An amazing yet natural thing happened. The Chairman arose, leaned over his table, and said:
"You have heard from Mr. Joe Blaine; now you will hear from the other member of the committee."
Not for some seconds—not until the stamping of feet rose to a fury of sound—did Myra realize that she was the other member. She had a sense of being drained of life, of losing her breath. Instinctively she glanced at Joe, and saw that he was looking at her a little dubiously, a little amusedly. What could she do? She had never addressed a meeting in her life; she had never stood on her feet before a group of men; she had nothing learned, nothing to say. But how could she excuse herself, how withdraw, especially in the face of Joe's challenging gaze?
The stamping increased; the men clapped; and there were shouts:
"Come ahead! Come on! That's right, Miss." It was a cruel test, a wicked predicament. All the old timidity and sensitiveness of her nature held her back, made her tremble, and bathed her face in perspiration. But a new Myra kept saying:
"Joe didn't rouse them. Some one must." She set her feet on the floor, and the deafening thunder of applause seemed to raise her. She took a step forward. And then with a queer motion she raised her hand. There was an appalling silence, a silence more dreadful than the noise, and Myra felt her tongue dry to its root.
"I—" she began, "I want to say—tell you—" She paused, startled by the queer sound of her own voice. She could not believe it was herself speaking; it seemed some one else. And then, sharply, a wonderful thing took place. A surge of strength filled her. She took a good look around. Her brain cleared; her heart slowed. It was the old trick of facing the worst, and finding the strength was there to meet it and turn it to the best. All at once Myra exulted. She would take these hundreds of human beings and swing them. She could do it.
Her voice was rich, vibrating, melodious.
"I want to tell you a little about this strike—what it means. I want to tell you what the girls and women of this city are capable of—what heroism, what toil, what sacrifice and nobility. It is not the easiest thing to live a normal woman's life. You know that. You know how your mothers or wives or sisters have been slaving and stinting—what pain is theirs, what burdens, what troubles. But think of the life of a girl of whom I shall tell you—a young girl by the name of Rhona Hemlitz."
She went on. She told the story of Rhona's life, and then quietly she turned to her theme.