"Black Tom O'Connell. The idol of the laboring world."
"Who's that heavy woman this side?"
"That's Katya Orloff, the inevitable Russian Jew."
Anne looked beyond her to Black Tom. He, like Katya, was sitting perfectly still, the unlit butt of the cigar hanging from his lips. His long, thin face was badly shaven and grayish from overwork. His worn clothes hung loosely on his large frame, bent and gnarled from a childhood of work and the passions which Anne felt were always tearing the man. Again and again, Anne tried to look away, to listen to the smooth flow of Hilary Wainwright's studied periods, but her eyes always came back to the still, slouching form next to the pretty girl. Their physical proximity disturbed her. She felt an element in the girl reaching to this man, scarred, untidy, old enough to be her father. When the girl for the second time laid her soft, white hand on his knee, Anne felt herself flush and looked quickly away to Hilary.
Whatever he had been saying, he had now reached the end of the first period. With a distinct bracing of his shoulders, and a decided hardening of his lips, he went on:
"And so it seemed the best thing for us all to get together and talk the thing out frankly and honestly. The situation is serious and it concerns us all, every one of us and the whole city," he added, to impress the fact that it was not his peculiar position as main owner in the sugar fleet, not the financial interest of the other keen directors, that had brought them there, but their world interest in all that touched humanity. "Until now, the strike has been fairly orderly, but it will not continue so much longer. The city, the common people, cannot be made to bear much longer the brunt of curtailed sugar supply, or idle shipping. The boats have got to be run." He paused. Anne felt Katya Orloff move for the first time, a slight movement toward them. She turned slightly and saw that Katya was now looking with faint amusement at Roger, the only one in the room listening intently to Hilary.
The directors, bored by having to give up their evening to this "hare-brained scheme of that idealist, Wainwright," but realizing the importance of having every morning paper blazon the fact that they had met with Labor and tried to reach a sane compromise, sat back in noncommittal placidity. The Reverend Kenneth Peabody Smythe looked worried, and the lady in apricot disgusted. The thin woman with the notebook chewed her pencil while studying the severely plain and expensive suit of the woman in front of her. It was impossible to tell whether Black Tom even knew where he was, and the bobbed-haired girl toyed with a string of jade beads and yawned. Anne moved a little and so obstructed the view of the squat woman. Hilary continued:
"There was, of course, no written and official agreement that the men would not strike, but it was understood, by the law of good will and decency. The world has been through a period of bitter suffering and now it is the duty of every one, from the top to the bottom, to pull and pull together. That it is no longer possible to pay the war time wage, when labor is scarce, is not the fault of any one individual. We, those who happen to be the hirers of labor, regret this as much as any one. The men ought to understand. They refuse to do so. Every method has been tried, short—of strike-breakers." Hilary paused to let the significance sink in. "But the country is full of men eager to work, desperate for work, with a right to work. The mayor understands the situation. He will protect the right of these men to sell their labor. He——"
Black Tom was on his feet, his long, narrow head thrust forward, the stinking ash of his cigar falling again on the bobbed-haired girl, who again brushed it off with an exquisitely dainty fillip of a white finger.
"He will, will he? How long does he think he's going to run this town?"