Mrs. Martin—Why can't they talk it out? It seems to me if the motormen and conductors sent a committee to the company, they might arrive at an understanding.
Mrs. Quinn—But the company don't take stock in the Union, and a committee of men would be a Union committee, or nothin'.
Mrs. Martin—Let them arbitrate, I say, let them arbitrate.
Mrs. Quinn—It's a nice soundin' word, is arbitrate, but no one wants to do it, save them as ain't interested. A man hits with his fist first, and arbitrates afterwards,—in the police court.
Mrs. Martin—Men are queer creatures. There's my Bill, a more religious man never walked, if I do say it myself, and yet he's as bitter as poison against the company.
Mrs. Quinn—Religion don't always kill bitterness—
Mrs. Martin—This morning I wakened up before five o'clock, and he wasn't in bed. I went down stairs to see what had happened, and found him sneaking in the back gate like a thief. Heaven only knows what he was doing outside at that time in the morning. Mischief, I'll bet.
Mrs. Quinn—Aye, it was mischief, and my old man in it too. I got it out of John when he came back. They had been out before the dawn, pryin' up trolley tracks with a crow-bar.
Mrs Martin—A fine mess if they'd been caught.
Mrs. Quinn—Locked up, that's what would have happened, nice pair of old fools that they are!