So at six o’clock Minna joined the relays of working girls who—­many of them, like Minna, at personal risk and sacrifice—­handed out cards all day to each man who entered.  Thus the men were reminded at the last moment of the working woman’s stake in the election.  “Scratch E.J.  Troy” was before their eyes as they crossed their tickets.

Every moment of the day there were alert girls to make this final quiet appeal for justice.  They were serious, dignified.  There was no jeering, no mirth on the part of the men at the novelty of this campaign—­nothing to make any woman self-conscious.

The girls were quiet enough outwardly, but the inner drama was keyed high.  Had all their speech-making, placarding, bill-posting and the canvassing of factories, blocks, and primaries—­had all their little savings, their risk and personal sacrifice accomplished anything?  That was what the girls asked themselves.  The thermometer of their hope rose and fell with the rumors of the day.  The fathers of the Central Labor Body patted them on the head benevolently and tried to ease their fall, if they were to fall, by saying that anyway it would be something to make Troy run third on his ticket.

Seven o’clock, and the girls were leaving the primaries in twos and threes, tired but excitedly discussing the situation.  Between hope and despondency the comment varied on the streets, at the supper-tables, and in the eager, waiting groups of girls on tenement steps and stairs.

At last came the authentic returns.  E.J.  Troy ran 3,338 votes behind his ticket.  With a silent press and practically no money, the working women had defeated one of the most popular men in St. Louis.

A man pledged to the interests of labor legislation won his place.  That made the outlook better for the Women’s Nine-Hour Bill, and thousands of working girls tumbled into bed, tired, but with new hope.

Every newspaper in St. Louis failed to comment on the victory.  The slaves who sit at the editorial desk said they couldn’t—­they weren’t “let.” So the most hopeful feature in St. Louis politics has never been commented on by the American press.

As for Hannah Hennessy—­she had been too ill to share in the active work of the campaign, but her influence was everywhere—­a vital force, a continual inspiration.

Week by week her cheeks grew thinner, her cough more rasping.  But after the campaign against Troy was over, she turned with the same intensity of interest to the National Convention of the American Federation of Labor which was to meet there in November.  For a year she had been making plans, eager to make this convention a landmark in the history of women’s labor.  But in November she was in bed by the little grate fire in the family sitting-room.  And when convention week came with its meetings a scant three blocks from her home, she could be there in spirit only; she waited restlessly for the girls to slip in after the daily sessions and live them over again for her.