your pain?  Do I not know that you are doing all, all for your children—­that the little ones may grow up to a better life than yours—­that your little ones may be happier, and healthier, and richer, and finer?  Have I not seen it a thousand times?  But what sort of a world will your children find when they grow up if you do not fight these battles for them?  If you let the bosses enslave you—­if you are cowards and slaves—­will not your children be slaves?  Oh, we that belong to Israel, have we not fought for freedom these bloody thousand years?  Are we to cease now?  Can’t you see?  Can’t you open your hearts and minds?” His voice came with a passionate sob.  “Won’t you see that this is a fight for the future—­a fight for all who work for wages—­a fight for freedom?  Not care for the cloak-makers?  They are your brothers.  Care for them, lest the day come when you are uncared for!  Strike!  You must—­you must!  Strike, comrades!  We will hang by each other!  We will suffer together!  And it will not be the first time!  No, not the first time—­or the last!”

He sank exhausted on his chair, crumpled up.  Sweat was running down his white face.  There was a moment’s hush—­snuffling, and a few coarse sobs—­and then a young man arose, and spoke in trembling voice: 

“I move—­we send Jacob Izon to-morrow to our boss—­and tell him—­either no cloaks, or—­we strike!”

“Second!  Second!”

Joe put the motion.

“All in favor, say aye.”

There was a wild shout of ayes.  The motion was carried.  Then the air was charged with excitement, with fiery talk, with denunciation and ardor.

“Now we’re in for it!” said Joe, as the room was emptied, and the aroused groups trudged east on the crunching snow.

And so it was.  Next morning, when Theodore Marrin made the rounds of the vast loft where two hundred girls and forty-five men were busily working—­the machines racing—­the air pulsing with noise—­Jacob Izon arose, trembling, and confronted him.

“Well, Jacob!”

“I want to tell you something.”

“Go ahead.”

“The men have asked me to ask you not to have us make the cloaks.”

Marrin’s red face seemed to grow redder.

“So, that’s it!” he snapped.  “Well, here’s my answer.  Go back to your work!”

The men had stopped working and were listening.  The air was electric, ominous.

Izon spoke tremblingly.

“I am very sorry then.  I must announce that the men have struck!”

Marrin glared at him.

“Very well!  And get out—­quick!”

He turned and walked away, flaming with rage.  The men quickly put their work away, got their hats and coats, and followed Izon.  When they reached the street—­a strange spectacle on flashing, brilliant Fifth Avenue—­Izon suggested that they go down to Tenth Street, for they stood about like a lot of lost sheep.

“No,” cried one of the men, “we’ve had enough of Tenth Street.  There’s a hall we can use right over on Eighteenth Street.  Come on.”