Somehow she did not care whether any one had seen her or not. She had tried to kill a man and regretted that she had not succeeded. She had read stories of murderers' remorse. And now she knew they were lies. She would never have been sorry if she had killed that snake.
As they were turning into Broadway, Mrs. Muscovitz, who was always looking back, suddenly gripped Yetta's arm.
"He's getting up," she said. "There's a man helping him."
They both peered back around the corner and saw Pick-Axe, with the aid of the stranger, painfully getting to his feet and rubbing his head in bewilderment.
"Come on," Yetta said. "He'll begin to holler in a minute. I've got a dime. We'll take a car."
They ran to catch a downtown car. They rode in silence, Mrs. Muscovitz nursing her aching arm and the bruise in her side. Yetta, surprised at the calm which had come after the sudden typhoon of passion, kept repeating, "I tried to kill him, I tried to kill him."
At the headquarters they found Isadore Braun, just returned from attending to the morning's batch of arrested pickets in Essex Market Court.
"Come into the committee-room," Yetta said to him quietly. "We've had some trouble."
"What is it?" he asked professionally as he closed the door.
"It's bad," Yetta replied. "Mrs. Muscovitz and I was picketing the Crown. And Pick-Axe—well, he jumped on her and—well—I knocked him senseless."