“Would they be dressed in silks and laces, do ye think?”
“They would not!”
“Would they have such fine soft hands, do ye think?”
“They would not!”
“Would they hold themselves too good to look at ye?”
“They would not! They would not!”
And Mary swept on: “If only ye'd stand together, they'd come to ye on their knees to ask for terms! But ye're cowards, and they play on your fears! Ye're traitors, and they buy ye out! They break ye into pieces, they do what they please with ye—and then ride off in their private cars, and leave gunmen to beat ye down and trample on your faces! How long will ye stand it? How long?”
The roar of the mob rolled down the street and back again. “We'll not stand it! We'll not stand it!” Men shook their clenched fists, women shrieked, even children shouted curses. “We'll fight them! We'll slave no more for them!”
And Mary found a magic word. “We'll have a union!” she shouted. “We'll get together and stay together! If they refuse us our rights, we'll know what to answer—we'll have a strike!”
There was a roar like the crashing of thunder in the mountains. Yes, Mary had found the word! For many years it had not been spoken aloud in North Valley, but now it ran like a flash of gunpowder through the throng. “Strike! Strike! Strike! Strike!” It seemed as if they would never have enough of it. Not all of them had understood Mary's speech, but they knew this word, “Strike!” They translated and proclaimed it in Polish and Bohemian and Italian and Greek. Men waved their caps, women waved their aprons—in the semi-darkness it was like some strange kind of vegetation tossed by a storm. Men clasped one another's hands, the more demonstrative of the foreigners fell upon one another's necks. “Strike! Strike! Strike!”