Sam was shocked at the vileness of the caption and at the crude brutality of the text printed on the slip.
“Do you call women workers names like that?” he asked.
“They have taken our work from us,” the Jewish girl answered simply and began again, telling the story of her sister strikers and of what the low wage had meant to them and to their families. “To me it does not so much matter; I have a brother who works in a clothing store and he can support me, but many of the women in our union have only their wage here with which to feed their families.”
Sam’s mind began working on the problem.
“Here,” he declared, “is something definite to do, a battle in which I will pit myself against this employer for the sake of these women.”
He put away from him his experience in the Illinois town, telling himself that the young woman walking beside him would have a sense of honour unknown to the red-haired young workman who had sold him out to Bill and Ed.
“I failed with my money,” he thought, “now I will try to help these girls with my energy.”
Turning to the Jewish girl he made a quick decision.
“I will help you get your places back,” he said.
Leaving the girls he went across the street to a barber shop where he could watch the entrance to the factory. He wanted to think out a method of procedure and wanted also to look at the girl strikebreakers as they came to work. After a time several girls came along the street and turned in at the stairway. The flashily dressed Hebrew with the cigar still in his mouth was again by the stairway entrance. The three pickets running forward accosted the file of girls going up the stairs, one of whom, a young American girl with yellow hair, turned and shouted something over her shoulder. The man called Frank shouted back and the Hebrew took the cigar out of his mouth and laughed heartily. Sam filled and lighted his pipe, a dozen plans for helping the striking girls running through his mind.