"This sounds funny from you," she said. "A few weeks ago you were just as sure that Billy could do nothing. What has made you change so?"
Joe reddened and looked down at his hands.
"I suppose," he said gruffly after a moment, "it's because I'm still weak from typhoid—weak enough to want to see some one but stokers get into the job that's become my life. You see," he muttered, "I was raised among people like you. It's a kind of a craving, I suppose—like cigarettes." Again he stopped short and there was a pause.
"Rather natural," Sue murmured. Again he turned sharply from her to me.
"I say you can help by your writing," he said. "You call my friends an ignorant mob. But thousands of 'em have read your stuff!"
I looked up at Joe with a start.
"Oh they don't like it," he went on. "It only makes 'em sore and mad. But if you ever see things right, and get into their side of this fight with that queer fountain-axe of yours, you'll be surprised at the tenement friends who'll pop up all around you. The first thing you know they'll be calling you 'Bill.' That's the kind they are—they don't want to shut anyone out—all they want to know is whether he means business. If he doesn't he's no use, because they know that sooner or later they'll do it anyhow themselves. It's going to be the biggest fight that's happened since the world began! No cause has ever been so fine, so worth a man's giving his life to aid! And all you've got to decide is this—whether you're to get in now, and help make it a little easier, help make it come without violence—or wait till it all comes to a crash and then be yanked in like a sack of meal!"
Before I could speak, Sue drew a deep breath.
"I don't see how there's any choice about that," she said.
Eleanore turned to her again: