After a while, as the deadlock showed no signs of breaking, the siege of privation began to tell, ominous signs of discontent became apparent.  Chief among the waverers were those who had come to America with visions of a fortune, who had practised a repulsive thrift in order to acquire real estate, who carried in their pockets dog-eared bank books recording payments already made.  These had consented to the strike reluctantly, through fear, or had been carried away by the eloquence and enthusiasm of the leaders, by the expectation that the mill owners would yield at once.  Some went back to work, only to be “seen” by the militant, watchful pickets—­generally in their rooms, at night.  One evening, as Janet was walking home, she chanced to overhear a conversation taking place in the dark vestibule of a tenement.

“Working to-day?”

“Yah.”

“Work to-morrow?”

Hesitation.  “I d’no.”

“You work, I cut your throat.”  A significant noise.  “Naw, I no work.”

“Shake!”

She hurried on trembling, not with fear, but exultingly.  Nor did she reflect that only a month ago such an occurrence would have shocked and terrified her.  This was war....  On her way to Fillmore Street she passed, at every street corner in this district, a pacing sentry, muffled in greatcoat and woollen cap, alert and watchful, the ugly knife on the end of his gun gleaming in the blue light of the arc.  It did not occur to her, despite the uniform, that the souls of many of these men were divided also, that their voices and actions, when she saw them threatening with their bayonets, were often inspired by that inner desperation characteristic of men who find themselves unexpectedly in false situations.  Once she heard a woman shriek as the sharp knife grazed her skirt:  at another time a man whose steps had been considerably hurried turned, at a safe distance, and shouted defiantly: 

“Say, who are you working for?  Me or the Wool Trust?”

“Aw, get along,” retorted the soldier, “or I’ll give you yours.”

The man caught sight of Janet’s button as she overtook him.  He was walking backward.

“That feller has a job in a machine shop over in Barrington, I seen him there when I was in the mills.  And here he is tryin’ to put us out —­ain’t that the limit?”

The thud of horses’ feet in the snow prevented her reply.  The silhouettes of the approaching squad of cavalry were seen down the street, and the man fled precipitately into an alleyway....

There were ludicrous incidents, too, though never lacking in a certain pathos.  The wife of a Russian striker had her husband arrested because he had burned her clothes in order to prevent her returning to the mill.  From the police station he sent a compatriot with a message to Headquarters.  “Oye, he fix her!  She no get her jawb now—­she gotta stay in bed!” this one cried triumphantly.

“She was like to tear me in pieces when I brought her the clothes,” said Anna Mower, who related her experience with mingled feelings.  “I couldn’t blame her.  You see, it was the kids crying with cold and starvation, and she got so she just couldn’t stand it.  I couldn’t stand it, neither.”