There were cries of: "Speak! Go on! Say it!"
Joe went on. Behind his words was a menace.
"Then I want to say this to you. Your boss, Mr. Marrin, has done a cowardly and treacherous thing. He has made scabs of you all. You are no better than strike-breakers. If you do this work, if you make these cloaks, you are traitors to your fellow-workers, the cloak-makers. You are crippling other workmen. You are selling them to their bosses. But I'm sure you won't stand for this. You are men enough to fight for the cause of all working people. You belong to a race that has been persecuted through the ages, a brave race, a race that has triumphed through hunger and cold and massacres. You are great enough to make this sacrifice. If this is so, I call on you to resist your boss, to refuse to do his dirty work, and I ask you—if he persists in his orders—to lay down your work and strike."
He sat down, and there was a miserable pause. He had not stirred them at all, and felt his failure keenly. It was as if he had not reached over the fence of race. He told himself he must school himself in the future, must broaden out. As a matter of fact, it was the menace in his tone that hushed the meeting. The men rather feared what lay behind Joe's words.
At once, however, one of the men leaped to his feet, and began a fiery speech in Yiddish, speaking gaspingly, passionately, hotly, shaking his fist, fluttering his hands, tearing a passion to tatters. Joe understood not a word, but the burden of the speech was:
"Why should we strike? What for? For the cloak-makers? What have we to do with cloak-makers? We have troubles enough of our own. We have our families to support—our wives and children and relations. Shall they starve for some foolish cloak—makers? Comrades, don't listen to such humbug. Do your work—get done with it. You have good jobs—don't lose them. These revolutionists! They would break up the whole world for their nonsense! It's not they who have to suffer; it's us working people. We do the starving, we do the fighting. Have sense; bethink yourselves; don't make fools out of yourselves!"
A buzz of talk arose with many gesticulations.
"He's right! Why should we strike—Och, Gott, such nonsense!—No more strike talk."
Then Sally arose, pale, eyes blazing. She shook a stanch little fist at the crowd. But how different was her speech from the one in Carnegie Hall—that time when she had been truly inspired.
"Shame on all of you! You're a lot of cowards! You're a lot of traitors! You can't think of anything but your bellies! Shame on you all! Women would never stand for such things—young girls, your sisters or your daughters, would strike at once! Let me tell you what will happen to you. Some day there will be a strike of shirt-waist-makers, and then your boss will go to the cloak-house and say, 'Now you make shirtwaists for me,' and the cloak-makers will make the shirtwaists, saying, 'When we were striking, the shirtwaist-makers made cloaks; now we'll make waists.' And that will ruin your strike, and ruin you all. Working people must unite! Working people must stand by each other! That's your only power. The boss has money, land, machinery, friends. What have you? You only have each other, and if you don't stand by each other, you have nothing at all. Strike! I tell you! Strike and show 'em! Show 'em! Rise and resist! You have the power! You are bound to win! Strike! I tell you!"