“Why should we strike?  What for?  For the cloak-makers?  What have we to do with cloak-makers?  We have troubles enough of our own.  We have our families to support—­our wives and children and relations.  Shall they starve for some foolish cloak—­makers?  Comrades, don’t listen to such humbug.  Do your work—­get done with it.  You have good jobs—­don’t lose them.  These revolutionists!  They would break up the whole world for their nonsense!  It’s not they who have to suffer; it’s us working people.  We do the starving, we do the fighting.  Have sense; bethink yourselves; don’t make fools out of yourselves!”

A buzz of talk arose with many gesticulations.

“He’s right!  Why should we strike—­Och, Gott, such nonsense!—­No more strike talk.”

Then Sally arose, pale, eyes blazing.  She shook a stanch little fist at the crowd.  But how different was her speech from the one in Carnegie Hall—­that time when she had been truly inspired.

“Shame on all of you!  You’re a lot of cowards!  You’re a lot of traitors!  You can’t think of anything but your bellies!  Shame on you all!  Women would never stand for such things—­young girls, your sisters or your daughters, would strike at once!  Let me tell you what will happen to you.  Some day there will be a strike of shirt-waist-makers, and then your boss will go to the cloak-house and say, ’Now you make shirtwaists for me,’ and the cloak-makers will make the shirtwaists, saying, ’When we were striking, the shirtwaist-makers made cloaks; now we’ll make waists.’  And that will ruin your strike, and ruin you all.  Working people must unite!  Working people must stand by each other!  That’s your only power.  The boss has money, land, machinery, friends.  What have you?  You only have each other, and if you don’t stand by each other, you have nothing at all.  Strike!  I tell you!  Strike and show ’em!  Show ’em!  Rise and resist!  You have the power!  You are bound to win!  Strike!  I tell you!”

Then a man shouted:  “Shall a woman tell us what to do?” and tumult broke loose, angry arguments, words flying.  The air seemed to tingle with excitement, expectation, and that sharp feeling of human crisis.  Joe could feel the circle of human nature fighting about him.  He leaned forward, strangely shaken.

Izon had arisen, and was trying to speak.  The dark, handsome young man was gesturing eloquently.  His voice poured like a fire, swept the crowd, and he reached them with their own language.

“Comrades!  Comrades!  Comrades!” and then his voice rose and stilled the tumult, and all leaned forward, hanging on his words.  “You must”—­he was appealing to them with arms outstretched—­“you must!  You will strike; you will not be cowards!  Not for yourselves, O comrades, but for your children—­your children!  Do I not know you?  Do I not know how you toil and slave and go hungry and wear out your bodies and souls?  Have I not toiled with you?  Have I not shared your struggles and