“You may be sure they’re wrong. My father was always wrong. Why, if he and his friends had been able to carry out all they used to talk, the whole world would be a dead level of savages. They used to call everybody who didn’t do manual labour a ‘parasite on the toiling masses.’ As if the toiling masses would have any toiling to do to enable them to earn bread and comfortable homes for themselves if it were not for the brain-workers.”
“Oh, it seems to me that we’re all toilers together, each in his own way. Perhaps it’s because I’m too stupid to understand it, but I don’t think much of theories about these things.”
The train stopped, the brakeman shouted, “Furnaceville!” Emily and the artist descended to the station platform, there to be eyed searchingly by a crowd of roughly dressed men with scowling faces. When the train had moved on without discharging the load of non-union workers they were expecting, their faces relaxed and they became a cheerful crowd of Americans. They watched the “lady from the city,” with respectful, fascinated side-glances. Those nearest her looked aimlessly but earnestly about, as if hoping to see or to imagine some way of being of service to her. Through the crowd pushed a young man, whom Emily at once knew was of the newspaper profession.
“Is this Miss Bromfield?” he asked.
“Yes,” replied Emily, “from the New York Democrat.”
“My name is Holyoke. I’m the Pittsburg correspondent of the Democrat. Mr. Marlowe telegraphed me to meet you and see that you did not get into any danger, and also to engage rooms for you.”
Emily beamed upon Mr. Holyoke. Marlowe had thought of her—had been anxious about her. And instead of saying so, he had acted. “Thank you so much,” she said. “This gentleman is from the Democrat also.”
“My name is Camp,” said the artist, making a gesture toward the unwieldy bundle of drawing sheets wrapped flat which he carried under his arm.
“I have arranged for you at the Palace Hotel,” continued Holyoke. “Don’t build your hopes too high on that name. I took back-rooms on the second floor because the hotel is just across an open space from the entrance to the mills.”
Emily thought a moment on this location and its reason, then grew slightly paler. Holyoke looked at her with the deep sympathy which a young man must always feel for the emotions of a young and good-looking woman. “If there is any trouble, it’ll be over quickly once it begins,” he said, “and you can easily keep out of the way.”