“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.”

Janet failed with the Jewess, who obstinately refused to listen or reply as the two walked along with her, one on either side.  Near West Street they spied a policeman, and desisted.  Up and down Faber Street, everywhere, the game went on:  but the police were watchful, and once a detachment of militia passed.  The picketing had to be done quickly, in the few minutes that were to elapse before the gates should close.  Janet’s blood ran faster, she grew excited, absorbed, bolder as she perceived the apologetic attitude of the “scabs” and she began to despise them with Gemma’s heartiness; and soon she had lost all sense of surprise at finding herself arguing, pleading, appealing to several women in turn, fluently, in the language of the industrial revolution.  Some—­because she was an American—­examined her with furtive curiosity; others pretended not to understand, accelerating their pace.  She gained no converts that morning, but one girl, pale, anemic with high cheek bones evidently a Slav—­listened to her intently.

“I gotta right to work,” she said.

“Not if others will starve because you work,” objected Janet.

“If I don’t work I starve,” said the girl.

“No, the Committee will take care of you—­there will be food for all.  How much do you get now?”