But she walked on past him as if he were a lamppost.
"Well," he snarled, "I guess I'll have to go over and wake up your friend. It'll take you about half an hour to wish you'd come instead...."
There is no need of printing all that he said.
He walked across the street. Yetta could not help turning her head to watch him as he entered the swinging door. He caught her glance and waved his hand. Her fright disappeared in anger. Of course she did not believe that he had persuaded one of her union girls to go into the saloon with him. But it was even viler to pretend that he had. Some one ought to kill the brute.
Just then Yetta saw one of the strikers—little Mrs. Muscovitz—hurrying up the street. Yetta rushed to meet her.
"Were you detailed here?" she asked eagerly.
Mrs. Muscovitz was coughing and could only nod her head affirmatively. Yetta wanted to shout with joy. So Pick-Axe's story was after all a lie.
"I'm sorry I'm late," little Mrs. Muscovitz said hoarsely, for she was "bad with bronchitis," "but I got a little money this morning and I had to buy some things for the baby."
One glance told Yetta where the money had come from—Mrs. Muscovitz had pawned her shawl. More than once they had picketed together, and Yetta knew the little woman's story. Three years before she had married a young sign painter. Before the honeymoon was over he had begun to cough. He died before the baby was born. And when Mrs. Muscovitz had been able to get about again, all the furniture of their little home had gone for doctor's bills. Her engagement and wedding rings had brought her enough to establish herself in a garret. She took the baby to a day nursery and went to work. Now, she was coughing. It hurts to cough when one also has the bronchitis. Having no shawl, her thin waist was soaked and plastered to her skin. Yetta could see the muscles of her back work convulsively whenever she coughed.