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.