Joe went on. Behind his words was a menace.
"Then I want to say this to you. Your boss, Mr. Marrin, has done a
cowardly and treacherous thing. He has made scabs of you all. You are no
better than strike-breakers. If you do this work, if you make these
cloaks, you are traitors to your fellow-workers, the cloak-makers. You
are crippling other workmen. You are selling them to their bosses. But
I'm sure you won't stand for this. You are men enough to fight for the
cause of all working people. You belong to a race that has been
persecuted through the ages, a brave race, a race that has triumphed
through hunger and cold and massacres. You are great enough to make this
sacrifice. If this is so, I call on you to resist your boss, to refuse
to do his dirty work, and I ask you--if he persists in his orders--to
lay down your work and _strike_."
He sat down, and there was a miserable pause. He had not stirred them at
all, and felt his failure keenly. It was as if he had not reached over
the fence of race. He told himself he must school himself in the future,
must broaden out. As a matter of fact, it was the menace in his tone
that hushed the meeting. The men rather feared what lay behind Joe's
words.
At once, however, one of the men leaped to his feet, and began a fiery
speech in Yiddish, speaking gaspingly, passionately, hotly, shaking his
fist, fluttering his hands, tearing a passion to tatters. Joe understood
not a word, but the burden of the speech was:
"Why should we strike? What for? For the cloak-makers? What have we to
do with cloak-makers? We have troubles enough of our own. We have our
families to support--our wives and children and relations. Shall they
starve for some foolish cloak--makers? Comrades, don't listen to such
humbug. Do your work--get done with it. You have good jobs--don't lose
them. These revolutionists! They would break up the whole world for
their nonsense! It's not they who have to suffer; it's us working
people. We do the starving, we do the fighting. Have sense; bethink
yourselves; don't make fools out of yourselves!"
A buzz of talk arose with many gesticulations.
"He's right! Why should we strike--Och, Gott, such nonsense!--No more
strike talk."
Then Sally arose, pale, eyes blazing. She shook a stanch little fist at
the crowd. But how different was her speech from the one in Carnegie
Hall--that time when she had been truly inspired.
"Shame on all of you! You're a lot of cowards! You're a lot of traitors!
You can't think of anything but your bellies! Shame on you all! Women
would never stand for such things--young girls, your sisters or your
daughters, would strike at once! Let me tell you what will happen to
you. Some day there will be a strike of shirt-waist-makers, and then
your boss will go to the cloak-house and say, 'Now you make shirtwaists
for me,' and the cloak-makers will make the shirtwaists, saying, 'When
we were striking, the shirtwaist-makers made cloaks; now we'll make
waists.' And that will ruin your strike, and ruin you all. Working
people must unite! Working people must stand by each other! That's your
only power. The boss has money, land, machinery, friends. What have you?
You only have each other, and if you don't stand by each other, you
have nothing at all. Strike! I tell you! Strike and show 'em! Show 'em!
Rise and resist! You have the power! You are bound to win! Strike! I
tell you!"
Then a man shouted: "Shall a woman tell us what to do?" and tumult broke
loose, angry arguments, words flying. The air seemed to tingle with
excitement, expectation, and that sharp feeling of human crisis. Joe
could feel the circle of human nature fighting about him. He leaned
forward, strangely shaken.
Izon had arisen, and was trying to speak. The dark, handsome young man
was gesturing eloquently. His voice poured like a fire, swept the crowd,
and he reached them with their own language.
"Comrades! Comrades! Comrades!" and then his voice rose and stilled the
tumult, and all leaned forward, hanging on his words. "You must"--he was
appealing to them with arms outstretched--"you must! You will strike;
you will not be cowards! Not for yourselves, O comrades, but for your
children--_your children_! Do I not know you? Do I not know how you toil
and slave and go hungry and wear out your bodies and souls? Have I not
toiled with you? Have I not shared your struggles and your pain? Do I
not know that you are doing all, all for your children--that the little
ones may grow up to a better life than yours--that your little ones may
be happier, and healthier, and richer, and finer? Have I not seen it a
thousand times? But what sort of a world will your children find when
they grow up if you do not fight these battles for them? If you let the
bosses enslave you--if you are cowards and slaves--will not your
children be slaves? Oh, we that belong to Israel, have we not fought for
freedom these bloody thousand years? Are we to cease now? Can't you see?
Can't you open your hearts and minds?" His voice came with a passionate
sob. "Won't you see that this is a fight for the future--a fight for all
who work for wages--a fight for freedom? Not care for the cloak-makers?
They are your brothers. Care for them, lest the day come when you are
uncared for! Strike! You must--you _must_! Strike, comrades! We will
hang by each other! We will suffer together! And it will not be the
first time! No, not the first time--or the last!"
He sank exhausted on his chair, crumpled up. Sweat was running down his
white face. There was a moment's hush--snuffling, and a few coarse
sobs--and then a young man arose, and spoke in trembling voice:
"I move--we send Jacob Izon to-morrow to our boss--and tell him--either
no cloaks, or--we strike!"
"Second! Second!"
Joe put the motion.
"All in favor, say aye."
There was a wild shout of ayes. The motion was carried. Then the air
was charged with excitement, with fiery talk, with denunciation and
ardor.
"Now we're in for it!" said Joe, as the room was emptied, and the
aroused groups trudged east on the crunching snow.
And so it was. Next morning, when Theodore Marrin made the rounds of the
vast loft where two hundred girls and forty-five men were busily
working--the machines racing--the air pulsing with noise--Jacob Izon
arose, trembling, and confronted him.
"Well, Jacob!"
"I want to tell you something."
"Go ahead."
"The men have asked me to ask you not to have us make the cloaks."
Marrin's red face seemed to grow redder.
"So, that's it!" he snapped. "Well, here's my answer. Go back to your
work!"
The men had stopped working and were listening. The air was electric,
ominous.
Izon spoke tremblingly.
"I am very sorry then. I must announce that the men have struck!"
Marrin glared at him.
"Very well! And get out--quick!"
He turned and walked away, flaming with rage. The men quickly put their
work away, got their hats and coats, and followed Izon. When they
reached the street--a strange spectacle on flashing, brilliant Fifth
Avenue--Izon suggested that they go down to Tenth Street, for they stood
about like a lot of lost sheep.
"No," cried one of the men, "we've had enough of Tenth Street. There's a
hall we can use right over on Eighteenth Street. Come on."
The rest followed. Izon reported to Joe, and Joe asked:
"Do you think they'll fight it out?"
"I don't know!" Izon shrugged his shoulders.
This doubt was justifiable, for he soon found that he was leading a
forlorn hope. As morning after morning the men assembled in the dark
meeting-room behind a saloon, and sat about in their overcoats
complaining and whining, quoting their wives and relatives, more and
more they grew disconsolate and discouraged. There were murmurs of
rebellion, words of antagonism. Finally on the fifth morning a messenger
arrived with a letter. Izon took it.
"It's from Marrin," he murmured.
"Read it! Read it out loud!"
He opened it and read:
TO MY MEN,--I have thought matters over. I do not like to sever
connections with men who have been so long in my employ. If you return
to work this morning, you may go on at the old salaries, and we will
consider the matter closed. If, however, you listen to advice calculated
to ruin your future, and do not return, please remember that I will not
be responsible. I shall then secure new men, and your places will be
occupied by others.
Yours faithfully,
THEODORE MARRIN.
_P.S._--Naturally, it is understood that under no circumstance will your
leader--Jacob Izon--the cause of this trouble between us--be
re-employed. Such men are a disgrace to the world.
Izon's cheeks flushed hot. He looked up.
"Shall I write to him that we will not consider his offer, and tell him
we refuse to compromise?"
There was a silence a little while, and then one of the older men
shuffled to his feet.
"Tell you what we do--we get up a collection for Izon. Then everything
will be all right!"
Izon's eyes blazed.
"Charity? Not for me! I don't want you to think of me! I want you to
think of what this strike means!"
Then some one muttered:
"We've listened long enough to Izon."
And another: "I'm going to work!"
"So am I! So am I!"
They began to rise, to shamefacedly shamble toward the door. Izon rose
to his feet, tried to intercept them, stretched out his arms to them.
"For God's sake," he cried, "leave me out, but get something. Don't go
back like this! Get something! Don't you see that Marrin is ready to
give in? Are you going back like weak slaves?"
They did not heed him; but one old man paused and put a hand on his
shoulder.
"This will teach you not to be so rash next time. You will learn yet."
And they were gone. Izon was dazed, heart-broken. He hurried home to his
wife and wept upon her shoulder.
Late that afternoon Joe and Sally were again alone in the office, their
lights lit, their pens scratching, working in a sweet unspoken sympathy
in the quiet, shadowy place. There was a turning of the knob, and Izon
came in. Joe and Sally arose and faced him. He came slowly, his face
drawn and haggard.
"Joe! Joe!"
"What is it?" Joe drew the boy near.
"They've gone back--the men have gone back!"
"Gone back?" cried Joe.
"Read this letter!"
Joe read it, and spoke angrily.
"Then I'll do something!"
Izon pleaded with him.
"Be careful, Joe--don't do anything foolish for my sake. I'll get
along--"
"But your wife! How does she take it?"
Izon's face brightened.
"Oh, she's a Comrade! That's why I married her!"
"Good!" said Joe. "Then I'll go ahead. I'll speak my mind!"
"Not for me, though," cried Izon. "I'll get something else."
"Are you _sure_ of that?" asked Joe.
"Why not?"
"Are you sure," Joe went on, "that you won't be blacklisted?"
Izon stared at him.
"Well--I suppose--I will."
"You'll have to leave the city, Jacob."
"I can't. I'm right in my course of engineering. I can't go."
"Well, we'll see!" Joe's voice softened. "Now you go home and rest.
There's a good fellow. And everything will be all right!"
And he saw Izon out.
Joe began again to feel the tragic undercurrents of life, the first time
since the dark days following the fire. He came back, and stood
brooding, his homely face darkened with sorrow. Sally stood watching
him, her pale face flushing, her eyes darting sympathy and daring.
"Mr. Joe."
"Yes, Miss Sally."
"I want to do something."
"What?"
"I want to go up to Marrin's to-morrow and get the girls out on strike."
"What's that?"
"I've done it before; I can do it again."
Joe laughed softly.
"Miss Sally, what would I do without you? I'd go stale on life, I
think."
She made an impulsive movement toward him.
"Mr. Joe."
"Yes?"
"I want to help you--every way."
"I know you do." His voice was a little husky, and he looked up and met
her fine, clear eyes.
Then she turned away, sadly.
"You'll let me do it?"
"Oh, no!" he said firmly. "The idea's appealing, but you mustn't think
of it, Miss Sally. It will only stir up trouble."
"We ought to."
"Not for this."
"But the shirtwaist-makers are working in intolerable conditions;
they're just ready to strike; a spark would blow 'em all up."
He shook his head.
"Wait--wait till we see what my next number does!"
Sally said no more; but her heart nursed her desire until it grew to an
overmastering passion. She left for the night, and Joe sat down, burning
with the fires of righteousness. And he wrote an editorial that altered
the current of his life. He wrote:
FORTY-FIVE TREACHEROUS MEN
Theodore Marrin and the forty-four who went back to work for him:
Every one of you is a traitor to American citizenship.
Let us use blunt words and call a spade a spade.
Theodore Marrin, you have betrayed your employees.
You forty-four men, you have betrayed yourselves and your leader.
And so it went, sharp, incisive, plain-spoken--words that were hot
brands and burned.
He was sitting at this task (twice his mother had called him to supper
and he had waved her away) when an exquisite black-eyed little woman
came in.
"Mr. Blaine?"
"Yes."
"I'm Mrs. Izon."
Joe wheeled about and seized her hand.
"Tell me to do something for you! You and your brave husband!"
Mrs. Izon spoke quietly:
"I came here because Jacob is so worried. He is afraid you will harm
yourself for us."
Joe laughed softly.
"Tell him not to worry any longer. It's you who are suffering--not I. I?
I am only having fun."
She was not satisfied.
"We oughtn't to get others mixed up in our troubles."
"It's hard for you, isn't it?" Joe murmured.
"Yes." She smiled sadly. "I suppose it isn't right when you are in the
struggle to get married. Not right to the children."
Joe spoke courageously.
"Never you mind, Mrs. Izon--but just wait. Wait three--four days. We'll
see!"
They did wait, and they did see.
VI
A FIGHT IN GOOD EARNEST
Sally hesitated before going into Marrin's that Monday morning. A
blinding snow-storm was being released over the city, and the fierce
gusts eddied about the corner of Fifth Avenue, blew into drifts, lodged
on sill and cornice and lintel, and blotted out the sky and the world.
Through the wild whiteness a few desolate people ploughed their way,
buffeted, blown, hanging on to their hats, and quite unable to see
ahead. Sally shoved her red little hands into her coat pockets, and
stood, a careless soul, in the white welter.
From her shoulder, some hundred feet to the south, ran the plate-glass
of Marrin's, spotted and clotted and stringy with snow and ice, and
right before her was the entrance for deliveries and employees. A last
consideration held her back. She had been lying awake nights arguing
with her conscience. Joe had told her not to do it--that it would only
stir up trouble--but Joe was too kindly. In the battles of the working
people a time must come for cruelty, blows, and swift victory. Marrin
was an out-and-out enemy to be met and overthrown; he had made traitors
of the men; he had annihilated Izon; she would fight him with the women.
Nor was this the only reason. Sally felt that her supreme task was to
organize the women in industry, to take this trampled class and make of
it a powerful engine for self-betterment, and no women were more
prepared, she felt, than the shirtwaist-makers. She knew that at
Marrin's the conditions were fairly good, though, even there, women and
young girls worked sometimes twelve hours and more a day, and earned,
many of them, but four or five dollars a week. What tempted Sally,
however, was the knowledge that a strike at Marrin's would be the spark
to set off the city and bring out the women by the thousands. It would
be the uprising of the women; the first upward step from sheer
wage-slavery; the first advance toward the ideal of that coming woman,
who should be a man in her freedom and her strength and her power, and
yet woman of woman in her love and her motherhood and wife-hood.
Industry, so Sally knew, was taking the young girls by the million,
overworking them, sapping them of body and soul, and casting them out
unfit to bear children, untrained to keep house, undisciplined to meet
life and to be a comrade of a man. And Sally knew, moreover, what could
be done. She knew what she had accomplished with the hat-trimmers.
Nevertheless, she hesitated, not quite sure that the moment had come.
Joe's words detained her in a way no man's words had ever done before.
But she thought: "I do this for him. I sharpen the edge of his editorial
and drive it home. Words could never hurt Marrin--but I can." She got
under the shelter of the doorway and with numb hand pulled a copy of
_The Nine-Tenths_ from her pocket, unfolded it, and reread the burning
words of: "Forty-five Treacherous Men." They roused all her fighting
blood; they angered her; they incited her.
"Joe! Joe!" she murmured. "It's you driving me on--it's you! Here goes!"
It was in some ways a desperate undertaking. Once, in Newark, a rough of
an employer had almost thrown her down the stairs, man-handling her, and
while Marrin or his men would not do this, yet what method could she use
to brave the two hundred and fifty people in the loft? She was quite
alone, quite without any weapon save her tongue. To fail would be
ridiculous and ignominious. Yet Sally was quite calm; her heart did not
seem to miss a beat; her brain was not confused by a rush of blood. She
knew what she was doing.
She climbed that first flight of semi-circular stairs without hindrance,
secretly hoping that by no mischance either Marrin or one of his
sub-bosses might emerge. There was a door at the first landing. She
passed it quickly and started up the second flight. Then there was a
turning of a knob, a rustling of skirts, and a voice came sharp:
"Where are you going?"
Sally turned. The forelady stood below her--large, eagle-eyed woman,
with square and wrinkled face, quite a mustache on her upper lip. Sally
spoke easily.
"Up-stairs."
"For what?"
"To see one of the girls. Her mother's sick."
The forelady eyed Sally suspiciously.
"Did you get a permit from the office?"
Sally seemed surprised.
"Permit? No! Do you have to get a permit?"
The forelady spoke roughly.
"You get a permit, or you don't go up."
"Where's the office?"
"In here."
"Thanks for telling me!"
Sally came down, and, as she entered the doorway, the forelady proceeded
up-stairs. Sally delayed a second, until the forelady disappeared around
the bend, and then quickly, quietly she followed, taking the steps two
at a time. The forelady had hardly entered the doorway on the next
landing when Sally was in with her, and treading softly in her
footsteps.
This was the loft, vast, lit by windows east and west, and hung, this
snow-darkened morning, with many glittering lights. Through all the
space girls and women, close together, bent over power-machines which
seemed to race at intolerable speed. There was such a din and clatter,
such a whizzing, thumping racket, that voices or steps would well be
lost. Then suddenly, in the very center of the place, the forelady,
stopping to speak to a girl, while all the girls of the neighborhood
ceased work to listen, thus producing a space of calm--the forelady,
slightly turning and bending, spied Sally.
She came up indignantly.
"Why did you follow me? Go down to the office!"
Many more machines stopped, many more pale faces lifted and watched.
Sally gave a quick glance around, and was a trifle upset by seeing Mr.
Marrin coming straight toward her. He came with his easy, tripping
stride, self-satisfied, red-faced, tastefully dressed, an orchid in his
buttonhole. Sally spoke quickly.
"I was only looking for Mr. Marrin, and here he is!"
As Mr. Marrin came up, more and more machines stopped, as if by
contagion, and the place grew strangely hushed.
The forelady turned to her boss.
"This woman's sneaked in here without a permit!"
Marrin spoke sharply.
"What do you want?"
Then in the quiet Sally spoke in a loud, exultant voice.
"I only wanted to tell the girls to strike!"
A sudden electricity charged the air.
"What!" cried Marrin, the vein on his forehead swelling. "You come in
here--"
"To tell the girls to strike," Sally spoke louder. "For you've made the
men traitors and you've blacklisted Izon."
Marrin sensed the danger in the shop's quiet.
"For God's sake," he cried, "lower your voice--speak to me--tell me in
private--"
"I am," shrieked Sally. "I'm telling you I want the girls to strike!"
He turned.
"Come in my private office, quick! I'll talk with you!"
Sally followed his hurried steps.
"Yes, I'll tell you there," she fairly shrieked, "that I want the girls
to strike!"
Marrin turned.
"Can't you shut up?"
And then Sally wheeled about and spoke to the two hundred.
"Girls! come on out! We'll tie him up! We're not like the men! _We_
won't stand for such things, will we?"
Then, in the stillness, Jewish girls here and there rose from their
machines. It was like the appearance of apparitions. How did it come
that these girls were more ready than any one could have guessed, and
were but waiting the call? More and more arose, and low murmurs spread,
words, "It's about time! I won't slave any more! He had no right to put
out Izon! The men are afraid! Mr. Blaine is right!"
Marrin tried to shout:
"I order you to get to work!"
But a tumult drowned his voice, a busy clamor, an exultant jabber of
tongues, a rising, a shuffling, a moving about.
Sally marched down the aisle.
"Follow me, girls! We're going to have a union!"
It might have been the Pied Piper of Hamelin whistling up the
rats--there was a hurrying, a scurrying, a weird laughter, a blowing
about of words, and the two hundred, first swallowing up Sally, crowded
the doorway, moved slowly, pushed, shoved, wedged through, and
disappeared, thundering, shouting and laughing, down the steps. The two
hundred, always so subdued, so easily bossed, so obedient and
submissive, had risen and gone.
Marrin looked apoplectic. He rushed over to where the forty-four men
were sitting like frightened animals. He spoke to the one nearest him.
"Who was that girl? I've seen her somewhere!"
"She?" the man stammered. "That's Joe Blaine's girl."
"_Joe Blaine_!" cried Marrin.
"Look," said the man, handing Marrin a copy of _The Nine-Tenths_, "the
girls read this this morning. That's why they struck."
Marrin seized the paper. He saw the title:
FORTY-FIVE TREACHEROUS MEN
and he read beneath it:
Theodore Marrin, and the forty-four who went back to
work for him:
Every one of you is a traitor to American citizenship.
Let us use blunt words and call a spade a spade.
Theodore Marrin, you have betrayed your employees.
And then farther down:
No decent human being would work for such a man.
He has no right to be an employer--not in such hands
should be placed the sacred welfare of men and women.
If I were one of Marrin's employees I would prefer the
streets to his shop.
Marrin looked up at the forty-four. And he saw that they were more than
frightened--they were in an ugly humor, almost ferocious. The article
had goaded them into a senseless fury.
Marrin spoke more easily.
"So that's your friend of labor, that's your Joe Blaine. Well, here is
what your Joe Blaine has done for you. You're no good to me without the
girls. You're all discharged!"
He left them and made madly for the door. The men were chaotic with
rage; they arose; their voices went sharp and wild.
"What does that Joe Blaine mean? He takes the bread out of our mouths!
He makes fools of us! He ought to be shot! I spit on him! Curse him!"
One man arose on a chair.
"You fools--you listened to that man, and went on strike--and now you
come back, and he makes you lose your jobs. Are you going to be fools
now? Are you going to let him get the best of you? He is laughing at
you, the pig. The girls are laughing at you. Come on! We will go down
and show him--we will assemble before his place and speak to him!"
The men were insane with rage and demon-hate. Vehemently shouting, they
made for the stairs, rushed pell-mell down, and sought the street, and
turned south through the snow. There were few about to notice them, none
to stop them. Policemen were in doorways and odd shelters. And so,
unimpeded, the crazed mob made its way.
In the mean time Marrin had come out in his heavy fur coat and stepped
into his closed automobile. It went through the storm, easily gliding,
turned up West Tenth Street, and stopped before Joe's windows. Marrin
hurried in and boldly opened the office door. Billy jumped up to
intercept him.
"Mr. Blaine--" he began.
"Get out of my way!" snapped Marrin, and stepped up to Joe.
Joe was brooding at his desk, brooding and writing, his dark face
troubled, his big form quite stoop-shouldered.
"Well," said Joe, "what's the matter, Mr. Marrin?"
Marrin tried to contain his rage. He pointed his cane at Joe.
"You've made a mistake, Mr. Blaine."
"It isn't the first one."
"Let me tell you something--"
"I will let you."
Marrin spoke with repression.
"Next time--don't attack both the boss and the men. It's bad policy.
Take sides."
"Oh, I did take sides," said Joe, lightly. "I'm against anything
treacherous."
Marrin exploded.
"Well, you'll get yours! And let me tell you something! I've a good mind
to sue you for libel and shut up your shop."
Joe rose, and there was a dangerous light in his eyes. His hands were
open at his sides, but they twitched a little.
"Then," said Joe, "I'll make it worth your while. If you don't want to
be helped out, _get out_!"
"Very well," sputtered Marrin, and turned, twirling his cane, and made
an upright exit.
The sad Slate was paralyzed; Billy was joyous.
But Joe strode into the kitchen, where his mother was quietly reading at
the window.
"What is it, Joe?"
"Mother," he said, "that fellow Marrin was in threatening to sue me for
libel."
"Could it hurt you?"
"It might. Speaking the truth is always libelous."
Joe's mother spoke softly.
"Your father lost an arm in the war. You can't expect to fight without
facing danger. And besides," she laughed easily, "you can always get a
job as a printer, Joe."
Joe paced up and down moodily, his hands clasped behind his back.
"If it was only myself--" he murmured, greatly troubled. "I wonder where
Sally is this morning."
"Didn't she come, Joe?"
"No. Not a word from her. I'd hate her to be sick."
"Hadn't you better send over and see?"
"I'll wait a bit yet. And yet--" he sighed, "I just need Sally now."
His mother glanced at him keenly.
"Sally's a wonder," she murmured.
"She is--" He spoke a little irritably. "Why couldn't she have come this
morning?"
There were quick steps, and Billy rushed in, his eyes large, his cheeks
pale.
"Mr. Joe!" he said breathlessly.
"Yes, Billy."
"There's a lot of men out on the street, and they're beginning to fire
snowballs!"
Nathan Slate came in, a scarecrow of fear, teeth chattering.
"Oh, Mr. Joe," he wailed. "Oh, Mr. Joe!"
Joe's mother rose, and spoke under her breath.
"Mr. Slate, sit down at once!"
Slate collapsed on a chair, trembling.
Joe felt as if a fork of lightning had transfixed him--a sharp white
fire darting from head and feet and arms to his heart, and whirling
there in a spinning ball. He spoke quietly:
"I'll go and see."
It seemed long before he got to the front window. Looking out through
the snow-dim pane, he saw the street filled with gesticulating men. He
saw some of the faces of the forty-four, but mingled with these were
other faces--the faces of toughs and thugs, ominous, brutal, menacing.
In a flash he realized that he had been making enemies in the district
as well as friends, and it struck him that these were the criminal
element in the political gang, hangers-on, floaters, the saloon
contingent, who were maddened by his attempt to lead the people away
from the rotten bosses. As if by magic they had emerged from the
underworld, as they always do in times of trouble, and he knew that the
excited East Side group was now flavored with mob-anarchy--that he had
to deal, not with men whose worst weapon was words, but with brutes who
lusted for broken heads. Some of the faces he knew--he had seen them
hanging about saloons. And he saw, too, in that swift scrutiny, that
many of the men had weapons; some had seized crowbars and sledges from a
near-by street tool-chest which was being used by laborers; others had
sticks; some had stones. An ominous sound came from the mob, something
winged with doom and death, like the rattling of a venomous snake, with
head raised to strike, ready fangs and glittering eyes. He could catch
in that paralyzing hum words tossed here and there: "Smash his presses!
Clean him out! Lynch him, lynch him! Kill--kill--kill!--"
A human beast had coiled at his door, myriad-headed, insane,
bloodthirsty, all-powerful--the mob, that terror of civilization, that
sudden reversion in mass to a state of savagery. It boded ill for Joe
Blaine. He had a bitter, cynical thought:
"So this is what comes of spreading the truth--of really trying to
help--of living out an ideal!"
A snowball hit the window before him, a soft crash and spread of drip,
and there rose from the mob a fiendish yell that seemed itself a power,
making the heart pound, dizzying the brain.
Joe turned. His mother was standing close to him, white as paper, but
her eyes flashing. She had not dared speak to Joe, knowing that this
fight was his and that he had passed out of her hands.
He spoke in a low, pulsing voice.
"Mother, I want you to stay in back!"
She looked at him, as if drinking her fill of his face.
"You're right, Joe," she whispered, and turned and went out.
Billy was standing at the stove, a frightened boy, but he gripped the
poker in his hand.
"Billy," said Joe, quietly, "run down and tell Rann to keep 'em out of
the press-room."
Billy edged to the door, opened it, and fled.
Joe was quite alone. He sat down at his desk and took up the telephone.
"Hello, Central!" his voice was monotonous in its lowness and tenseness.
"Hello!"
"Give me police headquarters--_quick_!"
Central seemed startled.
"Police--? Yes, right away! Hold on!--Here they are!"
"Hello! Police headquarters!" came a man's voice.
"This is Joe Blaine." Joe gave his address. "There's a riot in front of
the house--a big mob. Send over a patrol wagon on the jump!"
At that moment there was a wild crash of glass, and a heavy stone sang
through the air and knocked out the stove-pipe--pipe and stone falling
to the floor with a rumble and rattle--and from the mob rose murderous
yells.
So Joe was able to add:
"They've just smashed my window with a stone. You'd better come damn
fast."
"Right off!" snapped Headquarters.
Joe put down the telephone, and stepped quietly over the room and out
into the hall. Even at that moment the hall door burst wide and a
frenzied push and squabble of men poured forth upon him. In that brief
glimpse, in the dim storm-light, Joe saw faces that were anything but
human--wild animals, eyes blood-shot, mouths wide, and many fists in the
air above their heads. There was no mercy, no thought, nothing
civilized--but somehow the demon-deeps of human nature, crusted over
with the veneer of gentler things, had broken through. Worse than
anything was the crazy hum, rising and rising, the hoarse notes, the
fierce discord, that beat upon his brain as if to drown him under.
Joe tried to shout:
"Keep back! I'll shoot! Keep back!"
But at once the rough bodies, the terrible faces were upon him,
surrounding him, pushing him. He seized a little man who was jumping for
his throat--seized and shook the little beast.
"Get back!" he cried.
Fists pushed into his eyes, blows began to rain upon his body and his
head. He ducked. He felt himself propelled backward by an irresistible
force. He felt his feet giving way. Warm and reeking breath blew up his
nostrils. He heard confused cries of: "Kill him! That's him! We've got
him!" Back and back he went, the torn center of a storm, and then
something warm and sweet gushed over his eyes, earth opened under him
and he sank, sank through soft gulfs, deeper and deeper, far from the
troublous noise of life, far, far--into an engulfing blackness.
The flood poured on, gushing down the stair-way, at the foot of which
Rann and his two men stood, all armed with wrenches and tools.
Rann shouted.
"I'll break the head of any one who comes!"
The men in advance tried to break away, well content to leave their
heads whole, but those in the rear pushed them on. Whack! whack! went
the wrench--the leader fell. But then with fierce screams the mob broke
loose, the three men were swept into the vortex of a fighting whirlpool.
Some one opened the basement gate from the inside and a new stream
poured in. The press-room filled--crowbars got to work--while men danced
and wildly laughed and exulted in their vandal work. Then suddenly arose
the cry of, "Police!" Tools dropped; the mob turned like a stampede of
cattle, crushed for the doors, cried out, caught in a trap, and ran into
the arms of blue-coated officers....
When Joe next opened his eyes and looked out with some surprise on the
same world that he was used to, he found himself stretched in his bed
and a low gas-flame eyeing him from above. He put out a hand, because he
felt queer about the head, and touched bandages. Then some one spoke in
his ear.
"You want to keep quiet, Mr. Blaine."
He looked. A doctor was sitting beside him.
"Where's mother?" he asked.
"Here I am, Joe." Her voice was sweet in his ears.
She was sitting on the bed at his feet.
"Come here."
She took the seat beside him and folded his free hand with both of hers.
"Mother--I want to know what's the matter with me--every bit of it."
"Well, Joe, you've a broken arm and a banged-up head, but you'll be all
right."
"And you--are you all right?"
"Perfectly."
"They didn't go in the kitchen?"
"No."
"And the press?"
"It's smashed."
"And the office?"
"In ruins."
"How about Rann and the men?"
"Bruised--that's all."
"The police came?"
"Cleaned them out."
There was a pause; then Joe and his mother looked at each other with
queer expressions on their faces, and suddenly their mellow laughter
filled the room.
"Isn't it great, mother? That's what we get!"
"Well, Joe," said his mother, "what do you expect?"
Suddenly then another stood before him--bowed, remorseful, humble. It
was Sally Heffer, the tears trickling down her face.
She knelt at the bedside and buried her face in the cover.
"It's my fault!" she cried. "It's my fault!"
"Yours, Sally?" cried Joe, quite forgetting the "Miss." "How so?"
"I--I went to Marrin's and got the girls out."
"Got the girls out?" Joe exclaimed. "Where are they?"
"On the street."
"Bring them into the ruins," said Joe, "and organize them. I'm going to
make a business of this thing."
Sally looked up aghast.
"But I--I ought to be shot down. It's I that should have been hurt."
Joe smiled on her.
"Sally! Sally! what an impetuous girl you are! What would I do without
you?"
VII
OF THE THIRTY THOUSAND
One wonderful January twilight, when the clear, cold air seemed to
tremble with lusty health, Myra sat alone in the Ramble, before the
little frozen pond. And she thought:
"This is the bench we sat on; and it was here, that morning, that we
quarreled; and this is the little pond; and those the trees--but how
changed! how changed!"
A world-city practises magic. Any one who for years has slept in her
walls and worn the pave of her streets and mingled with her crowds and
her lighted nights, is changed by her subtle enchantment into a child of
the city. He is never free thereafter. The metropolis may send him forth
like a carrier-pigeon, and he may think he is well rid of his mistress,
but the homing instinct inevitably draws him back. "All other
pleasures," as Emerson said of love, "are not worth its pains." Myra
thought that she hated New York--the great nervous sea of life, whose
noise and stress and tragedy had shattered her health. She had longed
for the peace of nature; she had gone forth to the meadows and the
mountains, and for a long time been content with the sounds of the
barnyard and the farm, the wind and the brook; she had sunk, as it were,
into the arms of the earth and rested on that great nourishing breast.
She loved pure air, far horizons, quiet, and the mysterious changes of
the landscape. She thought she was done with the city forever. For had
she not found that the Vision of White Towers seen that first evening
was hollow and bitter at the heart, that beneath the beauty was dust and
horror, routine and disease?
But one snow-bound morning as she gazed out from the quiet house and saw
the limitless white of the world, the fences buried, the trees loaded,
the earth lost under the gray heavens, suddenly she was filled with a
passionate desire for _life_. She was amazed at the restlessness in her
heart. But she could not shake it off. Her desire was very definite--to
walk down Eightieth Street, to hear and see the trolleys bounding down
the little hill to Seventy-ninth Street, to shop on Third Avenue, to go
threading her way through the swarm of school children outside the
school gates. And then subtly she felt the elixir of a Broadway night,
the golden witchery of the lights, the laughter-smitten people, the
crowded cars and motors, the shining shops, the warmth of the crowd. A
thousand memories of streets and rooms, of people and of things, flooded
her mind. The country seemed barren and cold and lonely. She was
grievously homesick. It was as if the city cried: "It is winter; the
world is dark and dead. Come, my children, gather together; gather here
in my arms, you millions; laugh and converse together, toil together,
light fires, turn on lights, warm your hands and souls at my flaming
hearth. We will forget the ice and the twilight! Come, winter is the
time for human beings!"
And so Myra awoke to the fact that she was indeed a child of the
city--that the magic was in her blood and the enchantment in her heart.
It was useless to recall the mean toil, the narrow life, the unhealthy
days. These, dropped in the great illusion of crowded New York, were
transformed into a worthy struggle, a part of the city's reality. She
suddenly felt as if she would go crazy if she stayed in the country--its
stillness stifled her, its emptiness made her ache.
But there was a deeper call than the call of the city. She wanted to be
with Joe. Her letters to him had been for his sake, not hers. She had
tried to save him from herself, to shut him out and set him free, to
cure him of his love. Desperately she did this, knowing that the future
held nothing for them together. And for a time it had been a beautiful
thing to do, until finally she was compelled to believe that he really
was cured. His notes were more and more perfunctory, until, at last,
they ceased altogether. Then, when she knew she had lost him, it seemed
to her that she had condemned herself to a barren, fruitless life; that
the best had been lived, and it only remained now to die. She had given
up her "whole existence," cast out that by which she truly lived. There
were moments of inexpressible loneliness, when, reading in the orchard,
or brooding beside some rippling brook, she glanced southward and sent
her silent cry over the horizon. Somewhere down there he was swallowed
in the vastness of life; she remembered the lines of his face, his dark
melancholy eyes, his big human, humorous lips, his tall, awkward
strength; she felt still those kisses on her lips; felt his arms about
her; the warmth of his hand; the whisper of his words; and the wind in
the oaks.
That afternoon at the riverside he had cast his future at her feet. She
had been offered that which runs deeper than hunger or dream or toil,
the elemental, the mystic, the very glory of a woman's life. She had
been offered a life, too, of comradeship and great issues. And now, when
these gifts were withdrawn, she knew she would nevermore have rest or
joy in this world. Is not life the adventure of a man and a woman going
forth together, toiling, and talking, and laughing, and creating on the
road to death? Is not earth the mating-place for souls? Out of nature we
rise and seek out each other and mate and make of life a glory and a
mystery. This is the secret of youth, and the magic of all music and of
all sorrow and of all toil. Or, so it seemed to Myra.
There is no longing in the world so tragic or terrible as that of men
and women for each other. And so Myra had her homesickness for the city
transfused and sharpened by her overmastering love. She fought with
herself bitterly; she resolved to wait for one more mail. Nothing came
in that mail.
Then she evaded the issue. There were practical reasons for her return.
Her health was quite sound again, she had been idle long enough; it was
time to get back to work. What if she did return to the city? Surely it
was not necessary to seek out Joe. It would be enough to be near him. He
need not be troubled. So vast is the city that he would not know of her
presence. What harm, then, in easing her heart, in getting back into the
warmth and stir of life?
With a young girl's joy she packed her trunk and took the train for New
York, and at sunset, as she rode in the ferry over the North River, she
stood bravely out on deck, faced the bitter and salt wind, and saw,
above the flush of the waters, that breathless skyline which, like the
prow of some giant ship, seemed making out to sea. Lights twinkled in
windows, signal-lamps gleamed red and green on the piers, chimneys
smoked, and as the ferry nosed its way among the busy craft of the
river, Myra exulted. She was coming back! This again was New York, real,
right there, unbudged, her thousand lights like voices calling her
home. The ferry landed; she hurried out and took a surface car And how
good the crowd seemed, how warm the noise and the lights, what gladness
was in the evening ebb-tide of people, how splendid the avenues shone
with their sparkle and their shops and their traffic! She felt again the
good hard pave under her feet. She met again a hundred familiar scenes.
The vast flood of life seemed to engulf her, suck her up as if to say:
"Well, you're here again! Come, there is room! Another human being!"
All about her was rich life, endless sights, confusion and variety. The
closing darkness was pierced with lights, windows glowed, people were
hurrying home. It was all as she had left it. And she felt then that the
city was but Joe multiplied, and that Joe was the city. Both were
cosmopolitan, democratic, tragic, light-hearted, many-faceted. Both were
careless and big and easy and roomy. Both had a great freedom about
them. And what a freedom the city had!--nothing snowbound here, but
invitation, shops open, cars gliding, the millions transported back and
forth, everything open and inviting.
She was glad for her neat back room--for gas-lights and running
water--for the comfort and ease of life. She was glad even to sit in the
crowded dining-room, and that night she was glad to lie abed and hear
the city's heart pounding about her--that old noise of whistles on the
river, that old thunder of the elevated train.
But she found that nearness to Joe made it impossible to keep away from
him. Just as of old she had found excuses for going up to the trembling
printery, so now she felt that somehow she must seek him out. She kept
wondering what he was doing at that particular moment. Was he toiling or
idling? Was he with his mother? Did he still wear the same clothes, the
same half-worn necktie, the same old lovable gray hat? What would he
say, how would he look, if she suddenly confronted him? Myra had to
laugh softly to herself. She saw the wonder in his face, the open mouth,
the flashing eyes. Or, would he be embarrassed? Was there some other
woman--one who accorded with his ideals--one who could share his
life-work? Of course she hoped that there was. She hoped he had found
some one worthy of him. But the thought gave her intense misery. Why had
he thrown his life away and gone down into that foolish and shoddy
neighborhood? Surely when she saw him she would be disappointed by the
changes in him. He would be more than ever a fanatic--more than ever an
unreasonable radical. He might even be vulgarized by his
environment--might have taken its color, been leveled down by its
squalor.
She must forget the new Joe and cleave to the old Joe. Next afternoon,
walking out, almost involuntarily, she turned west and entered the
Park. The trees were naked, a lacy tracery of boughs against the
deep-blue sky. She followed the curve, she crossed the roadway, she
climbed the hill to the Ramble. She began to tingle with the keen, crisp
air, and with the sense of adventure. It was almost as if she were going
to meet Joe--as if they had arranged a secret meeting. She took the
winding paths, she passed the little pool. There was the bench! But
empty.
Then she sat down on that bench, and looked out at the naked wilderness
of trees, at the ice in the pond, at the sodden brown, dead grasses. The
place was wildly forlorn and bare. When they had last been here the air
had been tinged with the haunting autumn, the leaves had been falling,
the pool had been deep with the heavens. And again she thought:
"This is the bench we sat on; and it was here, that morning, that we
quarreled; this is the little pond, and those the trees--but how
changed! how changed!"
Then as she sat there she beheld the miracle of color. Behind her,
between the black tree trunks, the setting sun was a liquid red
splendor, daubing some low clouds with rosiness, and all about her, in
the turn between day and night, the world, which before was a blend in
the strong light, now divided into a myriad sharp tints. The air held a
tinge of purple, the distance a smoky violet, the brown of the grasses
was a strong brown, the black of the trunks intensely black. Out among
distant trees she saw a woman and child walking, and the child's scarlet
cloak seemed a living thing as it swayed and moved. How sharp and
distinct were the facts of earth! how miraculously tinted! what tones of
blue and red, of purple and black! It was the sunset singing its hymn of
color, and it made her feel keenly the mystery and beauty of life--the
great moments of solution and peace--the strange human life that
inhabits for a brief space this temple of a million glories. But
something was missing, there was a great lack, a wide emptiness. She
resolved then to see Joe.
It was not, however, until the next afternoon that she took the elevated
train to Ninth Street and then the crosstown car over the city. She
alighted in the shabby street; she walked up to the entrance; she saw
over the French windows a big canvas sign, "Strike Headquarters."
Within, she thought she saw a mass of people. This made her hesitate.
She had expected to find him alone. And somehow, too, the place was even
shabbier, even meaner than she had expected. And so she stood a
moment--a slender, little woman, her hands in a muff, a fur scarf bound
about her throat, her gray eyes liquid and luminous, a rosy tint in her
cheeks, her lips parted and releasing a thin steam in the bitter winter
air. Overhead the sky was darkening with cloud-masses, a shriveling
wind dragged the dirty street, and the world was desolate and gray. The
blood was pulsing in Myra's temples, her heart leaped, her breath
panted. And as she hesitated a girl passed her, a girl about whose
breast was bound a placard whereon were the words:
JOIN THE STRIKE
OF THE THIRTY THOUSAND
What strike? What did it mean? Was Joe in a strike? She thought he had
been editing a paper. She had better not intrude. She turned, as if to
fly, and yet hesitated. Her feet refused to go; her heart was
rebellious. Only a wall divided him from her. Why should she not see
him? Why not a moment's conversation? Then she would go and leave him to
his work.
Another girl passed her and paused--a girl also placarded, a girl with a
strange beauty, somewhat tall, with form well rounded, with pale face
full of the fascination of burning eagerness. This girl's eyes were a
clear blue, her lips set tight, and her light-brown hair blew
beautifully about her cheeks. She was, however, but thinly clothed, and
her frail little coat was short and threadbare.
She spoke to Myra--a rich, sympathetic voice.
"Are you looking for Mr. Blaine?"
"Yes--" said Myra, almost gasping. "Is he in?"
"He's always in!" The girl smiled.
"There's nothing the matter?"
"With him? No! But come, come out of the cold!"
There was nothing to do but follow. The girl opened a door and they
entered the office. It was crowded with girls and women and men. Long
benches were about the wall, camp-stools filled the floor. Many were
seated; on two of the benches worn-out men were fast asleep, and between
the seats groups of girls were talking excitedly. Several lights burned
in the darkening room, and Myra saw swiftly the strange types--there
were Jewish girls, Italian girls, Americans, in all sorts of garbs, some
very flashy with their "rat"-filled hair, their pompadours, their
well-cut clothes, others almost in rags; some tall, some short, some
rosy-cheeked, many frail and weak and white. At a table in the rear
Giotto was receiving money from Italians and handing out union cards. He
looked as if he hadn't slept for nights.
Myra was confused. She felt strangely "out" of all this; strangely, as
if she were intruding. The smell of the place offended her, especially
as it was mixed with cheap perfumes; and the coarse slangy speech that
flashed about jarred on her ear. But at the same time she was
suffocating with suspense.
"Where is he?" she murmured--they were standing right within the door.
"Over there!" the girl pointed.
But all Myra saw was a black semicircle of girls leaning over some one
invisible near the window.
"He's at his desk, and he's talking with a committee. You'd better wait
till he's finished!"
This news choked Myra. Wait? Wait here? Be shut out like this? She was
as petulant as a child; she felt like shedding tears.
But the girl at her side seemed to be playing the part of hostess, and
she had to speak.
"What strike is this?"
The girl was amazed.
"_What strike_! Don't you know?"
Myra smiled.
"No--I don't. I've been out of the city."
"It's the shirtwaist-makers' strike."
"Oh! I see!" said Myra, mechanically.
"It's the biggest woman's strike that ever was. Thirty thousand
out--Italians, Jews, and Americans."
"Yes?" Myra was not listening.
Suddenly then the door was flung open and a well-dressed girl rushed in,
crying shrilly:
"Say, girls, what do you think?"
A group gathered about her.
"What's up? What's the news? Don't stand there all day!"
The girl spoke with exultant indignation.
"I've been arrested!"
"Arrested! _You_!"
"And I didn't do nothing, either--I was good. What do you think of this?
The judge fined me ten dollars. Well, let me tell you, I'm going to _get
something_ for those ten dollars! I'm going to raise--hell!"
"You bet! Ain't it a shame?"
And the group swallowed her up.
Myra wondered why the girl had been arrested, and was surprised at her
lack of shame and humiliation.
But she had not much time for thought. The door opened again, and Sally
Heffer entered, sparkling, neat, eyes clear.
At once cries arose:
"Here's Sal! Hello, Sally Heffer! Where have you been?" Girls crowded
about. "What's the news? Where did you come from?"
Where had Myra heard that name before?
Sally spoke with delicious fastidiousness.
"_I've_ been to Vassar."
"Vassar College?"
"Yes, Vassar College--raised fifty dollars!"
"Sally's it, all right! Say, Sal, how did they treat you? Stuck up?"
"Not a bit," said Sally. "They were ever so good to me. They're lovely
girls--kind, sweet, sympathetic. They wanted to help and they were very
respectful, but"--she threw up her hands--"_oh, they're ignorant_!"
There was a shout of laughter. Myra was shocked. A slum girl to speak
like this of Vassar students? She noticed then, with a queer pang, that
Sally made for the window group, who at once made a place for her. Sally
had easy access to Joe.
The girl at her side was speaking again.
"You've no idea what this strike means. There's some rich women
interested in it--they work right with us, hold mass-meetings, march in
the streets--they're wonderful. And some of the big labor-leaders and
even some of the big lawyers are helping. There's one big lawyer been
giving all his time. You see, we're having trouble with the police."
"Yes, I see," said Myra, though she didn't see at all, and neither did
she care. It seemed to her that she could not wait another instant. She
must either go, or step over to his desk.
"Is he still so busy?" she asked.
"Yes, he is," said the girl. "Do you know him personally?"
Myra laughed softly.
"A little."
"Then you heard how he was hurt?"
"_Hurt_!" gasped Myra. Her heart seemed to grow small, and it was
pierced by a sharp needle of pain.
"Yes, there was a riot here--the men came in and smashed everything."
"And Mr. Blaine? _Tell me_!" The words came in a blurt.
"Had his arm broken and his head was all bloody."
Myra felt dizzy, faint.
"But he's--better?"
"Oh, he's all right now."
"When did this happen?"
"About six weeks ago!"
Six weeks! That was shortly after the last letter came. Myra was
suffering agony, and her face went very pale.
"How did it happen?" she breathed.
"Oh, he called some strikers traitors, and they came down and broke in.
It's lucky he wasn't killed."
He had suffered, he had been in peril of his life, while she was resting
in the peace of the country. So this was a strike, and in this Joe was
concerned. She looked about the busy room; she noticed anew the sleeping
men and the toiling Giotto; and suddenly she was interested. She was
wrenched, as it were, from her world into his. She felt in the heart of
a great tragedy of life. And all the time she kept saying over and over
again:
"His arm was broken! his head bloody! and I wasn't here! I wasn't at his
side!"
And she had thought in her country isolation that life in the city
wasn't real. What a moment that must have been when Joe faced the
rioters--when they rushed upon him--when he might have been killed! And
instead of deterring him from his work, here he was in the thick of it,
braving, possibly, unspeakable dangers. Then, glancing about, it seemed
to her that these girls and men were a part of his drama; he gave them a
new reality. This was life, pulsing, immediate, tragic. She must go to
him--she mustn't delay longer.
She took a few steps forward, and at almost the same moment the girls
about Joe left him, scattering about the room. Then she saw him. And
what a spectacle! He was in his shirt-sleeves, his hair was more tousled
than ever, and his face was gray--the most tragic face she had ever
seen--gray, sunken, melancholy, worn, as if he bore the burden of the
world. But in one hand he held a pen, and in the other--a ham sandwich.
It was a big sandwich, and every few moments he took a big bite, as he
scratched on. Myra's heart was wrung with love and pity, with remorse
and fondness, and mainly with the tragi-comedy of his face and the
sandwich.
She stood over him a moment, breathless, panting, her throat full of
blood, it seemed. Then she stooped a little and whispered:
"Joe."
He wheeled round; he looked up; his gray face seemed to grow grayer; his
lips parted--he was more than amazed. He was torn away, as it were, from
all business of life.
"Why," he said under his breath, "it's you, Myra!"
"Yes"--tears stood in her eyes--"it's I."
He surveyed her up and down, and then their eyes met. He ran his hand
through his hair.
"You--you--" he murmured. "And how well you look, how strong, how fresh!
Sit down! sit down!"
She took the seat, trembling. She leaned forward.
"But you--you are killing yourself, Joe."
He smiled sadly.
"It's serious business, Myra."
She gazed at him, and spoke hard.
"Is there no end to it? Aren't you going to rest, ever?"
"End? No end now. The strike must be won."
He was trying to pull himself together. He gave a short laugh; he sat
up.
"So you're back from the country."
"Yes, I'm back."
"To stay?"
"To stay."
"You're cured, then?"
"Yes," she smiled, "cured of many things. I like the city better than I
thought!"
He gave her a sharp look.
"So!" Then his voice came with utter weariness: "Well, the city's a
queer place, Myra. Things happen here."
Somehow she felt that he was standing her off. Something had crept in
between them, some barrier, some wall. He had already emerged from the
shock of the meeting. What if there were things in his life far more
important than this meeting? Myra tried to be brave.
"I just wanted to see you--see the place--see how things were getting
on."
Joe laughed softly.
"Things _are_ getting on. Circulation's up to fifteen thousand--due to
the strike."
"How so?"
"We got out a strike edition--and the girls peddled it around town, and
lots subscribed. It's given the paper a big boost."
"I'm glad to hear it," Myra found herself saying.
"_You_ glad?" If only his voice hadn't been so weary! "That's strange,
Myra."
"It _is_ strange!" she said, her eyes suffused again. His gray, tragic
face seemed to be working on the very strings of her heart. She longed
so to help him, to heal him, to breathe joy and strength into him.
"Joe!" she said.
He looked at her again.
"Yes, Myra."
"Oh--I--" She paused.
He smiled.
"Say it!"
"Isn't there some way I can help?"
A strange expression came to his face, of surprise, of wonder.
"_You_ help?"
"Yes--I--"
"Mr. Blaine! Mr. Blaine!" Some one across the room was calling. "There's
an employer here to see you!"
Joe leaped up, took Myra's hand, and spoke hastily.
"Wait and meet my mother. And come again--sometime. Sometime when I'm
not so rushed!"
And he was gone--gone out of the room.
Myra arose, still warm with the touch of his hand--for his hand was
almost fever-warm. All that she knew was that he had suffered and was
suffering, and that she must help. She was burning now with an eagerness
to learn about the strike, to understand what it was that so depressed
and enslaved him, what it was that was slowly killing him. Her old
theories met the warm clasp of life and vanished. She forgot her
viewpoint and her delicacy. Life was too big for her shallow philosophy.
It seized upon her now and absorbed her.
She strode back to the young girl, who she learned later was named Rhona
Hemlitz, and who was but seventeen years old.
She said: "Tell me about the strike! Can't we sit down together and
talk? Have you time?"
"I have a little time," said Rhona, eagerly. "We can sit here!"
So they sat side by side and Rhona told her. Rhona's whole family was
engaged in sweat-work. They lived in a miserable tenement over in Hester
Street, where her mother had been toiling from dawn until midnight with
the needle, with her tiny brother helping to sew on buttons, "finishing"
daily a dozen pairs of pants, and making--_thirty cents_.
Myra was amazed.
"Thirty cents--dawn till midnight! Impossible!"
And then her father--who worked all day in a sweatshop.
"And you--what did you do?" asked Myra.
Rhona told her. She had worked in Zandler's shirtwaist factory--bending
over a power-machine, whose ten needles made forty-four hundred stitches
a minute. So fast they flew that a break in needle or thread ruined a
shirtwaist; hence, never did she allow her eyes to wander, never during
a day of ten to fourteen hours, while, continuously, the needles danced
up and down like flashes of steel or lightning. At times it seemed as if
the machine were running away from her and she had to strain her body to
keep it back. And so, when she reeled home late at night, her smarting
eyes saw sharp showers of needles in the air every time she winked, and
her back ached intolerably.
"I never dreamt," said Myra, "that people had to work like that!"
"Oh, that's not all!" said Rhona, and went on. Her wages were rarely
over five dollars a week, and for months, during slack season, she was
out of work--came daily to the factory, and had to sit on a bench and
wait, often fruitlessly. And then the sub-contracting system, whereunder
the boss divided the work among lesser bosses who each ran a gang of
toilers, speeding them up mercilessly, "sweating" them! And so the young
girls, sixteen to twenty-five years old, were sapped of health and joy
and womanhood, and, "as Mr. Joe wrote, the future is robbed of wives and
mothers!"
Myra was amazed. She had a new glimpse of the woman problem. She saw now
how millions of women were being fed into the machine of industry, and
that thus the home was passing, youth was filched of its glory, and the
race was endangered. This uprising of the women, then, meant more than
she dreamed--meant the attempt to save the race by freeing the women
from this bondage. Had they not a right then to go out in the open, to
strike, to lead marches, to sway meetings, to take their places with
men?
Such thoughts, confused and swift, came to her, and she asked Rhona what
had happened. How had the strike started? First, said Rhona, there was
the strike at Marrin's--a spark that set off the other places. Then at
Zandler's conditions had become so bad that one morning Jake Hedig, her
boss, a young, pale-faced, black-haired man, suddenly arose and shouted
in a loud voice throughout the shop:
"I am sick of slave-driving. I resign my job."
The boss, and some of the little bosses, set upon him, struck him, and
dragged him out, but as he went he shouted lustily:
"Brothers and sisters, are you going to sit by your machines and see a
fellow-worker used this way?"
The machines stopped: the hundreds of girls and the handful of men
marched out simultaneously. Then, swiftly the sedition had spread about
the city until a great night in Cooper Union, when, after speeches of
peace and conciliation, one of the girls had risen, demanded and secured
the floor, and moved a general strike. Her motion was unanimously
carried, and when the chairman cried, in Yiddish: "Do you mean faith?
Will you take the old Jewish oath?" up went two thousand hands, with one
great chorus:
"If I turn traitor to the cause I now pledge, may this hand wither from
the arm I now raise."
By this oath Rhona was bound. And so were thirty thousand
others--Americans, Italians, Jews--and with them were some of the
up-town women, some of the women of wealth, some of the big lawyers and
the labor-leaders and reformers.
"Some of the up-town women!" thought Myra. She was amazed to find
herself so interested, so wrought up. And she felt as if she had
stumbled upon great issues and great struggles; she realized, dimly,
that first moment, that this strike was involved in something larger,
something vaster--swallowed up in the advance of democracy, in the
advance of woman. All the woman in her responded to the call to arms.
And she was discovering now what Joe had meant by his "crisis"--what he
had meant by his fight for "more democracy; a better and richer life; a
superber people on earth. It was a real thing. She burned now to help
Joe--she burned to do for him--to enter into his tragic struggle--to be
of use to him.
"What are you going to do now?" she asked Rhona.
"Now? Now I must go picketing."
"What's picketing?"
"March up and down in front of a factory and try to keep scabs out."
"What are scabs?" asked ignorant Myra.
Rhona was amazed.
"You don't even know that? Why, a scab's a girl who tries to take a
striker's job and so ruin the strike. She takes the bread out of our
mouths."
"But how can you stop her?"
"Talk to her! We're not allowed to use violence."
"How do you do it?"
Rhona looked at the eager face, the luminous gray eyes.
"Would you like to see it?"
"Yes, I would."
"But it's dangerous."
"How so?"
"Police and thugs, bums hanging around."
"And you girls aren't afraid?"
Rhona smiled.
"We don't show it, anyway. You see, we're bound to win."
Myra's eyes flashed.
"Well, if you're not afraid, I guess I haven't any right to be. May I
come?"
Rhona looked at her with swift understanding.
"Yes, please do come!"
Myra rose. She took a last look about the darkening room; saw once more
the sleeping men, the toiling Giotto, the groups of girls. Something
tragic hung in the air. She seemed to breathe bigger, gain in stature,
expand. She was going to meet the test of these newer women. She was
going to identify herself with their vast struggle.
And looking once more, she sought Joe, but could not find him. How
pleased he would be to know that she was doing this--doing it largely
for him--because she wanted to smooth out that gray face, and lay her
cheek against its lost wrinkles, and put her arm about his neck, and
heal him.
Tears dimmed her eyes. She took Rhona's arm and they stepped out into
the bleak street. Wind whipped their faces like quick-flicked knives.
They walked close together.
"Is it far?" asked Myra.
"Quite far. It's over on Great Jones Street!"
And so Myra went, quite lost in the cyclone of life.
VIII
THE ARREST
They gained the corner of Great Jones Street--one of those dim byways of
trade that branch off from the radiant avenues. As they turned in the
street, they met a bitter wind that was blowing the pavement clean as
polished glass, and the dark and closing day was set off sharply by the
intense lamps and shop-lights. Here and there at a window a clerk
pressed his face against the cold pane and looked down into the
cheerless twilight, and many toilers made the hard pavement echo with
their fast steps as they hurried homeward.
"There they are," said Rhona.
Two girls, both placarded, came up to them. One of them, a thin little
skeleton, pitiably ragged in dress, with hollow eyes and white face, was
coughing in the cuff of the wind. She was plainly a consumptive--a
little wisp of a girl. She spoke brokenly, with a strong Russian accent.
"It's good to see you yet, Rhona. I get so cold my bones ready to
crack."
She shivered and coughed. Rhona spoke softly.
"Fannie, you go right home, and let your mother give you a good drink of
hot lemonade with whiskey in it. And take a foot-bath, too."
Fannie coughed again.
"Don't you tell me, Rhona. Look out for yourself. There gets trouble yet
on this street."
Myra drew nearer, a dull feeling in her breast. Rhona spoke easily:
"None of the men said anything or did anything, did they?"
"Well, they say things; they make angry faces, and big fists, Rhona.
Better be careful."
"Where are they?"
"By Zandler's doorway. They get afraid of the cold."
Rhona laughed softly, and put an arm about the frail body.
"Now you run home, and don't worry about me! I can take care of myself.
I expect another girl, anyway."
"Good-night, Rhona."
"Good-night--get to bed, and don't forget the hot lemonade!"
The two girls departed, blowing, as it were, about the corner and out of
sight. Rhona turned to Myra, whose face was pallid.
"Hadn't you better go back, Miss Craig? You see, I'm used to these
things."
"No," said Myra, in a low voice. "I've come to stay."
She was thinking of tiny Fannie. What! Could she not measure to a
little consumptive Russian?
"All right," said Rhona. "Let's begin!"
They started to walk quietly up and down before the darkened loft
building--up fifty yards, down fifty yards. A stout policeman slouched
under a street-lamp, swinging his club with a heavily gloved hand, and
in the shadow of the loft-building entrance Rhona pointed out to Myra
several ill-looking private detectives who danced up and down on their
toes, blew their hands, smoked cigarettes, and kept tab of the time.
"It's they," whispered Rhona, "who make all the trouble. Some of them
are ex-convicts and thugs. They are a rough lot."
"But why is it allowed?" asked Myra.
Rhona laughed.
"Why is anything allowed?"
The wind seemed to grow more and more cruel. Myra felt her ear-lobes
swelling, the tip of her nose tingled and her feet and hands were numb.
But they held on quietly in the darkening day. It all seemed simple
enough--this walking up and down. So this was picketing!
Myra spoke softly as they turned and walked west.
"Have many of the girls been arrested?"
"Oh yes, a lot of them."
"Have they been disorderly?"
"Some of them have. It's hard to keep cool, with scabs egging you on
and calling you cowards."
"And what happens to them if they are arrested?"
"Oh, fined--five, ten dollars."
They turned under the lamp; the policeman rose and sank on one foot
after the other; they walked quietly back. Then, as they passed the
doorway of the loft building, one of the young men stepped forward into
the light. He was a square-set, heavy fellow, with long, square,
protruding jaw, and little monkey eyes. His bearing was menacing. He
stepped in front of the girls, who stopped still and awaited him. Myra
felt the blood rush to her head, and a feeling of dizziness made her
tremble. Then the man spoke sharply:
"Say, you--you can't go by here."
Myra gazed at him as if she were hypnotized, but Rhona's eyes flashed.
"Why not?"
"Don't jaw me," said the man. "But--_clear out_!"
Rhona tried to speak naturally.
"Isn't this a public street? Haven't I a right to walk up and down with
my friend?"
Then Myra felt as if she were struck by lightning, or as if something
sacred in her womanhood had been outraged.
With a savage growl: "You little sheeny!" the man suddenly struck out a
fist and hit Rhona in the chest. She lurched, doubled, and fell, saving
herself with her hands. Myra did not move, but a shock of horror went
through her.
The two other young men in the doorway came forward, and home-goers
paused, drew close, looked on curiously and silently. One nudged
another.
"What's up?"
"Don't know!"
The thug muttered under his breath:
"Pull her up by her hair; we'll run her in!"
But Rhona had scrambled to her feet. She was too wild to cry or speak.
She glanced around for help, shunning the evil monkey eyes. Then she saw
the policeman under the lamp. He was still nonchalantly swinging his
club.
She gave a gasping sob, pushing away Myra's offered help, and struggled
over to him. He did not move. She stood, until he glanced at her. Then
she caught his eye, and held him, and spoke with strange repression, as
the crowd drew about them. Myra was in that crowd, dazed, outraged,
helpless. She heard Rhona speaking:
"Do you think a man has any right to strike a girl?"
He did not answer; she still held his eyes.
"Do you think a man has any right to strike a girl?"
Still he said nothing, and the crowd became fascinated by the fixity of
gaze of the two. Rhona's voice sharpened:
"_Do you think a man has any right to strike a girl_?"
The officer cleared his throat and looked away.
"Oh," he muttered carelessly, "it's all right. You people are always
kicking, anyway."
Rhona's voice rose.
"I ask you to arrest him."
Several in the crowd backed this with mutterings. The policeman twirled
his stick.
"Oh, all right!" he called. "Come along, Blondy!"
Blondy, the thug, came up grinning.
"Pinching me, John?" he asked.
"Sure." The policeman smiled, and then seized Blondy and Rhona each by
an arm and started to march them toward Broadway. Myra followed wildly.
Her mind was in a whirl and the bitter tears blurred her eyes. What
could she do? How could she help? She sensed in the policeman's word a
menace to Rhona. Rhona was in trouble, and she, Myra, was as good as
useless in this crisis. She suddenly understood the helplessness of the
poor and the weak, especially the poor and weak women. What could they
do against this organized iniquity? Against the careless and cruel
world? It was all right for gentlewomen in gentle environment to keep to
the old ideals of womanhood--to stay at home and delegate their
citizenship to the men. But those who were sucked into the vortex of the
rough world, what of these? Were they not right in their attempts to
organize, to rebel, to fight in the open, to secure a larger share of
freedom and power?
But if these were Myra's feelings and thoughts--a sense of outrage, of
being trampled on--they were little things compared with the agony in
Rhona's breast. A growing and much-pleased crowd surrounded her,
flinging remarks:
"Lock-steps for yours! Hello, Mamie! Oh, you kid! Now will you be good!
Carrie, go home and wash the dishes!"
And one boy darted up and snapped the placard from her waist. The crowd
laughed, but Rhona was swallowing bitter tears.
They passed down Broadway a block or two, and then turned west.
Brilliant light from the shop windows fell upon the moving scene--the
easy-going men, the slouching, shrill boys, and the girl with her pale
set face and uncertain steps. All the world was going home to supper,
and Rhona felt strangely that she was now an exile--torn by the roots
from her warm life to go on a lonely adventure against the powers of
darkness. She had lost her footing in the world and was slipping into
the night. She felt singularly helpless; her very rage and rebellion
made her feel frail and unequal to the task. To be struck down in the
street! To be insulted by a crowd! She had hard work to hold her head
erect and keep back the bitter sobs.
Up the darkened street they went, the crowd gradually falling away. And
suddenly they paused before the two green lamps of the new
station-house, and then in a moment they had vanished through the
doorway.
Myra rushed up, panting, to a policeman who stood on the steps.
"I want to go in--I'm with _her_."
"Can't do it, lady. She's under arrest."
"Not she," cried Myra. "The man."
"Oh, we'll see. You run along--keep out of trouble!"
Myra turned, confused, weak. She questioned a passer-by about the
location of Ninth Street. "Up Broadway--seven or eight blocks!" She
started; she hurried; her feet were winged with desperate fear. What
could be done? How help Rhona? Surely Joe--Joe could do something. He
would know--she would hasten to him and get his aid. That at least she
could do.
Now and then a bitter sob escaped her. She felt that she had lost her
self-respect and her pride. Like a coward she had watched Rhona
attacked, had not even raised her voice, had not, even attempted
interference. They might have listened to a well-dressed woman, a woman
of refinement. And she had done nothing--just followed the crowd,
nursing her wounded pride. She began to feel that the world was a big
place, and that those without money or position are at the mercy of the
powerful. She began to revise her opinion of America, more keenly than
ever she understood Joe's passion for more democracy. And she had a
sense, too, that she had never really known life--that her narrow
existence had touched life at but a few minor points--and that the great
on-struggle of the world, the vast life of the race, the million-eddying
evolution were all outside her limits. Now she was feeling the edge of
new existences. The knowledge humbled, almost humiliated her. She
wondered that Joe had ever thought well of her, had ever been content to
share his life with her.
Driven by these thoughts and by her fear and her apprehension for
Rhona's safety, she plunged west, borne by the wind, buffeted, beaten,
blown along. The lights behind the French windows were like beacons in a
storm. She staggered into the hall, entered the room. Her hair was wild
about her face, her cheeks pale, her eyes burning.
The room was still crowded, intensely busy. She noticed nothing, but
pushed her way to Joe's desk. He was talking with two girls.
She confronted him.
"Joe!"
He lifted his gray, tragic face, amazed.
"You still here?"
It was as if he had forgotten her. But Myra was not now thinking of
herself. She spoke, breathlessly:
"Joe, I think Rhona Hemlitz is in trouble."
"How so?"
"She was knocked down by a thug, and she had him arrested, but I'm
afraid _she's_ arrested."
A dangerous light came into Joe's eyes.
"All right! All right! Where did this happen?"
"On Great Jones Street."
"Well and good," he muttered.
"But isn't there anything to do?" cried Myra.
"Why, if she's not arrested, she'll come here and report, and if she
doesn't come I'll go over to the Night Court at nine this evening."
"I must go with you," cried Myra.
"You?" He looked at her, and then suddenly he asked: "But how did you
come to hear of this?"
"I was picketing with her."
A great change came over Joe's face, as if he beheld a miracle.
"Myra! So you have been picketing!"
Her face went very white.
"Don't! Don't!" she breathed painfully, sinking in a chair. "I was a
coward, Joe--I didn't do anything to help her!"
"But what could you do?"
"Oh, something, anything."
He glanced at her keenly, and a swift smile lit his features. He spoke
very gently.
"Myra, you step in back to my mother. Take supper with her. Keep her
company. I'm afraid I'm neglecting mother these days."
"And the Night Court?" Myra was swallowing sobs.
"I'll look in for you at nine o'clock."
"Thank you," she whispered. "Oh, thank you."
It was something that he thought her worthy.
IX
RHONA
When the policeman with Rhona and Blondy passed up the steps between the
green lamps of the new station-house, they found themselves in a long
room whose warmth was a fine relief. They breathed more easily, loosened
their coats, and then stepped forward. A police sergeant sat behind a
railing, writing at a low desk, a low-hanging, green-shaded electric
bulb above him.
Rhona felt that she had to speak quickly and get in her word before the
others. She tried to be calm, but a dull sob went with the words.
"That man struck me--knocked me down. I've had him arrested."
The sergeant did not look up. He went on writing. Finally he spoke,
easily:
"True, Officer?"
The policeman cleared his throat.
"The other way round, Sergeant. _She_ struck the _man_."
Rhona breathed hard, a feeling in her breast of her heart breaking. She
gasped:
"That's not true. He struck me--he struck me."
The sergeant glanced up.
"What's your name?"
Rhona could not answer for a moment. Then, faintly:
"Rhona Hemlitz."
"Age?"
"Seventeen."
"Address?"
"---- Hester Street."
"Occupation?"
"Shirtwaist-maker."
"Oh!" he whistled slightly. "Striker?"
"Yes."
"Picketing?"
"Yes."
"Held for Night Court trial. Lock her up, Officer."
Blackness closed over the girl's brain. She thought she was going into
hysterics. Her one thought was that she must get help, that she must
reach some one who knew her. She burst out:
"I want to telephone."
"To who?"
"Mr. Blaine--Mr. Blaine!"
"West Tenth Street feller?"
"Yes."
The sergeant winked to the policeman.
"Oh, the matron'll see to that! Hey, Officer?"