As the weeks went by, the strain of the strike began to tell on the weak, the unprepared, on those who had many mouths to feed.  Shivering with the cold of that hardest of winters, these unfortunates flocked to the Franco-Belgian Hall, where a little food or money in proportion to the size of their families was doled out to them.  In spite of the contributions received by mail, of the soup kitchens and relief stations set up by various organizations in various parts of the city, the supply little more than sufficed to keep alive the more needy portion of the five and twenty thousand who now lacked all other means of support.  Janet’s heart was wrung as she gazed at the gaunt, bewildered faces growing daily more tragic, more bewildered and gaunt; she marvelled at the animal-like patience of these Europeans, at the dumb submission of most of them to privations that struck her as appalling.  Some indeed complained, but the majority recited in monotonous, unimpassioned tones their stories of suffering, or of ill treatment by the “Cossacks” or the police.  The stipends were doled out by Czernowitz, but all through the week there were special appeals.  Once it was a Polish woman, wan and white, who carried her baby wrapped in a frayed shawl.

“Wahna littel money for milk,” she said, when at length their attention was drawn to her.

“But you get your money, every Saturday,” the secretary informed her kindly.

She shook her head.

“Baby die, ’less I have littel milk—­I show you.”

Janet drew back before the sight of the child with its sunken cheeks and ghastly blue lips ....  And she herself went out with the woman to buy the milk, and afterwards to the dive in Kendall Street which she called home—­in one of those “rear” tenements separated from the front buildings by a narrow court reeking with refuse.  The place was dank and cold, malodorous.  The man of the family, the lodgers who lived in the other room of the kennel, were out on the streets.  But when her eyes grew used to the darkness she perceived three silent children huddled in the bed in the corner....

On another occasion a man came running up the stairs of the Hall and thrust his way into a meeting of the Committee—­one of those normally happy, irresponsible Syrians who, because of a love for holidays, are the despair of mill overseers.  Now he was dazed, breathless, his great eyes grief-stricken like a wounded animal’s.

“She is killidd, my wife—­de polees, dey killidd her!”

It was Anna Mower who investigated the case.  “The girl wasn’t doing nothing but walk along Hudson Street when one of those hirelings set on her and beat her.  She put out her hand because she thought he’d hit her —­and he gave her three or four with his billy and left her in the gutter.  If you’d see her you’d know she wouldn’t hurt a fly, she’s that gentle looking, like all the Syrian women.  She had a `Don’t be a scab’ ribbon on—­that’s all she done!  Somebody’ll shoot that guy, and I wouldn’t blame ’em.”  Anna stood beside Janet’s typewriter, her face red with anger as she told the story.