“No,” said Tom, with emphasis, “ye're not wrong; ye're dead right. But who's give notice?”
“The committee's give notice, an' the boss at the brewery says he'll give ye the job if he has to shut up the brewery; an' the committee's decided to-day that if he does they'll call out the men. My man is a member, and so I come over”—And she rested her head wearily against the door, the tears streaming down her face.
Tom looked at her wonderingly, and then, putting her strong arms about her, half carried her across the kitchen to a chair by the stove. Mrs. Todd leaned against the table, watching the sobbing woman.
For a moment no one spoke. It was a new experience for Tom. Heretofore the fight had been her own and for her own. She had never supposed before that she filled so important a place in the neighborhood, and for a moment there flashed across her mind a certain justifiable pride in the situation. But this feeling was momentary. Here was a suffering woman. For the first time she realized that one weaker than herself might suffer in the struggle. What could she do to help her? This thought was uppermost in her mind.
“Don't ye worry,” she said tenderly. “Schwartz won't fire yer man.”
“No; but the sluggers will. There was five men 'p'inted to-day to do up the scabs an' the kickers who won't go out. They near killed him once in Newark for kickin'. It was that time, you know, when Katie was first took bad.”
“Do ye know their names?” said Tom, her eyes flashing.
“No, an' me man don't. He's new, an' they dar'sn't trust him. It was in the back room, he says, they picked 'em out.”
Tom stood for some moments in deep thought, gazing at the fire, her arms akimbo. Then, wheeling suddenly, she opened the door of the sitting-room, and said in a firm, resolute voice:—
“Gran'pop, come here; I want ye.”