“Yes—­you know I used to be in Newark—­I was the president of the
Newark Hat-Trimmers’ Union.”

“And now?”

“I’m trying to organize the girls here.”

“Well,” he muttered, grimly.  “I wouldn’t like to be your boss, Miss Heffer.”

She laughed in her low voice.

“Let me tell you what sort I am!” And she sat down, crossed her legs, and clasped her hands on her raised knee.  “I was working in that Newark factory, and the girls told me to ask the boss, Mr. Plump, for a half holiday.  So I went into his office and said:  ’Mr. Plump, the girls want a half holiday.’  He was very angry.  He said:  ’You won’t get it.  Mind your own business.’  So I said, quietly:  ’All right, Mr. Plump, we’ll take a whole holiday.  We won’t show up Monday.’  Then he said to me, ‘Sally Heffer, go to hell!’ He was the first man to say such a thing to my face.  Well, one of the girls found me in the hall drying my eyes, and when she got the facts she went back and told the others, and the bunch walked out, leaving this message:  ’Mr. Plump, we won’t come back till you apologize to Sally.’  Well, we were out a week, and what do you think?” Sally laughed with quiet joy.  “Plump took it to the Manufacturers Association, and they—­backed him?  Not a bit! Made him apologize!”

Joe chuckled.

“Great!  Great!”

“Oh, I’m doing things all the time,” said Sally.  “Organized the Jewish hat-trimmers in Newark, and all my friends went back on me for sticking up for the Jews.  Did I care?  Ten years ago every time the men got a raise through their union, the girls had their salaries cut.  Different now.  We’ve enough sense to give the easy jobs to the old ladies—­and there’s lots of old ones trimming hats.”

“What’s trimming hats?”

Sally plucked up Joe’s gray hat, and then looked at Joe, her eyes twinkling.

“It’s a little hard to show you on this.  But see the sweat-band?  It has a lot of needle holes in it, and the trimmer has to stitch through those holes and then sew the band on to the hat, and all the odds and ends.  It kills eyes.  What do you think?” she went on.  “The girls used to drink beer—­bosses let ’em do it to keep them stimulated—­and it’s ruined lots.  I stopped that.”

Joe looked at Sally.  And he had a wild impulse then, a crazy thought.

“How much do you get a week?”

“Fifteen.”

“Well,” said Joe, “I want a woman’s department in the paper.  Will you handle it for fifteen a week?”

“But you don’t know me!”

“Well,” said Joe, “I’m willing to gamble on you.”

Sally’s low voice loosed exultation.

“You’re a wonder, Mr. Blaine.  I’ll do it!  But we’re both plumb crazy.”

“I know it,” said Joe, “and I like it!”

They shook hands.

“Come over to-morrow and meet my mother!” He gave her the address.

“Good-by,” she said.  “And let me tell you, I’m simply primed for woman stuff.  It is the women”—­she repeated the phrase slowly—­“it is the women, as you’ll find, who bear the burden of the world!  Good-by!”