Part 27 (1/2)
”Forty-five.”
”And the women?”
”They're busy on s.h.i.+rtwaists.”
”And what did the men do?”
”As they were told.”
”So you fellows are cutting under the strikers--you're scabs.”
Izon clutched the chair harder.
”I told them so--I said, 'For G.o.d's sake, be men--strike, if this isn't stopped.'”
”And what did they say?”
”They'd think it over!”
Sally arose and spoke quietly.
”Make them meet here. _I'll_ talk to them!”
Izon muttered darkly:
”Marrin's a dirty scoundrel!”
Joe smote his hands together.
”We'll fix him. You get the men down here! You just get the men!”
And then Joe understood that his work was not child's play; that the fight was man-size; that it had its dangers, its perils, its fierce struggles. He felt a new power rise within him--a warrior strength. He was ready to plunge in and give battle--ready for a hand-to-hand conflict. Now he was to be tested in the fires; now he was to meet and make or be broken by a great moment. An electricity of conflict filled the air, a foreboding of disaster. His theories at last were to meet the crucial test of reality, and he realized that up to that moment he had been hardly more than a dreamer.
V
FORTY-FIVE TREACHEROUS MEN
Out of the white, frosty street the next night, when every lamp up and down shone like a starry jewel beneath the tingling stars, forty-five men emerged, crowding, pus.h.i.+ng in the hall, wedging through the doorway, and filling the not-too-large editorial office. Joe had provided camp-stools, and the room was soon packed with sitting and standing men, circles of shadowy beings, carelessly clothed, with rough black cheeks and dark eyes--a bunch of jabbering aliens, excited, unfriendly, curious, absorbed in their problem--an ill-kempt lot and quite unlovely.
At the center stove, a little way off from its red heart, sat Joe and Sally and Izon. The men began to smoke cigarettes and little cigars, and with the rank tobacco smell was mingled the sweaty human odor. The room grew densely hot, and a window had to be thrown open. A vapor of smoke filled the atmosphere, shot golden with the lights, and in the smoke the many heads, bent this way and that, leaning forward or tilted up, showed strange and a little unreal. Joe could see faces that fascinated him by their vivid lines, their starting dark eyes and the white eye-b.a.l.l.s, their bulging noses and big mouths. Hands fluttered in lively gestures and a storm of Yiddish words broke loose.
Joe arose, lifting his hand for silence. Men pulled each other by the sleeve, and a strident ”'Ss.h.!.+” ran round the room.
”Silence!” cried Joe. His voice came from the depths of his big chest, and was masterful, ringing with determination.
An expectant hush followed. And then Joe spoke.
”I want to welcome you to this room. It belongs to you as much as to anybody, for in this room is published a paper that works for your good.
But I not only want to welcome you: I want to ask your permission to speak at this meeting.”