Mrs. Quinn—(Slowly.) Well, I guess Gawd's used to bein' the last on the list, so I'll join ye in yer prayers, Mrs. Martin. Good-night to ye.

(Exit Mrs Martin door L.)

(Mrs. Quinn pulls down the blind and fusses about the room. There is a sharp bang on the front door. She leaves room R. and returns with the evening paper. Looks out the window again, raising the blind ever so little, then sits at table, and opens the paper.)

Mrs. Quinn—(Reads—then.) Nothin' but strike, strike, strike, wherever ye look. A few cents an hour more, a few hours a week less, what a little to fight for, and yet they won't get it, they won't get it.

(Quinn enters door L. Hangs hat and coat on rack near kitchen door. Sits in chair at side of table, and is noticeably nervous.)

Quinn—(After a pause, during which they both steal furtive glances at one another.) Well?

Mrs. Quinn—I see yer home again. Anything doin'?

Quinn—Nothin'.

Mrs. Quinn—(Tartly.) Well, it's a fine husky way for a man to be makin' a livin' for his wife, throwin' up his good job as a motorman, and walkin' the streets.

Quinn—(Moodily.) Good job,—hell!