“Who are you?” he asked. “The town wants to know.”
From his pocket he took a telegram from a Pittsburgh daily.
“What about mail-order strike plan? Give name and story new strike leader there.”
At ten o’clock Frank returned.
“There’s a wire from Harrigan,” he said. “He’s coming here. He wants a mass meeting of the girls for to-night. I’ve got to get them together. We’ll meet here in this room.”
In the room the work went on. The list of names for the mailing had doubled. The picket at the shirtwaist factory reported that three more of the strikebreakers had left the plant. The Jewish girl was excited. She went hurrying about the room, her eyes glowing.
“It’s great,” she said. “The plan is working. The whole town is aroused and for us. We’ll win in another twenty-four hours.”
And then at seven o’clock that night Harrigan came into the room where Sam sat with the assembled girls, bolting the door behind him. He was a short, strongly built man with blue eyes and red hair. He walked about the room in silence, followed by Frank. Suddenly he stopped and, picking up one of the typewriting machines rented by Sam for the letter writing, raised it above his head and sent it smashing to the floor.
“A hell of a strike leader,” he roared. “Look at this. Scab machines!
“Scab stenographers!” he said through his teeth. “Scab printing! Scab everything!”