his wife, Kittie Brady, long and long ago. She had next place at

  the table to me in the paper-box factory. She's gone to San

  Francisco to her married sister's. She's going to have a baby,

  too. She was awfully pretty, and there was always a string of

  fellows after her."

  The effect of the conviction and severe sentences was a bad one

  on the union men. Instead of being disheartening, it intensified

  the bitterness. Billy's repentance for having fought and the

  sweetness and affection which had flashed up in the days of

  Saxon's nursing of him were blotted out. At home, he scowled and

  brooded, while his talk took on the tone of Bert's in the last

  days ere that Mohegan died. Also, Billy stayed away from home

  longer hours, and was again steadily drinking.

  Saxon well-nigh abandoned hope. Almost was she steeled to the

  inevitable tragedy which her morbid fancy painted in a thousand

  guises. Oftenest, it was of Billy being brought home on a

  stretcher. Sometimes it was a call to the telephone in the corner

  grocery and the curt information by a strange voice that her

  husband was lying in the receiving hospital or the morgue. And

  when the mysterious horse-poisoning cases occurred, and when the

  residence of one of the teaming magnates was half destroyed by

  dynamite, she saw Billy in prison, or wearing stripes, or

  mounting to the scaffold at San Quentin while at the same time

  she could see the little cottage on Pine street besieged by

  newspaper reporters and photographers.

  Yet her lively imagination failed altogether to anticipate the

  real catastrophe. Harmon, the fireman lodger, passing through the

  kitchen on his way out to work, had paused to tell Saxon about

  the previous day's train-wreck in the Alviso marshes, and of how

  the engineer, imprisoned under the overturned engine and unhurt,

  being drowned by the rising tide, had begged to be shot. Billy

  came in at the end of the narrative, and from the somber light in

  his heavy-lidded eyes Saxon knew he had been drinking. He

  glowered at Harmon, and, without greeting to him or Saxon, leaned

  his shoulder against the wall.

  Harmon felt the awkwardness of the situation, and did his best to

  appear oblivious.

  "I was just telling your wife--" he began, but was savagely

  interrupted.

  "I don't care what you was tellin' her. But I got something to

  tell you, Mister Man. My wife's made up your bed too many times

  to suit me."

  "Billy!" Saxon cried, her face scarlet with resentment, and hurt,

  and shame.

  Billy ignored her. Harmon was saying:

  "I don't understand--"

  "Well, I don't like your mug," Billy informed him. "You're

  standin' on your foot. Get off of it. Get out. Beat it. D'ye

  understand that?"

  "I don't know what's got into him," Saxon gasped hurriedly to the

  fireman. "He's not himself. Oh, I am so ashamed, so ashamed."

  Billy turned on her.

  "You shut your mouth an' keep outa this."

  "But, Billy," she remonstrated.

  "An' get outa here. You go into the other room."

  "Here, now," Harmon broke in. "This is a fine way to treat a

  fellow."

  "I've given you too much rope as it is," was Billy's answer.

  "I've paid my rent regularly, haven't I?"

  "An' I oughta knock your block off for you. Don't see any reason

  I shouldn't, for that matter."

  "If you do anything like that, Billy--" Saxon began.

  "You here still? Well, if you won't go into the other room, I'll

  see that you do."

  His hand clutched her arm. For one instant she resisted his

  strength; and in that instant, the flesh crushed under his

  fingers, she realized the fullness of his strength.

  In the front room she could only lie back in the Morris chair

  sobbing, and listen to what occurred in the kitchen. "I'll stay

  to the end of the week," the fireman was saying. "I've paid in

  advance."

  "Don't make no mistake," came Billy's voice, so slow that it was

  almost a drawl, yet quivering with rage. "You can't get out too

  quick if you wanta stay healthy--you an' your traps with you. I'm

  likely to start something any moment."

  "Oh, I know you're a slugger--" the fireman's voice began.

  Then came the unmistakable impact of a blow; the crash of glass;

  a scuffle on the back porch; and, finally, the heavy bumps of a

  body down the steps. She heard Billy reenter the kitchen, move

  about, and knew he was sweeping up the broken glass of the

  kitchen door. Then he washed himself at the sink, whistling while

  he dried his face and hands, and walked into the front room. She

  did not look at him. She was too sick and sad. He paused

  irresolutely, seeming to make up his mind.

  "I'm goin' up town," he stated. "They's a meeting of the union.

  If I don't come back it'll be because that geezer's sworn out a

  warrant."

  He opened the front door and paused. She knew he was looking at

  her. Then the door closed and she heard him go down the steps.

  Saxon was stunned. She did not think. She did not know what to

  think. The whole thing was incomprehensible, incredible. She lay

  back in the chair, her eyes closed, her mind almost a blank,

  crushed by a leaden feeling that the end had come to everything.

  The voices of children playing in the street aroused her. Night

  had fallen. She groped her way to a lamp and lighted it. In the

  kitchen she stared, lips trembling, at the pitiful, half prepared

  meal. The fire had gone out. The water had boiled away from the

  potatoes. When she lifted the lid, a burnt smell arose.

  Methodically she scraped and cleaned the pot, put things in

  order, and peeled and sliced the potatoes for next day's frying.

  And just as methodically she went to bed. Her lack of

  nervousness, her placidity, was abnormal, so abnormal that she

  closed her eyes and was almost immediately asleep. Nor did she

  awaken till the sunshine was streaming into the room.

  It was the first night she and Billy had slept apart. She was

  amazed that she had not lain awake worrying about him. She lay

  with eyes wide open, scarcely thinking, until pain in her arm

  attracted her attention. It was where Billy had gripped her. On

  examination she found the bruised flesh fearfully black and blue.

  She was astonished, not by the spiritual fact that such bruise

  had been administered by the one she loved most in the world, but

  by the sheer physical fact that an instant's pressure had

  inflicted so much damage. The strength of a man was a terrible

  thing. Quite impersonally, she found herself wondering if Charley

  Long were as strong as Billy.

  It was not until she dressed and built the fire that she began to

  think about more immediate things. Billy had not returned. Then

  he was arrested. What was she to do?--leave him in jail, go away,

  and start life afresh? Of course it was impossible to go on

  living with a man who had behaved as he had. But then, came

  another thought, WAS it impossible? After all, he was her


  husband. FOR BETTER OR WORSE--the phrase reiterated itself, a

  monotonous accompaniment to her thoughts, at the back of her

  consciousness. To leave him was to surrender. She carried the

  matter before the tribunal of her mother's memory. No; Daisy

  would never have surrendered. Daisy was a fighter. Then she,

  Saxon, must fight. Besides--and she acknowledged it--readily,

  though in a cold, dead way--besides, Billy was better than most

  husbands. Better than any other husband she had heard of, she

  concluded, as she remembered many of his earlier nicenesses and

  finenesses, and especially his eternal chant: NOTHING IS TOO GOOD

  FOR US. THE ROBERTSES AIN'T ON THE CHEAP.

  At eleven o'clock she had a caller. It was Bud Strothers, Billy's

  mate on strike duty. Billy, he told her, had refused bail,

  refused a lawyer, had asked to be tried by the Court, had pleaded

  guilty, and had received a sentence of sixty dollars or thirty

  days. Also, he had refused to let the boys pay his fine.

  "He's clean looney," Strothers summed up. "Won't listen to

  reason. Says he'll serve the time out. He's been tankin' up too

  regular, I guess. His wheels are buzzin'. Here, he give me this

  note for you. Any time you want anything send for me. The boys'll

  all stand by Bill's wife. You belong to us, you know. How are you

  off for money?"

  Proudly she disclaimed any need for money, and not until her

  visitor departed did she read Billy's note:

  Dear Saxon--Bud Strothers is going to give you this. Don't worry

  about me. I am going to take my medicine. I deserve it--you know

  that. I guess I am gone bughouse. Just the same, I am sorry for

  what I done. Don't come to see me. I don't want you to. If you

  need money, the union will give you some. The business agent is

  all right. I will be out in a month. Now, Saxon, you know I love

  you, and just say to yourself that you forgive me this time, and

  you won't never have to do it again.

  Billy.

  Bud Strothers was followed by Maggie Donahue, and Mrs. Olsen, who

  paid neighborly calls of cheer and were tactful in their offers

  of help and in studiously avoiding more reference than was

  necessary to Billy's predicament.

  In the afternoon James Harmon arrived. He limped slightly, and

  Saxon divined that he was doing his best to minimize that

  evidence of hurt. She tried to apologize to him, but he would not

  listen.

  "I don't blame you, Mrs. Roberts," he said. "I know it wasn't

  your doing. But your husband wasn't just himself, I guess. He was

  fightin' mad on general principles, and it was just my luck to

  get in the way, that was all."

  "But just the same--"

  The fireman shook his head.

  "I know all about it. I used to punish the drink myself, and I

  done some funny things in them days. And I'm sorry I swore that

  warrant out and testified. But I was hot in the collar. I'm

  cooled down now, an' I'm sorry I done it."

  "You're awfully good and kind," she said, and then began

  hesitantly on what was bothering her. "You . . . you can't stay

  now, with him . . . away, you know."

  "Yes; that wouldn't do, would it? I'll tell you: I'll pack up

  right now, and skin out, and then, before six o'clock, I'll send

  a wagon for my things. Here's the key to the kitchen door."

  Much as he demurred, she compelled him to receive back the

  unexpired portion of his rent. He shook her hand heartily at

  leaving, and tried to get her to promise to call upon him for a

  loan any time she might be in need.

  "It's all right," he assured her. "I'm married, and got two boys.

  One of them's got his lungs touched, and she's with 'em down in

  Arizona campin' out. The railroad helped with passes."

  And as he went down the steps she wondered that so kind a man

  should be in so madly cruel a world.

  The Donahue boy threw in a spare evening paper, and Saxon found

  half a column devoted to Billy. It was not nice. The fact that he

  had stood up in the police court with his eyes blacked from some

  other fray was noted. He was described as a bully, a hoodlum, a

  rough-neck, a professional slugger whose presence in the ranks

  was a disgrace to organized labor. The assault he had pleaded

  guilty of was atrocious and unprovoked, and if he were a fair

  sample of a striking teamster, the only wise thing for Oakland to

  do was to break up the union and drive every member from the

  city. And, finally, the paper complained at the mildness of the

  sentence. It should have been six months at least. The judge was

  quoted as expressing regret that he had been unable to impose a

  six months' sentence, this inability being due to the condition

  of the jails, already crowded beyond capacity by the many eases

  of assault committed in the course of the various strikes.

  That night, in bed, Saxon experienced her first loneliness. Her

  brain seemed in a whirl, and her sleep was broken by vain

  gropings for the form of Billy she imagined at her side. At last,

  she lighted the lamp and lay staring at the ceiling, wide-eyed,

  conning over and over the details of the disaster that had

  overwhelmed her. She could forgive, and she could not forgive.

  The blow to her love-life had been too savage, too brutal. Her

  pride was too lacerated to permit her wholly to return in memory

  to the other Billy whom she loved. Wine in, wit out, she repeated

  to herself; but the phrase could not absolve the man who had

  slept by her side, and to whom she had consecrated herself. She

  wept in the loneliness of the all-too-spacious bed, strove to

  forget Billy's incomprehensible cruelty, even pillowed her cheek

  with numb fondness against the bruise of her arm; but still

  resentment burned within her, a steady flame of protest against

  Billy and all that Billy had done. Her throat was parched, a dull

  ache never ceased in her breast, and she was oppressed by a

  feeling of goneness. WHY, WHY?--And from the puzzle of the world

  came no solution.

  In the morning she received a visit from Sarah--the second in all

  the period of her marriage; and she could easily guess her

  sister-in-law's ghoulish errand. No exertion was required for the

  assertion of all of Saxon's pride. She refused to be in the

  slightest on the defensive. There was nothing to defend, nothing

  to explain. Everything was all right, and it was nobody's

  business anyway. This attitude but served to vex Sarah.

  "I warned you, and you can't say I didn't," her diatribe ran. "I

  always knew he was no good, a jailbird, a hoodlum, a slugger. My

  heart sunk into my boots when I heard you was runnin' with a

  prizefighter. I told you so at the time. But no; you wouldn't

  listen, you with your highfalutin' notions an' more pairs of

  shoes than any decent woman should have. You knew better'n me.

  An' I said then, to Tom, I said, 'It's all up with Saxon now.'

  Them was my very words. Them that touches pitch is defiled. If

  you'd only a-married Charley Long! Then the family w
ouldn't a-ben

  disgraced. An' this is only the beginnin', mark me, only the

  beginnin'. Where it'll end, God knows. He'll kill somebody yet,

  that plug-ugly of yourn, an' be hanged for it. You wait an' see,

  that's all, an' then you'll remember my words. As you make your

  bed, so you will lay in it"

  "Best bed I ever had," Saxon commented.

  "So you can say, so you can say," Sarah snorted.

  "I wouldn't trade it for a queen's bed," Saxon added.

  "A jailbird's bed," Sarah rejoined witheringly.

  "Oh, it's the style," Saxon retorted airily. "Everybody's getting

  a taste of jail. Wasn't Tom arrested at some street meeting of

  the socialists? Everybody goes to jail these days."

  The barb had struck home.

  "But Tom was acquitted," Sarah hastened to proclaim.

  "Just the same he lay in jail all night without bail."

  This was unanswerable, and Sarah executed her favorite tactic of

  attack in flank.

  "A nice come-down for you, I must say, that was raised straight

  an' right, a-cuttin' up didoes with a lodger."

  "Who says so?" Saxon blazed with an indignation quickly mastered.

  "Oh, a blind man can read between the lines. A lodger, a young

  married woman with no self respect, an' a prizefighter for a

  husband--what else would they fight about?"

  "Just like any family quarrel, wasn't it?" Saxon smiled placidly.

  Sarah was shocked into momentary speechlessness.

  "And I want you to understand it," Saxon continued. "It makes a

  woman proud to have men fight over her. I am proud. Do you hear?

  I am proud. I want you to tell them so. I want you to tell all

  your neighbors. Tell everybody. I am no cow. Men like me. Men

  fight for me. Men go to jail for me. What is a woman in the world

  for, if it isn't to have men like her? Now, go, Sarah; go at

  once, and tell everybody what you've read between the lines. Tell

  them Billy is a jailbird and that I am a bad woman whom all men

  desire. Shout it out, and good luck to you. And get out of my

  house. And never put your feet in it again. You are too decent a

  woman to come here. You might lose your reputation. And think of

  your children. Now get out. Go."

  Not until Sarah had taken an amazed and horrified departure did

  Saxon fling herself on the bed in a convulsion of tears. She had

  been ashamed, before, merely of Billy's inhospitality, and

  surliness, and unfairness. But she could see, now, the light in

  which others looked on the affair. It had not entered Saxon's

  head. She was confident that it had not entered Billy's. She knew

  his attitude from the first. Always he had opposed taking a

  lodger because of his proud faith that his wife should not work.

  Only hard times had compelled his consent, and, now that she

  looked back, almost had she inveigled him into consenting.

  But all this did not alter the viewpoint the neighborhood must

  hold, that every one who had ever known her must hold. And for

  this, too, Billy was responsible. It was more terrible than all

  the other things he had been guilty of put together. She could

  never look any one in the face again. Maggie Donahue and Mrs.

  Olsen had been very kind, but of what must they have been

  thinking all the time they talked with her? And what must they

  have said to each other? What was everybody saying?--over front

  gates and back fences,--the men standing on the corners or

  talking in saloons?

  Later, exhausted by her grief, when the tears no longer fell, she

  grew more impersonal, and dwelt on the disasters that had

  befallen so many women since the strike troubles began--Otto

  Frank's wife, Henderson's widow, pretty Kittie Brady, Mary, all

  the womenfolk of the other workmen who were now wearing the

  stripes in San Quentin. Her world was crashing about her ears. No

  one was exempt. Not only had she not escaped, but hers was the

  worst disgrace of all. Desperately she tried to hug the delusion