"And the town. Laborers—Italian, nigger; saloons and politics—Jews; bosses all Irish—nothing but the saloons and the women to spenda the money. Company own everything—stores, saloons, women. Pay you the money and get it all back. Every day a man killed. Hell!"
"Then where did you go?"
"Chicago—printing—anything to do I could get. Sometimes make forty cents a day. Little. Have to feed and work for wife and three children. I try and try. Hod-carrier"—Giotto laughed at the memory—"press coats—anything. Then come back here."
"And what are you doing now?"
"I try to make labor union with Italians. Hard work. Italians live like pigs—ignorant—not—not social. Down-stairs live a Calabria man, makes ice-cream—got four rooms—in the four rooms man, wife, mother, five children, fifteen boarders—"
"Go on!" cried Joe. "Why do you stop?"
Giotto laughed.
"So maybe your paper help. Many Italians read English. I make them read your paper, Mr. Joe."
* * * * *
It was not until nearly the end of the week that Joe sought out Sally Heffer. Though every day he meditated stepping down that narrow red side street, each time he had felt unprepared, throbbingly incapable; but this evening as he finished his work and was on the way home it seemed that beyond his own volition he suddenly swerved at her corner, hurried down the lamp-lit pave, searched out the faded number in the meager light, mounted the stoop, and pushed open the unlocked door.