"I understand," he said, gently, "and I am glad that you wanted to come to me. But you are tired and nervous and all unstrung, now. Let me take you home and to-morrow we will talk things over."
As if he had not spoken, she said, steadily, "I wanted to tell you about the terrible, terrible condition of those poor people, Jim. I thought you ought to know about them exactly as they are and not in a vague, indefinite way as I knew about them before I went to see for myself."
The man moved uneasily. "I do know about the condition of these people,
Helen. It is exactly what I expected would happen."
She was listening carefully. "You expected them to—to be hungry and cold and sick like that, Jim?"
"Such conditions are always a part of every strike like this," he returned. "There is nothing unusual about it, and it is the only thing that will ever drive these cattle back to their work. They simply have to be starved to it."
"But John says—"
He interrupted. "Please, Helen—I know all about what John says. I know where he gets it, too—he gets it from the Interpreter who gave you this crazy notion of going alone into the Flats to investigate personally. And John's ideas are just about as practical."
"But the mothers and children, Jim?"
"The men can go back to work whenever they are ready," he retorted.
"At your terms, you mean?" she asked.