Her eyes were half startled, half mischievous, for his voice had been still less impersonal than before. Then she turned back to her work, her face sober, but an amused twinkle lingering in her eyes.
"I should like to go," she said, her pencil poised at the top of a long column. "Max would like it, too."
After supper that evening Max returned early from a visit to the injured man, and told Hilda of a new trouble.
"Do you know that little delegate that's been hanging around?" he asked.
"Grady," she said, and nodded.
"Yes, he's been working the man. I never saw such a change in my life. He just sat up there in bed and swore at me, and said I needn't think I could buy him off with this stuff"—he looked down and Hilda saw that the bowl in his hand was not empty—"and raised a row generally."
"Why?" she asked.
"Give it up. From what he said, I'm sure Grady's behind it."
"Did he give his name?"
"No, but he did a lot of talking about justice to the down-trodden and the power of the unions, and that kind of stuff. I couldn't understand all he said—he's got a funny lingo, you know; I guess it's Polack—but I got enough to know what he meant, and more, too."