“Everything’s rotten and upset now,” said Billy, delighted with her friendly interest and sympathy.  “You ought to see these people when they aren’t on strike!  Now, let’s see, it’s five thirty.  I’ll tell you, Sue, if you’ll miss the seven-five boat, I’ll just wait here until we get the news from the conference, then I’ll blow you to Zink’s best dinner, and take you home on the ten-seventeen.”

“Oh, Bill, forget me!” she said, concerned for his obvious fatigue, for his face was grimed with perspiration and very pale.  “I feel like a fool to have come in on you when you’re so busy and so distressed!  Anything will be all right—–­”

“Sue, I wouldn’t have had you miss this for a million, if you can only get along, somehow!” he said eagerly.  “Some other time—–­”

“Oh, Billy, don’t bother about me!” Susan dismissed herself with an impatient little jerk of her head.  “Does this new thing worry you?” she asked.

“What new thing?” he asked sharply.

“Why, this—­this plan of Mr. Carpenter’s to bring a train-load of men on from Philadelphia,” said Susan, half-proud and half-frightened.

“Who said so?” he demanded abruptly.

“Why, I don’t know his name, Billy—­yes I do, too!  Mrs. Cudahy called him Jarge—–­”

“George Weston, that was!” Billy’s eyes gleamed.  “What else did he say?”

“He said a man named Edward Harris—–­” “Sure it wasn’t Frank Harris?” “Frank Harris—­that was it!  He said Harris overheard him—­ or heard him say so!”

“Harris didn’t hear anything that the old man didn’t mean to have him hear,” said Billy grimly.  “But that only makes it the more probably true!  Lord, Lord, I wonder where I can get hold of Weston!”

“He’s going to be at that conference, at half-past five,” Susan assured him.  He gave her an amused look.

“Aren’t you the little Foxy-Quiller!” he said.  “Gosh, I do love to have you out here, Sue!” he added, grinning like a happy small boy.  “This is Rassette’s, where I’m staying,” he said, stopping before the very prettiest and gayest of little gardens.  “Come in and meet Mrs. Rassette.”

Susan went in to meet the blonde, pretty, neatly aproned little lady of the house.

“The boys already are upstairs, Mr. Oliver,” said Mrs. Rassette, and as Billy went up the little stairway with flying leaps, she led Susan into her clean little parlor.  Susan noticed a rug whose design was an immense brown dog, a lamp with a green, rose-wreathed shade, a carved wooden clock, a little mahogany table beautifully inlaid with white holly, an enormous pair of mounted antlers, and a large concertina, ornamented with a mosaic design in mother-of-pearl.  The wooden floor here, and in the hall, was unpainted, but immaculately clean and the effect of the whole was clean and gay and attractive.

“You speak very wonderful English for a foreigner, Mrs. Rassette.”

“I?” The little matron showed her white teeth.  “But I was born in New Jersey,” she explained, “only when I am seven my Mama sends me home to my Grandma, so that I shall know our country.  It is a better country for the working people,” she added, with a smile, and added apologetically, “I must look into my kitchen; I am afraid my boy shall fall out of his chair.”