Bill Totts had none of these considerations.  He had liked Mary Condon from the moment his eyes first rested on her in the convention hall, and he had made it a point, then and there, to find out who she was.  The next time he met her, and quite by accident, was when he was driving an express waggon for Pat Morrissey.  It was in a lodging-house in Mission Street, where he had been called to take a trunk into storage.  The landlady’s daughter had called him and led him to the little bedroom, the occupant of which, a glove-maker, had just been removed to hospital.  But Bill did not know this.  He stooped, up-ended the trunk, which was a large one, got it on his shoulder, and struggled to his feet with his back toward the open door.  At that moment he heard a woman’s voice.

“Belong to the union?” was the question asked.

“Aw, what’s it to you?” he retorted.  “Run along now, an’ git outa my way.  I wanta turn round.”

The next he know, big as he was, he was whirled half around and sent reeling backward, the trunk overbalancing him, till he fetched up with a crash against the wall.  He started to swear, but at the same instant found himself looking into Mary Condon’s flashing, angry eyes.

“Of course I b’long to the union,” he said.  “I was only kiddin’ you.”

“Where’s your card?” she demanded in businesslike tones.

“In my pocket.  But I can’t git it out now.  This trunk’s too damn heavy.  Come on down to the waggon an’ I’ll show it to you.”

“Put that trunk down,” was the command.

“What for?  I got a card, I’m tellin’ you.”

“Put it down, that’s all.  No scab’s going to handle that trunk.  You ought to be ashamed of yourself, you big coward, scabbing on honest men.  Why don’t you join the union and be a man?”

Mary Condon’s colour had left her face, and it was apparent that she was in a rage.

“To think of a big man like you turning traitor to his class.  I suppose you’re aching to join the militia for a chance to shoot down union drivers the next strike.  You may belong to the militia already, for that matter.  You’re the sort—­”

“Hold on, now, that’s too much!” Bill dropped the trunk to the floor with a bang, straightened up, and thrust his hand into his inside coat pocket.  “I told you I was only kiddin’.  There, look at that.”

It was a union card properly enough.

“All right, take it along,” Mary Condon said.  “And the next time don’t kid.”

Her face relaxed as she noticed the ease with which he got the big trunk to his shoulder, and her eyes glowed as they glanced over the graceful massiveness of the man.  But Bill did not see that.  He was too busy with the trunk.