"Don't I value my life?" I echoed.
"Bless me, it won't be worth much if those strikers find you!" she exclaimed, looking up from her pail of sops. "They wouldn't do anything to me, for I'm only a useless old woman. But you, sir—they'll wipe the floor with you for not joining the strike!"
"Oh, have no worry; I'm able to defend myself!"
She stared at me as if wondering whether I were a prodigy or a madman.
"Do you think so?" she shot out. "Well, then you ought to see what they did to my neighbor, young Mr. Ty Tan. He was as big and brawny a young man as you ever saw—took all the prizes in boxing and wrestling. Well, he wouldn't join the water workers when they went out year before last, and turned off our drinking supply. Poor fellow! I've always felt so sorry for him!"
"What did they do to him?"
"Poor fellow!" she reiterated. "Poor fellow! It was so foolish of him, so foolish! When Mr. Ty Tan wouldn't strike—"
Abruptly she halted. I saw her staring toward the door, an expression of surprise and fear in her eyes, while she shrank back as if from some approaching menace.
Wheeling about, I saw half a dozen ugly-looking men just entering. On their breasts were prominent banners, reading: "Ventilation Strike. Sub-committee No. 116."
With a threatening expression, the newcomers drew near. "We were just looking around, to see that no one was working!" snarled the leader, as he glared in my direction. "You know, brother, it isn't good for the health to be working nowadays."