“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: