“What are they going to do?”
“Smash the office to smithereens. Bust the presses. Knock everythin’ to pieces, so’s we can’t never print no more.”
“How do you know? Who told you?”
“I was—hidin’ behind a fence.” He neglected to state that it was for the purpose of feloniously obtaining watermelons. “And I heard ’em talkin’. Peewee Bangs was givin’ ’em licker and tellin’ ’em what to do.... Oh, what be we goin’ to do?”
Carmel had no idea, except that she was going to do something to avert this destruction which would spell ruin to her and her paper. Not pausing for hat or wrap, she tore open the door and rushed down the stairs into the dark street.
CHAPTER XIII
IT is much to be doubted if violence and scenes of violence are as abhorrent to the so-called gentler sex as it is popular to pretend. There lurks in a corner of the mind an impish suggestion that a woman, underneath a pretense of dismay or horror, enjoys the spectacle of a fight as much as a man. This polite supposition regarding women has barred them from much pleasure in watching the antagonist sex batter itself about. Next to dogs and line fences, women have caused more fights than any other item of creation—they should be permitted to enjoy the fruits of their activities.... Women are more quarrelsome than men. This is because they know words will not merge into fists—or at worst into the vicarious fists of husbands or brothers. It is not unthinkable that the attribute of the ably acrimonious tongue would atrophy and disappear from the feminine part of the human race within a generation or two if it were permitted to resolve into action rather than barbed innuendo. A field for some rising reformer!
Consequently Carmel was not shocked at being involved in such proceedings. She was angry, apprehensive. Her overshadowing sensation was one of impotence. If men were coming to wreck her newspaper, what could she do about it? It was humiliating to be so ineffective in a crisis like this. A man, any man, would be more efficient than she.
The streets were deserted. A quick glance showed her the attacking force—if attacking force existed save in Simmy’s dime-novel-tainted imagination—had not yet made itself visible.... With the boy at her heels she ran in most undignified manner to the Free Press’s door, admitted herself quickly, and lighted a light.
“Well,” she said, breathlessly, “here we are, Simmy.”