“Thank you, thank you!  You are good and you are just!  But no one can do anything.  It’s useless!”

The type of irreproachable coachman on the box whose respectability had suffered through the strange behavior of his mistress in this interview drove quickly off at her signal, and Conrad stood a moment looking after the carriage.  His heart was full of joy; it leaped; he thought it would burst.  As he turned to walk away it seemed to him as if he mounted upon the air.  The trust she had shown him, the praise she had given him, that crush of the hand:  he hoped nothing, he formed no idea from it, but it all filled him with love that cast out the pain and shame he had been suffering.  He believed that he could never be unhappy any more; the hardness that was in his mind toward his father went out of it; he saw how sorely he had tried him; he grieved that he had done it, but the means, the difference of his feeling about the cause of their quarrel, he was solemnly glad of that since she shared it.  He was only sorry for his father.  “Poor father!” he said under his breath as he went along.  He explained to her about his father in his reverie, and she pitied his father, too.

He was walking over toward the West Side, aimlessly at first, and then at times with the longing to do something to save those mistaken men from themselves forming itself into a purpose.  Was not that what she meant when she bewailed her woman’s helplessness?  She must have wished him to try if he, being a man, could not do something; or if she did not, still he would try, and if she heard of it she would recall what she had said and would be glad he had understood her so.  Thinking of her pleasure in what he was going to do, he forgot almost what it was; but when he came to a street-car track he remembered it, and looked up and down to see if there were any turbulent gathering of men whom he might mingle with and help to keep from violence.  He saw none anywhere; and then suddenly, as if at the same moment, for in his exalted mood all events had a dream-like simultaneity, he stood at the corner of an avenue, and in the middle of it, a little way off, was a street-car, and around the car a tumult of shouting, cursing, struggling men.  The driver was lashing his horses forward, and a policeman was at their heads, with the conductor, pulling them; stones, clubs, brickbats hailed upon the car, the horses, the men trying to move them.  The mob closed upon them in a body, and then a patrol-wagon whirled up from the other side, and a squad of policemen leaped out and began to club the rioters.  Conrad could see how they struck them under the rims of their hats; the blows on their skulls sounded as if they had fallen on stone; the rioters ran in all directions.

One of the officers rushed up toward the corner where Conrad stood, and then he saw at his side a tall, old man, with a long, white beard, who was calling out at the policemen:  “Ah, yes!  Glup the strikerss—­gif it to them!  Why don’t you co and glup the bresidents that insoalt your lawss, and gick your Boart of Arpidration out-of-toors?  Glup the strikerss—­they cot no friendts!  They cot no money to pribe you, to dreat you!”