At headquarters on May Day morning Yetta was detailed to the Crown Vest Company. As she was starting out, she met Mabel, whose mackintosh was glistening with rain.

"Oh, Yetta," she said, "don't go out to-day. The weather's so bad, and if you catch cold you can't speak."

But Yetta only smiled. It seemed to Mabel that she had never looked so beautiful before. Her face had begun to hollow a little from the strain, her olive skin was a shade paler, her eyes seemed to have grown bigger.

And her shoulders, which had begun to stoop in the sweat-shop, had straightened up with the month on her feet and the new pride of combat.

She was wearing the same skirt and waist she had worn to the dance, for she was to speak uptown that afternoon, and she had a warm shawl over her head and shoulders. The soles of her shoes were worn through, but Mabel could not see that.

"I've only got a few hours of it," she said. "There's that Advisory Council again this afternoon."

And she went out into the rain. The Crown Vest Company was on East Fourth Street, just off Washington Square. As Yetta turned the corner from Broadway she was nearly blown off her feet. All the winds of heaven--the biting, penetrating winds of a late spring storm--were caught in Washington Square as in a funnel, and escaped through the narrow canon of East Fourth Street. Although Yetta was late, she was surprised to find no other picket before the Crown Vest Company. They were always a.s.signed in couples. Her surprise turned to distress when she recognized the "private detective" in the doorway. His real name n.o.body knew. He called himself Brennan, but the girls called him "Pick-Axe." He was the one they dreaded more than any other. He thought himself a wit. It was his custom to tilt a chair against the wall by the doorway and, lighting his pipe, amuse himself by trying to make the girls blush. There was no limit to the brutality or nastiness of his tongue.

"Come in out of the rain, Dearie," he said when he saw Yetta. "There's room for two on this chair."

She tried not to hear him and began a sentry-like tread back and forth before the door. At least she was glad it was raining. Sometimes in good weather a crowd of depraved loungers would gather to listen to Pick-Axe's wit.

"It's too bad to have to work on a day like this, Little One," he called as she pa.s.sed again. "Let's go over to the saloon and have a drink.

There are nice warm rooms upstairs."

Yetta felt she would not shiver so hard if it were not for his cold, stinging voice. She decided it would be cowardly to let him drive her out of earshot. That would please him too much. She wondered why the other picket was not there.

"You needn't be so proud"--when she was again opposite him. "The first girl this morning tried to be proud. But she got over it. What's the use? Better come and have a drink, same as she did."

Yetta knew it was a lie. And yet--good G.o.d, it was cold! She had had her fill of eggs and hot coffee that morning. She wouldn't be hungry till noon, and she was so near home, she could get a good lunch. Some of the girls were always hungry. Few of them had warm clothes for such weather.

How could they stand it? She wished she had asked the name of the other girl detailed to the Crown.

"I felt right sorry for her," Pick-Axe went on. "Gawd! she was hungry.

You ought to have seen her eat. Pretty little girl, too. Now she's having a good sleep."

Of course it was a lie. But Yetta felt herself getting colder and colder. Pick-Axe got up and came towards her. She tried not to notice him, but she wanted very much to run.

"Come on," he said. "What's the use of being a fool? n.o.body's outdoors.

They ain't no scabs coming to-day. Let's go over to the saloon and make friends."

Yetta having reached the end of her beat turned mechanically and started back towards where he stood.

"That's a sensible girl," he said.

But she walked on past him as if he were a lamppost.

"Well," he snarled, "I guess I'll have to go over and wake up your friend. It'll take you about half an hour to wish you'd come instead...."

There is no need of printing all that he said.

He walked across the street. Yetta could not help turning her head to watch him as he entered the swinging door. He caught her glance and waved his hand. Her fright disappeared in anger. Of course she did not believe that he had persuaded one of her union girls to go into the saloon with him. But it was even viler to pretend that he had. Some one ought to kill the brute.

Just then Yetta saw one of the strikers--little Mrs. Muscovitz--hurrying up the street. Yetta rushed to meet her.

"Were you detailed here?" she asked eagerly.

Mrs. Muscovitz was coughing and could only nod her head affirmatively.

Yetta wanted to shout with joy. So Pick-Axe's story was after all a lie.

"I'm sorry I'm late," little Mrs. Muscovitz said hoa.r.s.ely, for she was "bad with bronchitis," "but I got a little money this morning and I had to buy some things for the baby."

One glance told Yetta where the money had come from--Mrs. Muscovitz had p.a.w.ned her shawl. More than once they had picketed together, and Yetta knew the little woman's story. Three years before she had married a young sign painter. Before the honeymoon was over he had begun to cough.

He died before the baby was born. And when Mrs. Muscovitz had been able to get about again, all the furniture of their little home had gone for doctor's bills. Her engagement and wedding rings had brought her enough to establish herself in a garret. She took the baby to a day nursery and went to work. Now, she was coughing. It hurts to cough when one also has the bronchitis. Having no shawl, her thin waist was soaked and plastered to her skin. Yetta could see the muscles of her back work convulsively whenever she coughed.

"Look y'ere, Mrs. Muscovitz," she said authoritatively. "You go home.

You ain't got no business out on a day like this. You'll catch your death. There ain't nothing doing to-day. I can hold it down alone."

"It's all right for you to talk, Yetta," Mrs. Muscovitz replied. "You can make speeches and you can work in the office and do lots of things for the Union. There ain't nothing I can do but picket. I couldn't pay rent without the 'strike benefits.' I've got to do something."

Pick-Axe came out of the saloon and seeing them together, knowing that it was less sport trying to torment two women than one, pulled his chair well inside of the doorway and cursed the vile weather.

"I tell you what you can do," Yetta went on arguing with Mrs. Muscovitz.

"It'll do more good than standing here. You go over to headquarters and make some coffee. You tell Miss Train I said it was so cold she must send coffee out to the girls. You can borrow some pails and cups and Mrs. Weinstein's boy'll carry it round. Hot coffee'll do the girls good, and it'll make the cops sore to see us getting it. Making coffee'll do more good than standing here. n.o.body's out; I can hold down this job all right."

"I hate to leave you alone with that snake."

"Oh," Yetta laughed, more light-heartedly than she felt. "Words don't break no bones. You run along."

While Mrs. Muscovitz was hesitating, she caught sight of a scab. "Look,"

she whispered. A big-boned young woman of about twenty, poorly clad and apparently much frightened, was standing on the opposite curbstone. She looked up at the sign in the window of the Crown Vest Company advertising the need of workers. And she looked down at the two women before the door. After a few indecisive minutes she started across the street.

"You run along to headquarters and get that coffee started," Yetta said.

"I'll talk to her."

"No," said Mrs. Muscovitz. "Let me do it. And then I'll go. I want to do something."

She started towards the woman. Pick-Axe, bundled up in his overcoat, back in the entryway, did not see the scab approaching. She had probably read in the papers lying stories of how the strike breakers were being attacked. She was very much afraid, and when she saw Mrs. Muscovitz coming towards her, she screamed. Pick-Axe, not having seen what was happening,--if one wishes to find excuses for him,--may have really believed that the little Mrs. Muscovitz had a.s.saulted the husky young scab. At the sound of the scream he jumped out of his chair and rushed at Mrs. Muscovitz. She, thinking that he was going to strike her, held out her hand to guard her face. Pick-Axe grabbed it, and with a vicious wrench, twisted her down on her knees.

"You s.l.u.t! You--! You--!" he bellowed and swung his heavy-soled boot into her ribs.

Yetta--to use a phrase of melodrama--"saw red." Something happened in her brain. Her rather Platonic conviction of a few minutes before that somebody ought to kill the brute, was changed into a pa.s.sionate, throbbing desire to do it herself.

Just as his foot found its goal in Mrs. Muscovitz' side, Pick-Axe felt the sudden impact of Yetta's whole weight. It was more of a spring than a rush. As far as she had any idea, she wanted to choke him. The sudden jolt bowled him over--he was standing on one foot--and as he fell his head came down on the stone paving with a sickening thud. If it had not been for his heavy cap, the blow might have cracked his skull. As it was it stunned him. His face turned very white. The scab ran up the street too frightened to look back.

"I hope he's dead," Yetta said with tight-clenched fists.

But Mrs. Muscovitz felt his heart and shook her head.

"Sure?" Yetta asked.

"Yes. His heart's beating. Feel it yourself."

"I wouldn't touch the snake with my foot," Yetta said; "come on."

"n.o.body but the scab seen us," Mrs. Muscovitz said.