability. Serious ability--the kind this old world of ours needs.

And you've this 'social conscience' with which the younger generation is

cursed. You won't be content to waste yourself. What are you going to

do? Somehow you've got to find a place where you'll seem to yourself

useful. If not, you'd better commit suicide at once. If you're going to

run to waste, at least spare yourself the shameful years. But no. You're

not defeated enough for the arsenic bottle.

"You've two kinds of ability. You pretend to despise this

archæology--but nobody else does. The other ability is your grasp of

social philosophy. For either career--and, wise as I am, I'm not sure

which will be better for you--you need a quiet, orderly life, not a

disturbing, disorderly romp like these last months. You need to be well

kept, you need a wife."

Walter smoked away quietly, but his face had turned haggard.

"I don't want to hurt you," she went on relentlessly, "but Mabel Train

isn't the only woman in the world."

"She's the only one I ever especially noticed, till you came along."

"Leave me out of this discussion. There's just the trouble. If you

insist on keeping your eyes closed to the other women, you'd best run

along and blow your fool head off at once. If you want a real life, open

your eyes."

"Well," he said with a wry smile, "I suppose you've got some victim to

recommend. Whom shall I notice?"

It was several minutes before she took up his challenge.

"Why don't you notice Yetta Rayefsky?"

"Yetta Rayefsky?" he repeated in amazement.

"Yes. Why not? She's a fine girl, and she worships the ground you walk

on."

"You're joking."

"Not at all. I know what I'm talking about. Perhaps she doesn't realize

it herself, but she's very much in love with you."

"The poor little girl!"

"Yes. Of course. You ought to be sorry for her. You don't deserve it.

But when it comes to that, did any man ever live who really deserved to

have a woman love him? That's the tragedy of our sex. We have nothing

better to love than mere men."

There were no heroics over their separation. They went to town for

supper. They were both sufficiently civilized to keep up the appearance

of gayety.

Just before the train started she leaned out of the window of her

compartment and tossed him a final challenge.

"Walter," she said, "I'm more fortunate than you. I know what I'm going

to do next. Better not waste time deciding. You know what my advice is.

Go back to New York and get married."

But there was no agreement in his face as the train pulled out.

The next weeks were Hell for him. Left to himself, the bitter memories

came back with a rush. The _Quatorze feuillet_ brought him the Legion of

Honor. He had often thought that it was the one distinction he would

enjoy most. The investiture seemed a farce. What good are honors, when

there is no one at whose feet to lay them? Then came the offer of a

professorship at Oxford. It was a life berth, the highest scholastic

honor to which he could aspire. After all, if these people valued his

knowledge of Haktite and no one else valued him at all, why not accept?

But he could not bring himself to a definite separation from Mabel. He

decided to have one more try. He asked for a month to consider the

Oxford offer and started home. He announced his coming by two cables--to

Mabel and to Yetta.

CHAPTER XXIII

THE PALACE OF DREAMS

When the cablegram from Teheran had announced that Walter was starting

homeward, it became necessary for Yetta to rearrange her attitude

towards him. As long as he had been an abstraction she had been

perfectly free to love him according to her fancy. Evidently she would

have to treat the real person differently.

Of course she was glad that he was coming back, but there was an

undercurrent of sadness to the thought. It is very hard to give up

habits which have become dear. And she was habituated to his absence. In

a more tangible way his rooms had become dear to her. In this setting

she had come into life. Almost every memory she valued, except those of

her father, were connected with the place. She had read so many books in

his great leather chair! She had learned to write at his desk. Even the

two oil portraits, of his grandfather in a stiff stock and his

grandmother in crinoline, had become in a way personal possessions. She

must leave all this, must learn to live in new surroundings.

But this regret was only half conscious. There were more vivid

sensations of expectancy. Above all she tremblingly hoped for his

approbation. When the Great Jahwe had completed his six days' labor and

was looking it over, the Earth must have had a palpitating moment of

suspense while it waited His verdict. Yetta felt herself the work of

Walter's hands. Would he say, "It is good"?

Her love had made her foolishly humble. An objective observer would have

doubted if Walter was worthy to unlace her shoes. The fairies had been

generous at his christening. They had given him health and wealth and

brains. He himself would have admitted that most of his talents had lain

idle, wrapped in a napkin. Yetta had not been so richly endowed. At

fifteen, with hardly any education, the Fates had put her in a

sweat-shop. But she had been given one priceless talent--a keen hunger

for an ever larger life. No slightest opportunity for growth had she let

slip. Walter was a pitiful example of wasted opportunities compared to

this young woman of twenty-two.

There was a more subtle disparity between them.

Yetta's beliefs were passionate faiths, Walter's were intellectual

convictions. The dozen odd years' difference in age might have explained

this, but it went deeper. Walter had never had the knack of being an

intimate part of activity. He was an observer rather than a participant

in life. He never got closer to the stage than the wings. And more often

he sat in a box. Between her ardent faith and his tired disillusionment

lay a chasm which was more than a matter of years. But she, being in

love with him, and hardly knowing him at all--at most she had had a

dozen talks with him--could not see this.

Would he give her more than approbation? As long as she could, Yetta

tried to avoid a definite answer to this question. But it became

insistent. She knew he had been in love with Mabel. Eleanor Mead's

gossip had supplemented her own conviction. At first it had seemed the

inevitable that he should love the wonderful Miss Train. But the last

year had seen almost a quarrel between Yetta and Mabel. There were

constant disagreements as to the policy of the Woman's Trade Union

League. Mabel did not want it to become avowedly Socialist and Yetta

did. Mabel felt that she had a discoverer's right to Yetta and was

provoked whenever her _protégée_ showed a will of her own. It is hard

enough for men to keep friends in the face of serious and long-continued

difference of opinion. Women, with lesser experience in the world of

affairs, with a more personal tradition, find it harder. It had come to

a climax over Yetta's resignation from _The Star_. Mabel had been very

indignant and had called it a piece of stupid Quixotism. It had shown

Yetta very clearly the fundamental gap between their points of view.

They still called each other by their first names and professed undying

affection. But it was hard nowadays for Yetta to realize how the

wonderful Walter had ever loved this rather narrow-minded woman. She

knew where Mabel bought her false hair. Surely Walter would get over his

infatuation. Vague hopes inevitably mingled with her thoughts of the

future. But she was almost relieved by his unexpectedly long stay in

Paris.

Walter had hardly seen the lights of Le Havre sink below the horizon

before he began to regret his decision to go to New York. Once more hope

had made a fool of him. What chance was there that Mabel would have

changed her mind in these six months? Certainly she had not loved him

when she had written that miserably cold note of welcome. His escapade

with Beatrice would hardly help matters. What perversity was it that

drove him home to receive a new humiliation?

Two days out they ran into a gale, and Walter, who was a good sailor,

had the promenade deck almost to himself. Standing up forward, an arm

round a stanchion for a brace, the spray in his face, it seemed as if

the cobwebs which had been smothering him were blown away. He could look

at himself calmly, objectively. One question after another posed itself,

and he sought the answers, not as an infatuated fool, but as a man who

has "suffered unto wisdom."

What was there for him to hope for from Mabel? Nothing. Absolutely

nothing. Even if she relented, it was a sorry prospect. If now, after

six years, after her youth had passed, she suddenly decided to pick up

what she had so long despised, it would be in discouragement. He had

more disillusions than enough of his own. And Mabel in slippers was a

revolting idea. The romantic thing for him to do, now that romance was

dead, was to kill himself on the lady's front doorstep. But the age of

romance had passed for him.

For the first time in six years he looked out upon a future in which

Mabel played no part. Beatrice had said he must find some useful work.

There was the Oxford offer. Of course every acquisition to the museum of

human knowledge is worth while. But it was very hard for him to apply

this theory to his specialty. What good did it do any one to have him

piece together the broken fragments of a semicivilization, so long dead?

He could think of no branch of study which more truly deserved Carlyle's

jibe of "dry-as-dust." It was perhaps better than suicide, but was there

no more human sort of utility for him? As Beatrice had said, the "social

conscience" was keen in him. He wanted to serve the people of his day

and generation.

The one activity he could think of was suggested by the news in Yetta's

letters of the English Socialist newspaper which Isadore Braun was

editing and to which she was occasionally contributing. His surplus

money, quite a lot of it had piled up in the last three years, would

help immensely. Even if they could not raise enough to maintain a daily,

his income would suffice for a weekly. The three of them would be a

strong editorial combination. More and more the idea attracted him. They

could make a representative publication of it. Isadore with his faith in

the political party, Yetta in close touch with the trade-unions, and he

to furnish a broader, more philosophical expression of the movement of

revolt. They were three able, intelligent people who were not afraid.

What better thing could he do with the remnant of his life than to weld

them into an organized force? Gradually they would attract other brains

to their group. Just such an intellectual centre was what the movement

needed. The idea at least had the virtue of stirring a wave of true

enthusiasm in him.

This line of thought brought Yetta to his mind--and Beatrice's advice.

He smiled at the idea. Intellectually he might admit that it would be

well for him to marry. But the Yetta he remembered was a frightened

little East Side girl, who had not enough sense to keep out of the

clutches of a cadet. Of course she had grown up, her letters showed

that. And she had been a pretty youngster. If, as Beatrice believed, she

was in love with him, it might possibly work out that way in time. But

he was in no mood for romance. Hunger for a life of activity kept his

mind on his project of work. The few times his thoughts touched on

Yetta, he wrenched them back to what the three of them might accomplish

with the paper.

As the ship slipped into its berth, Walter leaned over the rail and

eagerly scanned the upturned faces of the welcoming crowd on the dock.

When at last he convinced himself that there was no one there whom he

knew, he suddenly realized that once more the hope had tripped him up.

He had been looking for Mabel. He went back to the smoking-room and

tried to regain his self-respect by a glass of whiskey. As the cab took

him through the familiar streets, he was grimly telling himself that it

would never happen again; Mabel did not exist any more.

Yetta was waiting for him in his rooms. She had spent her last night

there, and at eight in the morning had carried her valise--the trunk had

gone before--to her new quarters on Waverly Place. She could not afford

a place to herself and had gone in with another Socialist girl, Sadie

Michelson, in joint control of a small flat. While she was waiting

through the morning hours, she rearranged his business papers for the

fiftieth time. There was a pile of receipts, year by year, each one

numbered to correspond to its check. There were the check-books, each

voucher pinned to its stub. The bank-book had just been balanced.

It was about eleven when the cab rattled up to the door. From her seat

in the window she saw him get out. Casting a quick glance over the room

to reassure herself that everything was exactly as he had left it, she

opened the door and went out on the landing. "Welcome home," she called

down to him.

It did not occur to her that what she was doing was dramatic. But the

lonely hearted man who was struggling up the narrow stairs with his two

grips was deeply moved by her words and the vision which greeted his

upturned eyes. A flood of light came out through the door of his room

and illumined her as she stood above him on the landing.

"Hello," he said out loud. But to himself he said, "My God!"

Yetta's girlish promise of beauty had been richly fulfilled. Her figure

had become more definite. There had been a sort of precociousness about

the sweat-shop girl he remembered. The Yetta who greeted him now was a

fully developed symmetrical woman. Her face, her arms, her neck had

caught up with the rest of her body. There was nothing fragile about her

any more. One no longer feared that she might be suddenly snuffed out

and leave nothing but the haunting memory of her eyes. More striking,

and at the same time more subtle, was the transformation from

self-conscious awkwardness to the assured grace of a personage who has

found a place in life. The Yetta he remembered had been impulsive--a

creature of extremes--one moment lost in a childish abandon of

enthusiasm, the next embarrassed and _gauche_. This woman was calm,

restrained, and while perfectly conscious of herself was not

self-conscious.

He had remembered her as pretty. Good food and a healthy life had taken

from her the exotic, orchid-like charm of her girlhood. Yet she had

grown greatly in beauty. Her face had gained immensely in "range"--to

borrow a musical term. It held the capacity of a whole gamut of

expressions it had before lacked. Her eyes were as beautiful as ever,

and they had looked on many things. Her mouth had always been

well-proportioned. Now any one could see that it was a perfected

instrument. There were thousands of things it could say. Her cheeks had

flushed or paled with a myriad of emotions and had grown more beautiful.

And yet the mass of rich brown hair, which had always been the crown of

her beauty, had not begun to lose its lustre.

When Walter reached the head of the stairs and shook hands with her, she

had changed from the dimmest of possibilities to a vivid desire.

"Did you have a good passage?"

"Fine. A gale all the way over."

There were a few more banalities.

"Good Lord, Yetta," he exploded. "How you've grown up and changed!"

Yetta had hoped for his approbation of her works. He was admiring her

person. He was looking her over with frank pleasure. The blush hurt her

cheek. She turned away to hide it.

"Here's a note Mabel gave me for you," she said.

Walter took it mechanically. He ought to have tossed it into the

waste-paper basket. But the hope, the fool, the idiot hope grabbed him

by the throat. Once more. He tore it open. This would be positively the

last concession to the Dream.--Eleanor Mead was decorating a country

house out near Stamford, Mabel had gone out to pass the week-end with

her. She was glad to hear that Walter was back and looked forward to

hearing about his adventures. She judged from the papers that he had had

a lot--So! Spending a few days with Eleanor, whom she saw all the time,

was more important than staying in town to greet him, whom she had not

seen for years. He stuck the letter in his pocket and turned to Yetta,

who was watching him closely.

"How's 'Saph' coming on?" he asked lightly.

"I don't see much of her."

"Good," he laughed. "She was never exactly a chum of mine."

"Here are all your business papers," Yetta said, going over to his desk,

"receipts and all that."

"Oh! bother the receipts," he said. "I want to talk. How's Isadore's

paper getting along?"

"There isn't any money," she said with a grimace. "There's a note on

yesterday's editorial page, which says if they can't raise five thousand

this week they'll have to stop. I guess one thousand will keep them

going. They'll get it. But in a couple of weeks it will be the same

thing over again. I guess it's doomed."

"I've been thinking about it," Walter said, "and I've got a scheme.

Isadore tackled too much in a daily. That costs such a frightful lot.

There isn't yet a big enough Socialist audience to support it. A

weekly--a good lively, red-hot weekly--is the thing."

He went on to elaborate his idea. Gradually the constraint which Yetta

had felt at first wore off. She curled up on the window-seat and

listened to his talk as she had done the first day in his room--as she

had done ever since in her dreams. She knew it would be hard work to

persuade Isadore to give up the daily, but she felt that sooner or later

he would have to. And in Walter's scheme was the promise of

collaboration and constant association with him. She could hardly be

expected to bring forth any serious criticism.

While he talked, she had the opportunity to look him over. After all he

was not a god. The thing which surprised her most was his hair--it was

shot through with irregular patches of gray. But this was only a detail.

The soft life of the last few months in Paris had not quite killed the

tan which the glare of the Persian sun had given him. He looked very

rugged and strong--if his hands had been larger, he might have sat as a

model for Rodin. And the halo of fame played about his forehead. The

newspapers had given some space to him, and two or three lurid "Sunday

stories" had been run about "the siege." They had recounted the various

honors which had been given him. Yetta knew that the narrow red ribbon

in his buttonhole was the Legion of Honor. And he was calmly proposing

to give up what seemed to her a great renown for the obscure career of

Socialist propaganda. Her love put forth blossoms.

"Gee," he interrupted himself at last. "It's long past lunch-time. Let's

go over to the Lafayette. Any of the old waiters still there?"

Although Walter insisted that the cooking had deteriorated, it was a

resplendent meal to Yetta. The proprietor came to their table and asked

if he might present the French Consul, who was lunching there and who

wanted to congratulate Walter on the red ribbon. The Consul made a

formal and stilted speech on behalf of the French Colony in New York.

Yetta was as much impressed as Walter was bored. When this disturbance

was over, he made her talk about herself. The meal was finished before

she was half through with her news.

"Come on," he said. "It's too blazing hot to be in town. Let's jump on a

ferry and go down to Staten Island."

"I ought to go up to the League."

"Oh! bother the League. One doesn't come home from Persia every day in

the year. I want to celebrate."

All New York's four millions seemed bent on the same errand, but they

managed to crowd into the "elevated," and after a breathless scramble at

the Battery fought their way to places on the ferry, and at last found a

fairly secluded spot on the beach. He listened through the afternoon to

the story of how she had spent the three and a half years of his

absence. Just as at first, she still found it easy to talk to him. Sure

of his quick understanding, she found herself telling him everything.

She told him of Isadore's proposal. That disturbed him somewhat.

"Will it interfere with the three of us working together?" he asked.

"Why, no," she said, her eyes opening wider with surprise. "Of course

not. I guess he's got over it. It was two years ago. But anyhow we've

been working together all the time. He wouldn't let a thing like that

interfere with work."

And Walter, judging Isadore by himself, decided that it could not have

been very serious. Although Yetta did not know it, she was, in almost

every word, showing Walter her love. There was a naïve directness in all

her relations with people. It was always hard for her to act a part. She

talked to Walter as a woman naturally talks to a man she loves. Even

without Beatrice's hint, he would have understood.

It was a new sensation to feel himself loved so simply and wholly. Such

love is rare in this world, and no man sees it offered without a deep

feeling of awe. What should he do? Should he turn her loyalty into a

derision, as had been the fate of his own? His life counted for very

little to him. It had been burnt out. That the love of this fine, clean,

loyal young woman might be pleasant to him seemed to count relatively

little. He did not feel particularly selfish, he was only a fool. He was

sorry for her, and thought he could make her happy.

Beatrice, who knew him better than any other woman did, thought he

could. Of course he realized that it was not exactly a romantic

proposition. He had small use for romance. But if any one had charged

him with planning to seduce Yetta into marriage under pretext of love,

he would have indignantly denied it. What does love mean? Undoubtedly

his feeling and hers were miles apart. But, after all, he was fond of

her. Even in a most impersonal way he admired her immensely. He had

liked her spirit from the first. He had not listened unmoved to the

story of her struggle of these three years. There was nothing he admired

more than such capacity for consistent effort. And it took a serious

exercise of will power to think about her impersonally. It was so much

easier to lie back on the sand and refresh his senses with the charm of

her youth.

Some one might have reminded him that emotionally he was very much of a

wreck, that her youth had a right to demand its like, that his wearied

disillusionment was no match for her fresh, exuberant faith. He would

have answered that she was not a child, she was old enough to choose.

He listened and watched her and the sun slipped down among the Jersey

hills.

"It's time to be going back," Yetta said.

"I'm quite happy here, and when we get hungry, there are restaurants

about."

"I think Isadore will come to see you to-night. I told him you were due

to-day."

"Oh, bother Isadore. Bother everything except this delectable breeze and

the smell of the sea and you and me and the moon. Look at it, Yetta. It

was at its unforgettable best last night--but it will be better

to-night. It's going to be very beautiful right here where we are. And

much as I like and admire Isadore, he isn't beautiful.

"Life," he went on in a moment, "and its swirl of duties will grab us

soon enough, Yetta. We're going to be too busy on that paper, my friend,

to hunt out such places as this. Let's sit very, very still and be happy

as long as we may."

They both were very still as they watched the twilight fall over the

Bay. The little red and green and white lights of the passing boats

swayed softly in the gentle swell. A great liner crept up the channel

towards the Narrows, row above row of gleaming portholes. Coney

Island--section by section--woke to a glare of electricity. The blade

of a searchlight at Fort Hamilton cut great slashes in the night. A

strident orchestra in a restaurant behind them tried in vain to attract

their attention.

Yetta found it easy to be happy; she felt that Walter approved of her.

"Yetta," he said, rolling over closer to where she sat, her back against

the rotting beam of a wrecked ship, "Yetta, I didn't expect to find you

so good to look at. I wonder if you know how very beautiful you are."

The wreck against which she leaned cast a moon-shadow across her face,

and he could not see the desperate blush which flooded her cheeks and

neck. Something laid hold of her heart and told it to be quiet, to beat

gently and not to make a noise.

"But that's not the way to begin, Yetta. It's hard for me to say what I

want to, because--well--I'm past the poetic age. I couldn't sing

now--nor play on a lute--if I tried. Perhaps it's just as well to talk

prose, because it's all very serious."

"Since I've finished up this Persian job, I've been thinking a lot about

what to do next. I could go on with that kind of work very easily. But I

want some more concrete kind of usefulness. You'll know what I mean. I

want to make my life count at something more than dry scholarship. And

the only thing I can think of that seems worth doing is to pitch in and

help Isadore on this paper. We'd need you in the combine. And that means

thinking about you. I've done a lot of it. Wondering what manner of

person you had grown to be. I was sure we'd be able to work well

together. But I did not expect to find you so wonderful. Less than four

years ago you were only a girl. You've grown amazingly, Yetta, grown in

wisdom and in beauty--beauty of soul and face.

"I'm a lonely and rather battered old bachelor, Yetta. And no man really

wants to be a bachelor. Sometimes, coming over on the boat, I thought

about you--in that connection. But I couldn't help thinking of you as a

young girl, lovable and very dear, but very young. And I'm getting old.

My hair is turning gray, and many things turn gray inside, Yetta, before

the hair turns. You don't seem so painfully young to me now, and the

dream doesn't seem ludicrous. We're going to work together, Yetta, be

partners and comrades. I've very little to offer you, but it would be a

great thing for me if you would also be my wife."

"I thought you were in love with Mabel," she said.

The cool sound of her words startled her. With the heavens opening,

could she speak in so commonplace a voice? They sounded so utterly

inadequate that she would have given worlds to have them back, unsaid.

It was a moment before he sat up and answered her.

"I was."

"I told you, Yetta," he went on in a moment, "that I'm a bit

dilapidated, getting gray.

"Yetta," he began again, forgetting that he was going to let her choose

freely, "you believe in the reformation even of criminals. Isn't there

any hope for me?"

Her arms were about him, her sobs shook him, he could feel the moisture

of her tears against his cheek. Except for the sharp rasp of her breath,

they were very still. Suddenly he felt ashamed of himself. What did he

have to give her in exchange for such vibrant love? But gradually the

sense of contact, the pressure of her arms and her soft young body

brushed aside this feeling that he was cheating her. Taking her face in

his hands he turned it towards the moon and kissed her. When he held

back her head so that the light fell on her face, its deep solemnity

frightened him.

"Can't you smile a little?" he asked.

The tears welled up in her eyes again, but a smile such as he had never

seen came, too. A laugh rippled up her throat and rang out into the

night.

"Oh, Walter, Walter, I'm such a little fool to cry. But if I hadn't

cried, I'd have died."

They forgot all about the moon they had waited out to see. Like dozens

of other lovers on the beach that night, they forgot about supper. They

missed the one o'clock boat and sat outside of the ferryhouse in the

shadow of some packing-cases till two o'clock. They decided that it

would be fun to walk home through the deserted streets. When they could

think of no further reason to pass and repass her door, she kissed him

"a really truly good night."

"I'll wake you up by telephone in the morning," she said, "and come

round and make your coffee."

For half an hour after she had undressed she sat in her window looking

up at the moon above the airshaft. She did not want ever to forget how

the moon looked that night. But fearing that she might oversleep and

lose the chance to breakfast with him, she at last went to bed.

For an hour more Walter paced up and down in Washington Square, between

the sleeping figures huddled up on the park benches or stretched

uneasily on the hard dry ground. He was ill at ease. He wished he might

go to a hotel, some place less saturated with memories of Mabel than his

own diggings. Had he lied when he had used the past tense about Mabel?

Did he love her still? Was it fair to talk marriage to Yetta with this

uncertainty in his mind?

"Morbid scruples!" he told himself disgustedly, and went to bed. But he

dreamed about Mabel.

Far away in Stamford, she also was late in falling asleep. That evening

she and Eleanor had played together for several hours. But at first the

music had gone wrong. Mabel, like Beatrice, like Isadore--like

everybody--knew that Yetta was in love with Walter. She was thinking

about them, wondering about their meeting, and it had thrown her into

discord with Eleanor. They had almost had a quarrel over it, for Eleanor

guessed the cause. At last, with an effort of will, Mabel had lost

herself in the music, a closer harmony than usual had sprung up between

the two friends--it had ended as a very happy evening. But after Eleanor

fell asleep, the thought of Walter and Yetta came back again

disturbingly. Eleanor, Mabel told herself, was a fool to be jealous. She

did not love Walter. She would not have left the city except that she

wanted to give Yetta a clear field. She hoped they would marry, for she

liked them both. But how she envied Yetta! There was no treasure she

could dream of which she would not have sacrificed to feel herself in

love as Yetta was.

A little after eight in the morning, Walter was shaken out of sleep by

the noisy din of his telephone bell.

"Good morning, Beloved," Yetta's fresh voice came to his sleepy ears. "I

couldn't call you up before--not till my room-mate went out. I could

get dressed and round to your room in three minutes, but I'll give you

ten. Put the water on. You can't have slept much, because a lot of times

I felt you kiss me."

"Well, don't waste time talking about it," he interrupted. "Hurry."

"All right," and he heard the click of her receiver.

The scruples of the night before had vanished at the sound of her voice.

He jumped into his bath and clothes with a keen thrill of expectancy. He

sat in the window-seat and watched for her coming. God! What a queer

world it was! He had been thinking over the possible expediency of

suicide, and now life was opening up to him in thrilling vistas.

He waved his hand when he caught sight of her, and pinched himself to be

sure he was awake when he noticed her quicken her pace.

He pretended to scold her for being slow. A dozen times he interrupted

the coffee-making at critical moments to kiss her. She said it would

surely be spoiled, and he swore he did not care. Yetta pretended to be

in a hurry to finish the dishes and get uptown to work. It was a very

meagre pretence. And what wonderful plans they made! With his arm about

her they explored the two rooms in the back, which the carriage painter

used as a storehouse for his brushes and cans. He would have to vacate.

One they would turn into a dining-room. Yetta spoke of the other as the

guest-room. But Walter christened it "the nursery."

CHAPTER XXIV

THE CRASH

When it was time for lunch, Yetta said she would rather cook than go to

a restaurant, so they raided a delicatessen store.

It was during the afternoon that the first shadow fell across their

dream. Yetta asked him if he had heard about Mrs. Karner's divorce.

"Yes, I know."

There was a queer ring in his voice which made her look up; something in

his face disturbed her.

"What's the matter?"

He took his arms from about her and got up.

"Yetta," he said, pacing the room, "I suppose I'm a fool to ask you. But

how much do you want to know? Very few men in this world of ours live up

to their own ideals. I certainly haven't. I told you I was getting gray.

Well--she's one of the gray spots--inside. I'd rather not tell you about

it. It will only hurt you. But I'm not a good liar. You noticed

something at the bare mention of her name. But if you want to know, I'll

tell you."

For a moment Yetta was silent.

"I think you'd better tell me," she said. "I'm not afraid."

But she was. She had accepted the idea that Mabel had preceded her in

his affection. She had not thought of other women. This was disturbing

enough. But what really frightened her was that he was reluctant to

tell. If there was any one tangible thing which love meant to her, it

was frankness. She had told him everything without his asking. Here was

something he had held back. What it was did not matter so much as the

different point of view it showed. It was startling to realize how very

little she knew of his life.

He pulled up a chair beside the window-seat where she lay, and told her

about Beatrice; told it in a way that did not make her seem offensive to

Yetta. He told the story as truthfully as might be, without giving its

real explanation--his heartbreak over Mabel. He did not want to bring

this in. If Yetta had asked him point-blank how long it was since he had

been in love with Mabel, he would not have tried to deceive her. But the

telling of it would only distress her.

"It may not sound to you like a pretty story," he ended. "I'm not proud

of it. But I'm not exactly ashamed either. It's a sick sort of a world

we live in. There are better days coming when the relations between men

and women will be saner and sweeter--and finer. But I don't think more

lightly of Beatrice because of this. She's a remarkable woman. Life has

not been very kind to her. But she's fought her way to the place where

she is through with pretence. That at least was fine about our

friendship. We were not pretending. I haven't told it very well, perhaps

I haven't made you understand. But I hope Beatrice can look back on it

without being ashamed. I can."

Although Yetta listened intently, she was all the time thinking not so

much of Mrs. Karner as of what she typified--the unknown life of the man

she loved, the things he had not told her.

"Am I forgiven?" he asked, kneeling beside her and taking her hand.

"Oh! Forgiven! That isn't it. Who am I to forgive you or blame you? It's

that I don't understand. And when I don't understand, I'm afraid."

"You mustn't be afraid of the past, darling."

"I don't know about that. When it comes to love, I can't think of any

past or present or future. It's just somehow eternally always and now

and for ever and ever. I'm not sure we can get away from the past. I

can't explain it very well, but some things are real and some aren't. I

don't think I'll ever get rid of the real things which have come to me.

They'll never die."

"Well, don't worry about Beatrice,--that was only an interlude--not

'real.'"

"And Mabel?"

"A dream."

"But some dreams are real," she insisted.

"No dream in all the world, Yetta, is real like your lips."

She wanted so much to be kissed, had been so frightened for a moment,

that she sought his arms without questioning this statement. But a few

minutes later the thought came to her suddenly that he had kissed

Beatrice just as he was kissing her. He felt her wince.

"What's the matter?" he asked.

"Oh, I'm dizzy. Let me go a minute."

She got up and stood by the window. She was doing him an injustice. He

had never kissed Beatrice as he had just kissed her. But women seem

never to understand that it is an utter impossibility for a man to

caress different women in the same way. Probably our Father Adam and

Mother Eve are the only couple the Earth has seen who have not had words