HELEN AND THE STRIKE LEADER'S WIFE.
But what had become of Helen Nash?
It was a very determined little woman who stole out of the Stanlock
residence, with the contents of the last threatening letter fresh in
her memory, after the return of the members of Flamingo Camp Fire from
their Sunday afternoon drive. She walked briskly four blocks east and
boarded a street car.
A twenty-minutes' ride took her into the heart of the mining tenement
district. Reference to an address memorandum on a slip of paper that
she carried in her handbag and a question to the conductor determined
where she should get off.
Heaver street, the conductor told her, was three blocks east. With no
evidence of a slackening of resolution, she proceeded as directed and
was soon searching a long row of cottages, built along almost
identical lines, for number 632.
Reaching this number, she ascended a flight of seven or eight steps
and gave a quick turn to the old-fashioned fifteen-or-twenty-cent
trip-action door bell. A pale-faced, care-worn woman of about 30
years, who might have been mistaken for 40, answered the ring. At
sight of the caller she exclaimed in a voice that echoed years of toil
and suffering:
"Helen!"
"Nell," was the greeting returned by the caller.
The woman stepped aside, and Helen stepped into a hall, whose sole
furnishing consisted of a rag rug on the floor and a cheap hall-tree
with a cracked mirror. Evidently it was the chief wardrobe of the
house, for upon the twenty or more nails driven into the walls in
fairly regular order were articles of both men's and women's wear,
most of them bearing evidence of contact with hard labor. From the
hall, Helen was conducted into the "front room," the only name it was
ever known by, which communicated with the dining room through a cased
opening without portieres. These two rooms were about as barely
furnished as possible under a minimum of necessary articles and
quality. A threadbare ingrain carpet covered the floor of the front
room. A few rag rugs hid probably some of the worst gaps in the
matching of the yellow-pine floor of the dining room.
As for human life in this house of pinch and poverty, it was hardly
vigorous enough to attract attention ahead of the furnishings.
Clinging to the faded skirts of their mother were three hungry-eyed
anaemic children, a girl and two boys.
"How are you, Nell?" inquired Helen, giving the woman a kiss that
seemed almost to frighten her. "It's been two years since I've seen
you."
"I'm not very well, Helen," the other replied, wearily. "I've about
given up all hope of ever seeing any better days. But what brings you
here? I didn't expect ever to see you again."
"Now, Nell, don't talk that way," Helen protested. "You know--or maybe
you don't know it--that I would do anything in the world to help you
out of this unhappy condition, but Dave's way of looking at things
makes it impossible. If you had any vitality I would urge you to leave
him and earn your own living."
"But I haven't any left, Helen," said the discouraged woman; "and I
don't believe I'll ever recover any. I've rested hope after hope on
Dave's assurances of his ability to make a success in life. Really he
is a queer genius, and I don't use the word genius entirely with
disrespect. In some ways he's clever, very clever, but in other ways
he is the most impossible man you ever knew. I believe he is
thoroughly honest, but he has no idea of the value of money or what it
means to his family. I believe he is by far the strongest leader among
the men, but it does neither him nor his family any good. Many a labor
leader would make such power and position a source of revenue for
himself, but not Dave. Instead, half of his earnings, when he works,
are devoted to the labor cause."
"How does he get such a hold on the miners?" Helen inquired.
"By talk, just talk, and really, I must admit he is the cleverest
speaker I ever heard. I've seen an audience of a thousand working men
and women stand on their tiptoes and cheer him as if they would burst
their lungs. I was proud of him on such occasions, but when we got
home to our stale bread and soup I could not help wondering if it was
not all a dream and I had not just waked up to the reality of things."
"When will he be home?"
"I wish I could tell you," the woman said, helplessly. "He may be here
in five minutes and he may not come before 12 or 1 o'clock tonight."
"Right here is where the holiday charity work of the Flamingo Camp
Fire begins," she told herself. Then aloud she added:
"I haven't had much to eat since morning, couldn't eat much this noon
in my condition of mind, and I'm hungry; what have you in the house
for a Sunday evening lunch, Nell?"
"Not much, Helen," was the reply. "Only a half a loaf of rye bread and
some corn molasses. The children used to be very fond of that, but
they've had it so often since the strike began, that they're almost
sick of it."
"Is there any store open near here where I can go and buy something?"
"There's a bakery and delicatessen over on the street where the car
line runs. It's probably open now."
"Will I find a drug store over there, too? I want to use the
telephone."
"Yes, you'll find a drug store on that street, a block north."
"I'll go at once and you set the table while I'm gone. We'll have a
feast that will delight the hearts and stomachs of these little ones."
"God bless you, Helen," were the last words that fell on her ears as
she went out.
"I must call up Marion and tell her where I am," she mused as she
hastened toward the drug store. "I would have told her where I was
going before I left, but I was afraid she wouldn't let me go. Besides,
I don't feel like telling her everything yet."
A few minutes later she was in the drug store applying for permission
to use the telephone.
"The phone is out of order," the druggist replied.
"Oh," Helen exclaimed in disappointment. "Where is there another in
the neighborhood?"
"There is none within half a mile that I know of, except in the
saloons," was the reply.
"I can't go there," the girl said desperately. "And I must have a
telephone soon. Won't yours be fixed before long?"
"I hope so," said the druggist. "I've sent in a call for a repair man.
Can't you come back in an hour or two?"
"Yes, I think so," Helen said, turning to go. "I do hope it is
repaired then, because it's very important."
* * * * *