"Yes. We ought to strike. You know the dirty deal we're getting. Rotten wages and speed. It's because we ain't got no union and don't fight. We ought to strike like the skirt-finishers."
"Police! Police!" Jake howled, rushing to the door. "I'll have you arrested, you dirty little—"
"I don't care if he does have me arrested," Yetta went on more quietly after he had gone. "If he was treating us decent, he wouldn't yell for the police, when somebody says 'strike.' I ain't afraid of jail. I'm afraid of staying here on the job and coughing myself to death. I'm going to quit, and you ought to too."
"You're a fool. You're making trouble," the bovine Mrs. Levy said with conviction.
"No. She ain't," Mrs. Weinstein spoke up. "I guess my man belongs to a union. He's told me lots of times that us working people ain't got no other hope. It's the bosses what make trouble by cheating us. I'll strike, if the rest do."
"I'll strike anyhow," Yetta said. "I won't never work for a pig like that, asking me to marry him after the rush season."
"I'll strike vid you, Yetta," the girl said who had been to the ball. "My sister's a skirt-finisher. But the strike ain't no good unless everybody quits."
"I'll strike," another voice chimed in.
"All right," Mrs. Weinstein said. "We'll all strike."