“On Great Jones Street.”

“Well and good,” he muttered.

“But isn’t there anything to do?” cried Myra.

“Why, if she’s not arrested, she’ll come here and report, and if she doesn’t come I’ll go over to the Night Court at nine this evening.”

“I must go with you,” cried Myra.

“You?” He looked at her, and then suddenly he asked:  “But how did you come to hear of this?”

“I was picketing with her.”

A great change came over Joe’s face, as if he beheld a miracle.

“Myra!  So you have been picketing!”

Her face went very white.

“Don’t!  Don’t!” she breathed painfully, sinking in a chair.  “I was a coward, Joe—­I didn’t do anything to help her!”

“But what could you do?”

“Oh, something, anything.”

He glanced at her keenly, and a swift smile lit his features.  He spoke very gently.

“Myra, you step in back to my mother.  Take supper with her.  Keep her company.  I’m afraid I’m neglecting mother these days.”

“And the Night Court?” Myra was swallowing sobs.

“I’ll look in for you at nine o’clock.”

“Thank you,” she whispered.  “Oh, thank you.”

It was something that he thought her worthy.

IX

RHONA

When the policeman with Rhona and Blondy passed up the steps between the green lamps of the new station-house, they found themselves in a long room whose warmth was a fine relief.  They breathed more easily, loosened their coats, and then stepped forward.  A police sergeant sat behind a railing, writing at a low desk, a low-hanging, green-shaded electric bulb above him.

Rhona felt that she had to speak quickly and get in her word before the others.  She tried to be calm, but a dull sob went with the words.

“That man struck me—­knocked me down.  I’ve had him arrested.”

The sergeant did not look up.  He went on writing.  Finally he spoke, easily: 

“True, Officer?”

The policeman cleared his throat.

“The other way round, Sergeant. She struck the man.”

Rhona breathed hard, a feeling in her breast of her heart breaking.  She gasped: 

“That’s not true.  He struck me—­he struck me.”

The sergeant glanced up.

“What’s your name?”

Rhona could not answer for a moment.  Then, faintly: 

“Rhona Hemlitz.”

“Age?”

“Seventeen.”

“Address?”

“——­ Hester Street.”

“Occupation?”

“Shirtwaist-maker.”

“Oh!” he whistled slightly.  “Striker?”

“Yes.”

“Picketing?”

“Yes.”

“Held for Night Court trial.  Lock her up, Officer.”

Blackness closed over the girl’s brain.  She thought she was going into hysterics.  Her one thought was that she must get help, that she must reach some one who knew her.  She burst out: