With a lithe movement like the spring of a cat the Italian girl flung herself between them--a remarkable exhibition of spontaneous inflammability; her eyes glittered like the points of daggers, and, as though they had been dagger points, the policeman recoiled a little. The act, which was absolutely natural, superb, electrified Janet, restored in an instant her own fierceness of spirit. The girl said something swiftly, in Italian, and helped the woman to rise, paying no more attention to the policeman. Janet walked on, but she had not covered half the block before she was overtaken by the girl; her anger had come and gone in a flash, her vivacity had returned, her vitality again found expression in an abundant good nature and good will. She asked Janet's name, volunteering the information that her own was Gemma, that she was a "fine speeder" in the Chippering Mill, where she had received nearly seven dollars a week. She had been among the first to walk out.
"Why did you walk out?" asked Janet curiously.
"Why? I get mad when I know that my wages is cut. I want the money--I get married."
"Is that why you are striking?" asked Janet curiously.
"That is why--of course."
"Then you haven't heard any of the speakers? They say it is for a cause--the workers are striking for *******, some day they will own the mills.
I heard a man named Rolfe yesterday--"
The girl gave her a radiant smile.
"Rolfe! It is beautiful, what Rolfe said. You think so? I think so. I am for the cause, I hate the capitalist. We will win, and get more money, until we have all the money. We will be rich. And you, why do you strike?"
"I was mad, too," Janet replied simply.
"Revenge!" exclaimed the girl, glittering again. "I understan'. Here come the scabs! Now I show you."
The light had grown, but the stores were still closed and barred. Along Faber Street, singly or in little groups, anxiously glancing around them, behind them, came the workers who still clung desperately to their jobs.
Gemma fairly darted at two girls who sought the edge of the sidewalk, seizing them by the sleeves, and with piteous expressions they listened while she poured forth on them a stream of Italian. After a moment one tore herself away, but the other remained and began to ask questions.
Presently she turned and walked slowly away in the direction from which she had come.
"I get her," exclaimed Gemma, triumphantly.
"What did you say?" asked Janet.
"Listen--that she take the bread from our mouths, she is traditore--scab.
We strike for them, too, is it not so?
It is no use for them to work for wages that starve. We win the strike, we get good wages for all. Here comes another--she is a Jewess--you try, you spik."
Janet failed with the Jewess, who obstinately refused to listen or reply as the two walked along with her, one on either side. Near West Street they spied a policeman, and desisted. Up and down Faber Street, everywhere, the game went on: but the police were watchful, and once a detachment of militia passed. The picketing had to be done quickly, in the few minutes that were to elapse before the gates should close.
Janet's blood ran faster, she grew excited, absorbed, bolder as she perceived the apologetic attitude of the "scabs" and she began to despise them with Gemma's heartiness; and soon she had lost all sense of surprise at finding herself arguing, pleading, appealing to several women in turn, fluently, in the language of the industrial revolution. Some--because she was an American--examined her with furtive curiosity; others pretended not to understand, accelerating their pace. She gained no converts that morning, but one girl, pale, anemic with high cheek bones evidently a Slav--listened to her intently.
"I gotta right to work," she said.
"Not if others will starve because you work," objected Janet.
"If I don't work I starve," said the girl.
"No, the Committee will take care of you--there will be food for all.
How much do you get now?"
"Four dollar and a half."
"You starve now," Janet declared contemptuously. "The quicker you join us, the sooner you'll get a living wage."
The girl was not quite convinced. She stood for a while undecided, and then ran abruptly off in the direction of West Street. Janet sought for others, but they had ceased coming; only the scattered, prowling picketers remained.
Over the black rim of the Clarendon Mill to the eastward the sky had caught fire. The sun had risen, the bells were ringing riotously, resonantly in the clear, cold air. Another working day had begun.
Janet, benumbed with cold, yet agitated and trembling because of her unwonted experience of the morning, made her way back to Fillmore Street.
She was prepared to answer any questions her mother might ask; as they ate their dismal breakfast, and Hannah asked no questions, she longed to blurt out where she had been, to announce that she had cast her lot with the strikers, the foreigners, to defend them and declare that these were not to blame for the misfortunes of the family, but men like Ditmar and the owners of the mills, the capitalists. Her mother, she reflected bitterly, had never once betrayed any concern as to her shattered happiness. But gradually, as from time to time she glanced covertly at Hannah's face, her resentment gave way to apprehension. Hannah did not seem now even to be aware of her presence; this persistent apathy filled her with a dread she did not dare to acknowledge.
"Mother!" she cried at last.
Hannah started. "Have you finished?" she asked.
"Yes."
