"March up and down in front of a factory and try to keep scabs out."
"You don't even know that? Why, a scab's a girl who tries to take a striker's job and so ruin the strike. She takes the bread out of our mouths."
"Talk to her! We're not allowed to use violence."
Rhona looked at the eager face, the luminous gray eyes.
"We don't show it, anyway. You see, we're bound to win."
"Well, if you're not afraid, I guess I haven't any right to be. May I come?"
Rhona looked at her with swift understanding.
Myra rose. She took a last look about the darkening room; saw once more the sleeping men, the toiling Giotto, the groups of girls. Something tragic hung in the air. She seemed to breathe bigger, gain in stature, expand. She was going to meet the test of these newer women. She was going to identify herself with their vast struggle.
And looking once more, she sought Joe, but could not find him. How pleased he would be to know that she was doing this--doing it largely for him--because she wanted to smooth out that gray face, and lay her cheek against its lost wrinkles, and put her arm about his neck, and heal him.
Tears dimmed her eyes. She took Rhona's arm and they stepped out into the bleak street. Wind whipped their faces like quick-flicked knives. They walked close together.
"Quite far. It's over on Great Jones Street!"
And so Myra went, quite lost in the cyclone of life.
They gained the corner of Great Jones Street--one of those dim byways of trade that branch off from the radiant avenues. As they turned in the street, they met a bitter wind that was blowing the pavement clean as polished glass, and the dark and closing day was set off sharply by the intense lamps and shop-lights. Here and there at a window a clerk pressed his face against the cold pane and looked down into the cheerless twilight, and many toilers made the hard pavement echo with their fast steps as they hurried homeward.
Two girls, both placarded, came up to them. One of them, a thin little skeleton, pitiably ragged in dress, with hollow eyes and white face, was coughing in the cuff of the wind. She was plainly a consumptive--a little wisp of a girl. She spoke brokenly, with a strong Russian accent.
"It's good to see you yet, Rhona. I get so cold my bones ready to crack."