It was a demonstration of the human power that refuses to submit to environment and circumstance and fate; that rises and rebukes facts, reshapes destiny.  And then the speaking began:  the bishop, the rabbi, the financier, the philanthropist, the social worker.  They spoke eloquently, they showed pity, they were constructive, they were prepared to act; they represented the “better classes” and promised the “poor,” the toilers, that they would see that relief and protection were given; but somehow their eloquence did not carry; somehow that mass of commonest men and women refused to be stirred and thrilled.  There was even a little hissing when it was announced that a committee of big men would see to the matter.

Joe had a dull sense of some monstrous social cleavage; the world divided into the rulers and the ruled, the drivers and the driven.  He felt uncomfortable, and so did the throng.  There was a feeling as if the crowd ought to have a throat to give vent to some strange, fierce fact that festered in its heart.

And then toward the end the chairman announced that one of the hat-trimmers, one of the girls who worked—­in another hat factory, would address the meeting—­Miss Sally Heffer.

A girl arose, a young woman with thin, sparse, gold-glinting hair, with face pallid and rounded, with broad forehead and gray eyes of remarkable clarity.  She was slim, dressed in a little brown coat and a short brown skirt.  She came forward, trembling, as if overcome by the audience.  She paused, raised her head and tried to speak.  There was not a sound, and suddenly the audience became strangely still, leaning forward, waiting.

Then again she tried to speak; it was hardly above a whisper; and yet so clear was the hush that Joe heard every word.  And he knew, and all knew, that this young woman was overcome, not by the audience, but by the passion of the tragedy, the passion of an oppressed class.  She was the voice of the toilers at last dimly audible; she was the voice of a million years of sore labor and bitter poverty and thwarted life.  And the audience was thrilled, and the powerful were shaken with remorse.

Trembling, terrible came the words out of that little body on the far stage: 

“I would be a traitor to these poor burned bodies if I came here to talk good-fellowship.  We have tried you good people of the public and we have found you wanting.  The old Inquisition had its rack and its thumbscrews and its instruments of torture with iron teeth.  We know what these things are to-day:  the iron teeth are our necessities, the thumbscrews the high-powered and swift machinery close to which we must work, and the rack is here in the fire-trap structures that will destroy us the minute they catch on fire.

“This is not the first time girls have been burned alive in this city.  Every week I learn of the untimely death of one of my sister workers.  Every year thousands of us are maimed. The life of men and women is so cheap and property is so sacred! There are so many of us for one job, it matters little if sixty of us are burned to death.