“The proletariat?” The word was new to Janet’s ear.

“The great mass of the workers, the oppressed, the people you saw here to-day.  Socialism is not for them.  Socialism—­political socialism —­betrays them into the hands of the master class.  Direct action is the thing, the general strike, war,—­the new creed, the new religion that will bring salvation.  I joined the Industrial Workers of the World that is the American organization of Syndicalism.  I went west, to Colorado and California and Oregon, I preached to the workers wherever there was an uprising, I met the leaders, Ritter and Borkum and Antonelli and Jastro and Nellie Bond, I was useful to them, I understand Syndicalism as they do not.  And now we are here, to sow the seed in the East.  Come,” he said, slipping his arm through hers, “I will take you to Headquarters, I will enlist you, you shall be my recruit.  I will give you the cause, the religion you need.”

She longed to go, and yet she drew back, puzzled.  The man fired and fascinated her, but there were reservations, apprehensions concerning him, felt rather than reasoned.  Because of her state of rebellion, of her intense desire to satisfy in action the emotion aroused by a sense of wrong, his creed had made a violent appeal, but in his voice, in his eyes, in his manner she had been quick to detect a personal, sexual note that disturbed and alarmed her, that implied in him a lack of unity.

“I can’t, to-night,” she said.  “I must go home—­my mother is all alone.  But I want to help, I want to do something.”

They were standing on a corner, under a street lamp.  And she averted her eyes from his glance.

“Then come to-morrow,” he said eagerly.  “You know where Headquarters is, in the Franco-Belgian Hall?”

“What could I do?” she asked.

“You?  You could help in many ways—­among the women.  Do you know what picketing is?”

“You mean keeping the operatives out of the mills?”

“Yes, in the morning, when they go to work.  And out of the Chippering Mill, especially.  Ditmar, the agent of that mill, is the ablest of the lot, I’m told.  He’s the man we want to cripple.”

“Cripple!” exclaimed Janet.

“Oh, I don’t mean to harm him personally.”  Rolfe did not seem to notice her tone.  “But he intends to crush the strike, and I understand he’s importing scabs here to finish out an order—­a big order.  If it weren’t for him, we’d have an easier fight; he stiffens up the others.  There’s always one man like that, in every place.  And what we want to do is to make him shut down, especially.”

“I see,” said Janet.

“You’ll come to Headquarters?” Rolfe repeated.

“Yes, I’ll come, to-morrow,” she promised.