He hardly listened to what she said, but grabbed at the typewritten sheet of "demands." Before he was halfway through, all hope vanished.
"Vot you tink?" he wailed. "Am I a millionnaire? How you expect me to make my contract?"
"We don't expect you to make your contract, Mr. Goldfogle," Mabel replied calmly. "We expect you not to take any contract that you can't fill decently. You don't care how your workpeople live on the wages you give, and we don't care for your contract. If you can give your people fair conditions, they'll be back at work in the morning. If you can't, it's a strike."
"Go avay! Get out," he cried, jumping up. "To-morrow I vill start with new hands. I'll never take none of the old ones back."
Mabel smiled at him undismayed.
"Scabs," she said, "will break your machines. It will be cheaper to keep shut than to work with greenhorns."
Jake knew that this was only too true. But he thought that a bold attitude might scare his old employees into coming back.
"You tink so? Vell. I'll show you. Get out!"
It was getting towards closing time, so Mabel and Yetta, with arms full of the afternoon's Forwaertz, stationed themselves before one of the big vest shops and handed out copies to every one who would take one, talked to all who would listen. They had supper in an East Side restaurant and then went out again to call on some vest-makers whose addresses they knew.