“Um-m,” he calculated. “I’ll bet you are, and I’ll bet that’s pretty good. Good enough for us. We ain’t so awfully good ourselves. Quick sales, small profits, and satisfied customers—lots of ’em. That’s what we call good.”
She was reaching for him again, with hands, with eyes.
“But,” he struck, “you can’t do much for us and the little girl if you’re afraid every hour, every day, that you’ll be found out and fired. We got to cut out fear.”
“You mean?” she gasped.
“I mean,” he thundered, “I mean that you got to cut out that every-hour-every-day business. See? It’s rot, anyhow. You’re as good as anybody, and if anybody here says you ain’t, you come to me and I’ll tell ’em this is a women’s business, run for profit; and women; including mothers; women, children, and—money. Y’on?”
She stood there staring; comprehending, and he felt that she wanted to break, but——
“Now, now, none o’ that,” the brute commanded. “Not here. This is business, strictly business. You get back on your job. D’y’ hear?”
Yes, she nodded; she heard, and she bolted for the door, but as she opened it she turned and she broke:
“God, how I will work! How I will——”