Evans turned with a folded paper in his hand.
“You bet your life I am,” he replied. “I know this girl. There’s a strain of wild Irish in her and it’s my opinion that she’s going to raise merry hell!”
The dreamer who had visited the Millville Button Works with the owner of the mill lunched with his friend in the city that day. Quite casually, among other items of interest, Mary Randall’s adventure came up for discussion.
“I don’t know the girl,” said the mill-owner, “but her announcement gives me a fairly good mental picture of her.”
“What’s your picture?” inquired the journalist.
“A rag and a bone and a hank of hair, one of these raving suffragettes. Since bomb-throwing and burning are not fashionable over here, she’s chosen this means of expending her surplus energy.”
“My dear friend, you’re entirely wrong!”
“What! You’ve seen her?”
“Oh, no, but I have quite a different mental picture of her. You remember Joan of Arc? Mount her on a charger, hand her a sword of fire and send her forth to fight for Mary Magdalene. That’s my idea.”
“You’ve borrowed that from the headline writers,” the mill-owner said.