When they were seated at the table it was Mrs. Frazer who jerked the conversation away from casual matters.
"Ruth was discharged this morning, Mr. Dulac," she said, bitterly, "and her as good a typewriter and as neat and faithful as any. No fault found, either, nor could be, not if anybody was looking for it with a fine-tooth comb. Meanness, that's what I say. Nothing but meanness…. And us needing that fifteen dollars a week to keep the breath of life in us."
"Don't worry about that, mother," Ruth said, quickly. "There are plenty of places—"
"Who fired you?" interrupted Dulac, his black eyes glowing angrily.
"That young cub?"
"Young Mr. Foote," said Ruth.
"It was because I live here," said Dulac, intensely. "That was why, wasn't it? That's the way they fight, striking at us through our womenfolks…. And when we answer with bricks…"
"I don't think he wanted to do it," Ruth said. "I think he was made to."
"Nonsense! Too bad the boys didn't get their hands on him last night—the infernal college-bred whipper-snapper!… Well, don't you worry about that job. Nor you, either, Mrs. Frazer."
"Seems like I never did anything but worry; if it wasn't about one thing it was another, and no peace since I was in the cradle," said Mrs. Frazer, dolefully. "If it ain't the rent it's strikes and riots and losin' positions and not knowin' if your husband's comin' home to sleep in bed, or his name in the paper in the morning and him in jail. And since he was killed—"
"Now, mother," said Ruth, "I'll have a job before tomorrow night. We won't starve or be put out into the street."