"Oh no--nothing so terrible as that," he disclaimed. "And yet most of us have explosives stored away inside of us--instincts, impulses and all that sort of thing that won't stand too much bottling-up."
"Yes, I've joined the strike." She spoke somewhat challengingly, though she had an uneasy feeling that defiance was somewhat out of place with him. "I suppose you think it strange, since I'm not a foreigner and haven't worked in the mills. But I don't see why that should make any difference if you believe that the workers haven't had a chance."
"No difference," he agreed, pleasantly, "no difference at all."
"Don't you sympathize with the strikers?" she insisted. "Or--are you on the other side, the side of the capitalists?"
"I? I'm a spectator--an innocent bystander."
"You don't sympathize with the workers?" she cried.
"Indeed I do. I sympathize with everybody."
"With the capitalists?"
"Why not?"
"Why not? Because they've had everything their own way, they've exploited the workers, deceived and oppressed them, taken all the profits." She was using glibly her newly acquired labour terminology.
"Isn't that a pretty good reason for sympathizing with them?" he inquired.
"What do you mean?"
"Well, I should think it might be difficult to be happy and have done all that. At any rate, it isn't my notion of happiness. Is it yours?"
For a moment she considered this.
"No--not exactly," she admitted. "But they seem happy," she insisted vehemently, "they have everything they want and they do exactly as they please without considering anybody except themselves. What do they care how many they starve and make miserable? You--you don't know, you can't know what it is to be driven and used and flung away!"
Almost in tears, she did not notice his puzzled yet sympathetic glance.
"The operatives, the workers create all the wealth, and the capitalists take it from them, from their wives and children."
"Now I know what you've been doing," he said accusingly. "You've been studying economics."
Her brow puckered.
"Studying what?"
"Economics--the distribution of wealth. It's enough to upset anybody."
"But I'm not upset," she insisted, smiling in spite of herself at his comical concern.
"It's very exciting. I remember reading a book once on economics and such things, and I couldn't sleep for a week. It was called `The Organization of Happiness,' I believe, and it described just how the world ought to be arranged--and isn't. I thought seriously of going to Washington and telling the President and Congress about it."
"It wouldn't have done any good," said Janet.
"No, I realized that."
"The only thing that will do any good is to strike and keep on striking until the workers own the mills--take everything away from the capitalists."
"It's very ******," he agreed, "much ******r than the book I read.
That's what they call syndicalism, isn't it?"
"Yes." She was conscious of his friendliness, of the fact that his skepticism was not cynical, yet she felt a strong desire to convince him, to vindicate her new creed. "There's a man named Rolfe, an educated man who's lived in Italy and England, who explains it wonderfully. He's one of the I.W.W. leaders--you ought to hear him."
"Rolfe converted you? I'll go to hear him."
"Yes--but you have to feel it, you have to know what it is to be kept down and crushed. If you'd only stay here awhile "
"Oh, I intend to," he replied.
She could not have said why, but she felt a certain relief on hearing this.
"Then you'll see for yourself!" she cried. "I guess that's what you've come for, isn't it?"
"Well, partly. To tell the truth, I've come to open a restaurant."
"To open a restaurant!" Somehow she was unable to imagine him as the proprietor of a restaurant. "But isn't it rather a bad time?" she gasped.
"I don't look as if I had an eye for business--do I? But I have. No, it's a good time--so many people will be hungry, especially children.
I'm going to open a restaurant for children. Oh, it will be very modest, of course--I suppose I ought to call it a soup kitchen."
"Oh!" she exclaimed, staring at him. "Then you really--" the sentence remained unfinished. "I'm sorry," she said simply. "You made me think--"
"Oh, you mustn't pay any attention to what I say. Come 'round and see my establishment, Number 77 Dey Street, one flight up, no elevator. Will you?"
She laughed tremulously as he took her hand.
"Yes indeed, I will," she promised. And she stood awhile staring after him. She was glad he had come to Hampton, and yet she did not even know his name.
