“I’ll run the stuff and comment on it,”
declared The Skipper, handing Sam what he had written.
It was an editorial inviting the public to read the
article prepared for publication by the strike leaders
and sympathising with the striking girls that their
cause had to be lost because of the incompetence and
lack of intelligence of their leaders.
“Hurrah for Roughhouse, the brave man who leads
working girls to defeat in order that he may retain
leadership and drive intelligent effort out of the
cause of labour,” wrote The Skipper.
Sam looked at the sheets and out of the window where
a snow storm raged. It seemed to him that a crime
was being done and he was sick and disgusted at his
own inability to stop it. The Skipper lighted
a short black pipe and took his cap from a nail on
the wall.
“I’m the smoothest little newspaper thing
in town and some financier as well,” he declared.
“Let’s go have a drink.”
After the drink Sam walked through the town toward
the country. At the edge of town where the houses
became scattered and the road started to drop away
into a deep valley some one helloed behind him.
Turning, he saw the soft-eyed Jewish girl running
along a path beside the road.
“Where are you going?” he asked, stopping
to lean against a board fence, the snow falling upon
his face.
“I’m going with you,” said the girl.
“You’re the best and the strongest man
I’ve ever seen and I’m not going to let
you get away. If you’ve got a wife it don’t
matter. She isn’t what she should be or
you wouldn’t be walking about the country alone.
Harrigan and Frank say you’re crazy, but I know
better. I am going with you and I’m going
to help you find what you want.”
Sam wondered. She took a roll of bills from a
pocket in her dress and gave it to him.
“I spent three hundred and fourteen dollars,”
she said.
They stood looking at each other. She put out
a hand and laid it on his arm. Her eyes, soft
and now glowing with eager light looked into his.
Her round breasts rose and fell.
“Anywhere you say. I’ll be your servant
if you ask it of me.”
A wave of hot desire ran through Sam followed by a
quick reaction. He thought of his months of weary
seeking and his universal failure.
“You are going back to town if I have to drive
you there with stones,” he told her, and turning
ran down the valley leaving her standing by the board
fence, her head buried in her arms.
One crisp winter evening Sam found himself on a busy
street corner in Rochester, N.Y., watching from a
doorway the crowds of people hurrying or loitering
past him. He stood in a doorway near a corner
that seemed to be a public meeting place and from
all sides came men and women who met at the corner,
stood for a moment in talk, and then went away together.
Sam found himself beginning to wonder about the meetings.
