“No more could we if there was any chance, but you’ll find, the longer you live, that the poor don’t have no justice in this world. The laws is all made for the rich.”
“Then it is the fault of the poor man if he has no justice, for he is a recognized factor in the vote that sends men to make those laws, and if he knows his rights he can have them maintained.”
“Well, I don’t know how it is, but my man has to vote as the boss tells him or lose his place.”
“Shame! Shame!” said Margaret indignantly, “and this is America’s boasted freedom of life and thought! But we are forgetting that poor woman. Who among you will take her in until something can be done?”
“I,” exclaimed Mrs. Smith, a motherly woman whose rooms were on the same floor. “We’re a good deal crowded now, but she shan’t lay there and suffer so long as I have a crust.”
“Let us hope it will be only a temporary inconvenience. I am going to find some way to unravel this web of injustice and regain possession of those goods.”
“You’ll have your trouble for your pains,” said Mrs. Smith dubiously as they walked along the hall.
“It may be, but there will be some satisfaction in trying. Here we are!” Margaret exclaimed as they entered the sick woman’s room “Now we’ll make a chair of our hands and between us carry you to Mrs. Smith’s room, whose heart is as large as her back is broad.”
“You’re making it pretty big,” laughed Mrs. Smith as she presented her ample form to the sick woman’s view. A faint smile at the pleasantry played over the wan face, as she allowed them to lift her to the improvised seat and carry her to a bed.
“Now,” said Margaret, when their charge was safely bestowed between clean sheets, and the babies were softly cooing on either side of her, “I want all the information you can give me, and all the papers you have relative to this furniture. I am going to make an effort to get it back.”