could sense the air of despondency. Light and geniality seemed to

  have vanished. Gloom pervaded everywhere. The mothers of the

  children that played in the streets showed the gloom plainly in

  their faces. When they gossiped in the evenings, over front gates

  and on door stoops, their voices were subdued and less of

  laughter rang out.

  Mary Donahue, who had taken three pints from the milkman, now

  took one pint. There were no more family trips to the moving

  picture shows. Scrap-meat was harder to get from the butcher.

  Nora Delaney, in the third house, no longer bought fresh fish for

  Friday. Salted codfish, not of the best quality, was now on her

  table. The sturdy children that ran out upon the street between

  meals with huge slices of bread and butter and sugar now came out

  with no sugar and with thinner slices spread more thinly with

  butter. The very custom was dying out, and some children already

  had desisted from piecing between meals.

  Everywhere was manifest a pinching and scraping, a tightning and

  shortening down of expenditure. And everywhere was more

  irritation. Women became angered with one another, and with the

  children, more quickly than of yore; and Saxon knew that Bert and

  Mary bickered incessantly.

  "If she'd only realize I've got troubles of my own," Bert

  complained to Saxon.

  She looked at him closely, and felt fear for him in a vague, numb

  way. His black eyes seemed to burn with a continuous madness. The

  brown face was leaner, the skin drawn tightly across the

  cheekbones. A slight twist had come to the mouth, which seemed

  frozen into bitterness. The very carriage of his body and the way

  he wore his hat advertised a recklessness more intense than had

  been his in the past.

  Sometimes, in the long afternoons, sitting by the window with

  idle hands, she caught herself reconstructing in her vision that

  folk-migration of her people across the plains and mountains and

  deserts to the sunset land by the Western sea. And often she

  found herself dreaming of the arcadian days of her people, when

  they had not lived in cities nor been vexed with labor unions and

  employers' associations. She would remember the old people's

  tales of self-sufficingness, when they shot or raised their own

  meat, grew their own vegetables, were their own blacksmiths and

  carpenters, made their own shoes--yes, and spun the cloth of the

  clothes they wore. And something of the wistfulness in Tom's face

  she could see as she recollected it when he talked of his dream

  of taking up government land.

  A farmer's life must be fine, she thought. Why was it that people

  had to live in cities? Why had times changed? If there had been

  enough in the old days, why was there not enough now? Why was it

  necessary for men to quarrel and jangle, and strike and fight,

  all about the matter of getting work? Why wasn't there work for

  all?--Only that morning, and she shuddered with the recollection,

  she had seen two scabs, on their way to work, beaten up by the

  strikers, by men she knew by sight, and some by name, who lived

  in the neighhorhood. It had happened directly across the street.

  It had been cruel, terrible--a dozen men on two. The children had

  begun it by throwing rocks at the scabs and cursing them in ways

  children should not know. Policemen had run upon the scene with

  drawn revolvers, and the strikers had retreated into the houses

  and through the narrow alleys between the houses. One of the

  scabs, unconscious, had been carried away in an ambulance; the

  other, assisted by special railroad police, had been taken away

  to the shops. At him, Mary Donahue, standing on her front stoop,

  her child in her arms, had hurled such vile abuse that it had

  brought the blush of shame to Saxon's cheeks. On the stoop of the

  house on the other side, Saxon had noted Mercedes, in the height

  of the beating up, looking on with a queer smile. She had seemed

  very eager to witness, her nostrils dilated and swelling like the

  beat of pulses as she watched. It had struck Saxon at the time

  that the old woman was quite unalarmed and only curious to see.

  To Mercedes, who was so wise in love, Saxon went for explanation

  of what was the matter with the world. But the old woman's wisdom

  in affairs industrial and economic was cryptic and unpalatable.

  "La la, my dear, it is so simple. Most men are born stupid. They

  are the slaves. A few are born clever. They are the masters. God

  made men so, I suppose."

  "Then how about God and that terrible beating across the street

  this morning?"

  "I'm afraid he was not interested," Mercedes smiled. "I doubt he

  even knows that it happened."

  "I was frightened to death," Saxon declared. "I was made sick by

  it. And yet you--I saw you--you looked on as cool as you please,

  as if it was a show."

  "It was a show, my dear."

  "Oh, how could you?"

  "La la, I have seen men killed. It is nothing strange. All men

  die. The stupid ones die like oxen, they know not why. It is

  quite funny to see. They strike each other with fists and clubs,

  and break each other's heads. It is gross. They are like a lot of

  animals. They are like dogs wrangling over bones. Jobs are bones,

  you know. Now, if they fought for women, or ideas, or bars of

  gold, or fabulous diamonds, it would be splendid. But no; they

  are only hungry, and fight over scraps for their stomach."

  "Oh, if I could only understand!" Saxon murmured, her hands

  tightly clasped in anguish of incomprehension and vital need to

  know.

  "There is nothing to understand. It is clear as print. There have

  always been the stupid and the clever, the slave and the master,

  the peasant and the prince. There always will be."

  "But why?"

  "Why is a peasant a peasant, my dear? Because he is a peasant.

  Why is a flea a flea?"

  Saxon tossed her head fretfully.

  "Oh, but my dear, I have answered. The philosophies of the world

  can give no better answer. Why do you like your man for a husband

  rather than any other man? Because you like him that way, that is

  all. Why do you like? Because you like. Why does fire burn and

  frost bite? Why are there clever men and stupid men? masters and

  slaves? employers and workingmen? Why is black black? Answer that

  and you answer everything."

  "But it is not right That men should go hungry and without work

  when they want to work if only they can get a square deal," Saxon

  protested.

  "Oh, but it is right, just as it is right that stone won't burn

  like wood, that sea sand isn't sugar, that thorns prick, that

  water is wet, that smoke rises, that things fall down and not

  up."

  But such doctrine of reality made no impression on Saxon.

  Frankly, she could not comprehend. It seemed like so much

  nonsense.

  "Then we have no liberty and independence," she cried

  passionately. "One man is not as good as another. My child has

  not the right to live tha
t a rich mother's child has."

  "Certainly not," Mercedes answered.

  "Yet all my people fought for these things," Saxon urged,

  remembering her school history and the sword of her father.

  "Democracy--the dream of the stupid peoples. Oh, la la, my dear,

  democracy is a lie, an enchantment to keep the work brutes

  content, just as religion used to keep them content. When they

  groaned in their misery and toil, they were persuaded to keep on

  in their misery and toil by pretty tales of a land beyond the

  skies where they would live famously and fat while the clever

  ones roasted in everlasting fire. Ah, how the clever ones must

  have chuckled! And when that lie wore out, and democracy was

  dreamed, the clever ones saw to it that it should be in truth a

  dream, nothing but a dream. The world belongs to the great and

  clever."

  "But you are of the working people," Saxon charged.

  The old woman drew herself up, and almost was angry.

  "I? Of the working people? My dear, because I had misfortune with

  moneys invested, because I am old and can no longer win the brave

  young men, because I have outlived the men of my youth and there

  is no one to go to, because I live here in the ghetto with Barry

  Higgins and prepare to die--why, my dear, I was born with the

  masters, and have trod all my days on the necks of the stupid. I

  have drunk rare wines and sat at feasts that would have supported

  this neighborhood for a lifetime. Dick Golden and I--it was

  Dickie's money, but I could have had it Dick Golden and I dropped

  four hundred thousand francs in a week's play at Monte Carlo. He

  was a Jew, but he was a spender. In India I have worn jewels that

  could have saved the lives of ten thousand families dying before

  my eyes."

  "You saw them die? . . . and did nothing?" Saxon asked aghast.

  "I kept my jewels--la la, and was robbed of them by a brute of a

  Russian officer within the year."

  "And you let them die," Saxon reiterated.

  "They were cheap spawn. They fester and multiply like maggots.

  They meant nothing--nothing, my dear, nothing. No more than your

  work people mean here, whose crowning stupidity is their

  continuing to beget more stupid spawn for the slavery of the

  masters."

  So it was that while Saxon could get little glimmering of common

  sense from others, from the terrible old woman she got none at

  all. Nor could Saxon bring herself to believe much of what she

  considered Mercedes' romancing. As the weeks passed, the strike

  in the railroad shops grew bitter and deadly. Billy shook his

  head and confessed his inability to make head or tail of the

  troubles that were looming on the labor horizon.

  "I don't get the hang of it," he told Saxon. "It's a mix-up. It's

  like a roughhouse with the lights out. Look at us teamsters. Here

  we are, the talk just starting of going out on sympathetic strike

  for the mill-workers. They've ben out a week, most of their

  places is filled, an' if us teamsters keep on haulin' the

  mill-work the strike's lost."

  "Yet you didn't consider striking for yourselves when your wages

  were cut," Saxon said with a frown.

  "Oh, we wasn't in position then. But now the Frisco teamsters and

  the whole Frisco Water Front Confederation is liable to back us

  up. Anyway, we're just talkin' about it, that's all. But if we do

  go out, we'll try to get back that ten per cent cut."

  "It's rotten politics," he said another time. "Everybody's

  rotten. If we'd only wise up and agree to pick out honest men--"

  "But if you, and Bert, and Tom can't agree, how do you expect all

  the rest to agree?" Saxon asked.

  "It gets me," he admitted. "It's enough to give a guy the willies

  thinkin' about it. And yet it's plain as the nose on your face.

  Get honest men for politics, an' the whole thing's straightened

  out. Honest men'd make honest laws, an' then honest men'd get

  their dues. But Bert wants to smash things, an' Tom smokes his

  pipe and dreams pipe dreams about by an' by when everybody votes

  the way he thinks. But this by an' by ain't the point. We want

  things now. Tom says we can't get them now, an' Bert says we

  ain't never goin' to get them. What can a fellow do when

  everybody's of different minds? Look at the socialists

  themselves. They're always disagreeing, splittin' up, an' firin'

  each other out of the party. The whole thing's bughouse, that's

  what, an' I almost get dippy myself thinkin' about it. The point

  I can't get out of my mind is that we want things now."

  He broke off abruptly and stared at Saxon.

  "What is it?" he asked, his voice husky with anxiety. "You ain't

  sick . . . or . . . or anything?"

  One hand she had pressed to her heart; but the startle and fright

  in her eyes was changing into a pleased intentness, while on her

  mouth was a little mysterious smile. She seemed oblivious to her

  husband, as if listening to some message from afar and not for

  his ears. Then wonder and joy transfused her face, and she looked

  at Billy, and her hand went out to his.

  "It's life," she whispered. "I felt life. I am so glad, so glad."

  The next evening when Billy came home from work, Saxon caused him

  to know and undertake more of the responsibilities of fatherhood.

  "I've been thinking it over, Billy," she began, "and I'm such a

  healthy, strong woman that it won't have to be very expensive.

  There's Martha Skelton--she's a good midwife."

  But Billy shook his head.

  "Nothin' doin' in that line, Saxon. You're goin' to have Doc

  Hentley. He's Bill Murphy's doc, an' Bill swears by him. He's an

  old cuss, but he's a wooz."

  "She confined Maggie Donahue," Saxon argued; "and look at her and

  her baby."

  "Well, she won't confine you--not so as you can notice it."

  "But the doctor will charge twenty dollars," Saxon pursued, "and

  make me get a nurse because I haven't any womenfolk to come in.

  But Martha Skelton would do everything, and it would be so much

  cheaper."

  But Billy gathered her tenderly in his arms and laid down the

  law.

  "Listen to me, little wife. The Roberts family ain't on the

  cheap. Never forget that. You've gotta have the baby. That's your

  business, an' it's enough for you. My business is to get the

  money an' take care of you. An' the best ain't none too good for

  you. Why, I wouldn't run the chance of the teeniest accident

  happenin' to you for a million dollars. It's you that counts. An'

  dollars is dirt. Maybe you think I like that kid some. I do. Why,

  I can't get him outa my head. I'm thinkin' about'm all day long.

  If I get fired, it'll be his fault. I'm clean dotty over him. But

  just the same, Saxon, honest to God, before I'd have anything

  happen to you, break your little finger, even, I'd see him dead

  an' buried first. That'll give you something of an idea what you

  mean to me.

  "Why, Saxon, I had the idea that when folks got married they just

  settled down, and after a while their business was to get
along

  with each other. Maybe it's the way it is with other people; but

  it ain't that way with you an' me. I love you more 'n more every

  day. Right now I love you more'n when I began talkin' to you five

  minutes ago. An' you won't have to get a nurse. Doc Hentley'll

  come every day, an' Mary'll come in an' do the housework, an'

  take care of you an' all that, just as you'll do for her if she

  ever needs it."

  As the days and weeks pussed, Saxon was possessed by a conscious

  feeling of proud motherhood in her swelling breasts. So

  essentially a normal woman was she, that motherhood was a

  satisfying and passionate happiness. It was true that she had her

  moments of apprehension, but they were so momentary and faint

  that they tended, if anything, to give zest to her happiness.

  Only one thing troubled her, and that was the puzzling and

  perilous situation of labor which no one seemed to understand,

  her self least of all.

  "They're always talking about how much more is made by machinery

  than by the old ways," she told her brother Tom. "Then, with all

  the machinery we've got now, why don't we get more?"

  "Now you're talkin'," he answered. "It wouldn't take you long to

  understand socialism."

  But Saxon had a mind to the immediate need of things.

  "Tom, how long have you been a socialist?"

  "Eight years."

  "And you haven't got anything by it?"

  "But we will . . . in time."

  "At that rate you'll be dead first," she challenged.

  Tom sighed.

  "I'm afraid so. Things move so slow."

  Again he sighed. She noted the weary, patient look in his face,

  the bent shoulders, the labor-gnarled hands, and it all seemed to

  symbolize the futility of his social creed.

  CHAPTER IX

  It began quietly, as the fateful unexpected so often begins.

  Children, of all ages and sizes, were playing in the street, and

  Saxon, by the open front window, was watching them and dreaming

  day dreams of her child soon to be. The sunshine mellowed

  peacefully down, and a light wind from the bay cooled the air and

  gave to it a tang of salt. One of the children pointed up Pine

  Street toward Seventh. All the children ceased playing, and

  stared and pointed. They formed into groups, the larger boys, of

  from ten to twelve, by themselves, the older girls anxiously

  clutching the small children by the hands or gathering them into

  their arms.

  Saxon could not see the cause of all this, but she could guess

  when she saw the larger boys rush to the gutter, pick up stones,

  and sneak into the alleys between the houses. Smaller boys tried

  to imitate them. The girls, dragging the tots by the arms, banged

  gates and clattered up the front steps of the small houses. The

  doors slammed behind them, and the street was deserted, though

  here and there front shades were drawn aside so that

  anxious-faced women might peer forth. Saxon heard the uptown

  train puffing and snorting as it pulled out from Center Street.

  Then, from the direction of Seventh, came a hoarse, throaty

  manroar. Still, she could see nothing, and she remembered

  Mercedes Higgins' words "THEY ARE LIKE DOGS WRANGLING OVER BONES.

  JOBS ARE BONES, YOU KNOW"

  The roar came closer, and Saxon, leaning out, saw a dozen scabs,

  conveyed by as many special police and Pinkertons, coming down

  the sidewalk on her side of the street. They came compactly, as

  if with discipline, while behind, disorderly, yelling confusedly,

  stooping to pick up rocks, were seventy-five or a hundred of the

  striking shopmen. Saxon discovered herself trembling with

  apprehension, knew that she must not, and controlled herself. She

  was helped in this by the conduct of Mercedes Higgins. The old

  woman came out of her front door, dragging a chair, on which she

  coolly seated herself on the tiny stoop at the top of the steps.

  In the hands of the special police were clubs. The Pinkertons