"Pretty bad, isn't it, dear?" she said.
"It doesn't look very fine just now."
"Are you going down to the docks?"
"Yes, they'll want me," I replied, "to write some answer to this stuff."
"Can you wait a few moments?" Eleanore rose. "I'll get on my hat. I promised Nora Ganey I'd run her relief station for her to-day." I took her a moment in my arms:
"You're no quitter, are you?" I said.
"We're in this now," she answered, just a little breathlessly. "And so of course we'll see it through."
So we went down together.
The waterfront looked different now. In front of the docks where work had begun a large space had been roped off. Inside the rope was an unbroken cordon of police. And without, but pressing close, the multitude of people for whom in a day so much had been changed, moved restlessly, no longer sure of its power, no longer sure of anything but a fast rising hatred of the men who had taken their jobs. As at times the police lines tightened and the negroes came out for more freight, thousands of ominous eyes looked on. Standing here at one such time, I saw a negro striker pass. His head was down and he walked quickly—for race feeling had begun.
The first ship sailed that evening. Tens of thousands watched her sail. And a bitter voice beside me said,