With a lithe movement like the spring of a cat the Italian girl flung herself between them—­a remarkable exhibition of spontaneous inflammability; her eyes glittered like the points of daggers, and, as though they had been dagger points, the policeman recoiled a little.  The act, which was absolutely natural, superb, electrified Janet, restored in an instant her own fierceness of spirit.  The girl said something swiftly, in Italian, and helped the woman to rise, paying no more attention to the policeman.  Janet walked on, but she had not covered half the block before she was overtaken by the girl; her anger had come and gone in a flash, her vivacity had returned, her vitality again found expression in an abundant good nature and good will.  She asked Janet’s name, volunteering the information that her own was Gemma, that she was a “fine speeder” in the Chippering Mill, where she had received nearly seven dollars a week.  She had been among the first to walk out.

“Why did you walk out?” asked Janet curiously.

“Why?  I get mad when I know that my wages is cut.  I want the money—­I get married.”

“Is that why you are striking?” asked Janet curiously.

“That is why—­of course.”

“Then you haven’t heard any of the speakers?  They say it is for a cause —­the workers are striking for freedom, some day they will own the mills.  I heard a man named Rolfe yesterday—­”

The girl gave her a radiant smile.

“Rolfe!  It is beautiful, what Rolfe said.  You think so?  I think so.  I am for the cause, I hate the capitalist.  We will win, and get more money, until we have all the money.  We will be rich.  And you, why do you strike?”

“I was mad, too,” Janet replied simply.

“Revenge!” exclaimed the girl, glittering again.  “I understan’.  Here come the scabs!  Now I show you.”

The light had grown, but the stores were still closed and barred.  Along Faber Street, singly or in little groups, anxiously glancing around them, behind them, came the workers who still clung desperately to their jobs.  Gemma fairly darted at two girls who sought the edge of the sidewalk, seizing them by the sleeves, and with piteous expressions they listened while she poured forth on them a stream of Italian.  After a moment one tore herself away, but the other remained and began to ask questions.  Presently she turned and walked slowly away in the direction from which she had come.

“I get her,” exclaimed Gemma, triumphantly.

“What did you say?” asked Janet.

“Listen—­that she take the bread from our mouths, she is traditore—­scab.  We strike for them, too, is it not so?”

“It is no use for them to work for wages that starve.  We win the strike, we get good wages for all.  Here comes another—­she is a Jewess—­you try, you spik.”