The judge tapped his foot on the floor for a time, and then made a noise like a groan—as though he had teeth in his mind and one of them was being pulled.
"Many a time," he said, "I have tried to talk you out of your suspicions. But—if it was any other man than Stanley Woodward, I would say today that he was doing his best to—to—"
"To 'do' me?" suggested Mary, more innocent than ever.
"Yes, my dear—to do you! And another year's work like this wouldn't be far from having that result."
Curiously enough it was Mary's great idea that comforted her. Instead of feeling worried or apprehensive, she felt eager for action, her eyes shining at the thoughts which came to her.
"All right," she said, "we'll have a meeting in a day or two. I'll wait till I get my copy of the report."
Wally came that afternoon, and Mary danced with him—that is to say she danced with him until a freckle-faced apprentice came up from the factory with an envelope addressed in MacPherson's crabbed hand. Mary took one peep inside and danced no more.
"If the women can pick it up as quick as the men," she read, "I have counted 1653 places in this factory where they could be working in a few weeks time—that is, if the places were vacant. List enclosed. Respectfully. James O. MacPherson."
It was a long list beginning "346 automatics, 407 grinders—"
Mary studied it carefully, and then after telephoning to the factory, she called up Judge Cutler.