There was a knock and she opened the door to take in a telegram. It was from the Managing Editor:
If there should be trouble to-night, please help Holyoke all you can. Do not be afraid of duplicating his stuff.
The Democrat.
This put her in a panic. She began to sob hysterically. “What possessed Marlowe to drag me into this scrape? And they expect me to do a man’s work! Oh, how could I have been such a fool as to undertake this? I can’t do it! I shall be disgraced!”
She washed her face and hands and put her hair in order. She was so desperate that her sense of humour was not aroused by the sight of her absurdly tragic expression. She sat at the table and began again. She had just written:
“The shining muzzles of six machine-guns and the spotless new uniforms of the three soldiers that march up and down on guard at the mill stockade are the most conspicuous——”
when there was a knock and her door was flung open. She started up, her eyes wide with alarm, her cheeks blanched, her lips apart, her throat ready to release a scream. It was only Holyoke.
“Beg pardon,” he gasped out. “No time for ceremony. The company is bringing a gang of ‘scabs’ through the mountains on foot. The strikers are on to it. There’ll be a fight sure. Don’t stir out of your room, no matter what you hear. If the hotel’s in any danger, I’ll let you know. Camp’ll be looking out for you too—and the other newspaper boys. As soon as it’s over, I’ll come. Sit tight—remember!”
He rushed away. Emily looked at her chaos of failures. Of what use to go on now—now, when real events were impending? From her window she could see several backyards. In one, three children were making mud pies and a woman was hanging out the wash—blue overalls, red flannel, and cheap muslin underclothes, polkadot cotton slips and dresses in many sizes, yarn stockings and socks, white and gray.
Crack!