“Do you think a man has any right to strike a girl?”

He did not answer; she still held his eyes.

“Do you think a man has any right to strike a girl?”

Still he said nothing, and the crowd became fascinated by the fixity of gaze of the two.  Rhona’s voice sharpened: 

“Do you think a man has any right to strike a girl?”

The officer cleared his throat and looked away.

“Oh,” he muttered carelessly, “it’s all right.  You people are always kicking, anyway.”

Rhona’s voice rose.

“I ask you to arrest him.”

Several in the crowd backed this with mutterings.  The policeman twirled his stick.

“Oh, all right!” he called.  “Come along, Blondy!”

Blondy, the thug, came up grinning.

“Pinching me, John?” he asked.

“Sure.”  The policeman smiled, and then seized Blondy and Rhona each by an arm and started to march them toward Broadway.  Myra followed wildly.  Her mind was in a whirl and the bitter tears blurred her eyes.  What could she do?  How could she help?  She sensed in the policeman’s word a menace to Rhona.  Rhona was in trouble, and she, Myra, was as good as useless in this crisis.  She suddenly understood the helplessness of the poor and the weak, especially the poor and weak women.  What could they do against this organized iniquity?  Against the careless and cruel world?  It was all right for gentlewomen in gentle environment to keep to the old ideals of womanhood—­to stay at home and delegate their citizenship to the men.  But those who were sucked into the vortex of the rough world, what of these?  Were they not right in their attempts to organize, to rebel, to fight in the open, to secure a larger share of freedom and power?

But if these were Myra’s feelings and thoughts—­a sense of outrage, of being trampled on—­they were little things compared with the agony in Rhona’s breast.  A growing and much-pleased crowd surrounded her, flinging remarks: 

“Lock-steps for yours!  Hello, Mamie!  Oh, you kid!  Now will you be good!  Carrie, go home and wash the dishes!”

And one boy darted up and snapped the placard from her waist.  The crowd laughed, but Rhona was swallowing bitter tears.

They passed down Broadway a block or two, and then turned west.  Brilliant light from the shop windows fell upon the moving scene—­the easy-going men, the slouching, shrill boys, and the girl with her pale set face and uncertain steps.  All the world was going home to supper, and Rhona felt strangely that she was now an exile—­torn by the roots from her warm life to go on a lonely adventure against the powers of darkness.  She had lost her footing in the world and was slipping into the night.  She felt singularly helpless; her very rage and rebellion made her feel frail and unequal to the task.  To be struck down in the street!  To be insulted by a crowd!  She had hard work to hold her head erect and keep back the bitter sobs.