that she was asleep, that it was all a nightmare, and that soon

  the alarm would go off and she would get up and cook Billy's

  breakfast so that he could go to work.

  She did not leave the bed that day. Nor did she sleep. Her brain

  whirled on and on, now dwelling at insistent length upon her

  misfortunes, now pursuing the most fantastic ramifications of

  what she considered her disgrace, and, again, going back to her

  childhood and wandering through endless trivial detail. She

  worked at all the tasks she had ever done, performing, in fancy,

  the myriads of mechanical movements peculiar to each

  occupation--shaping and pasting in the paper box factory, ironing

  in the laundry, weaving in the jute mill, peeling fruit in the

  cannery and countless boxes of scalded tomatoes. She attended all

  her dances and all her picnics over again; went through her

  school days, recalling the face and name and seat of every

  schoolmate; endured the gray bleakness of the years in the orphan

  asylum; revisioned every memory of her mother, every tale; and

  relived all her life with Billy. But ever--and here the torment

  lay--she was drawn back from these far-wanderings to her present

  trouble, with its parch in the throat, its ache in the breast,

  and its gnawing, vacant goneness.

  CHAPTER XV

  All that night Saxon lay, unsleeping, without taking off her

  clothes, and when she arose in the morning and washed her face

  and dressed her hair she was aware of a strange numbness, of a

  feeling of constriction about her head as if it were bound by a

  heavy band of iron. It seemed like a dull pressure upon her

  brain. It was the beginning of an illness that she did not know

  as illness. All she knew was that she felt queer. It was not

  fever. It was not cold. Her bodily health was as it should be,

  and, when she thought about it, she put her condition down to

  nerves--nerves, according to her ideas and the ideas of her

  class, being unconnected with disease.

  She had a strange feeling of loss of self, of being a stranger to

  herself, and the world in which she moved seemed a vague and

  shrouded world. It lacked sharpness of definition. Its customary

  vividness was gone. She had lapses of memory, and was continually

  finding herself doing unplanned things. Thus, to her

  astonishment, she came to in the back yard hanging up the week's

  wash. She had no recollection of having done it, yet it had been

  done precisely as it should have been done. She had boiled the

  sheets and pillow-slips and the table linen. Billy's woolens had

  been washed in warm water only, with the home-made soap, the

  recipe of which Mercedes had given her. On investigation, she

  found she had eaten a mutton chop for breakfast. This meant that

  she had been to the butcher shop, yet she had no memory of having

  gone. Curiously, she went into the bedroom. The bed was made up

  and everything in order.

  At twilight she came upon herself in the front room, seated by

  the window, crying in an ecstasy of joy. At first she did not

  know what this joy was; then it came to her that it was because

  she had lost her baby. "A blessing, a blessing," she was chanting

  aloud, wringing her hands, but with joy, she knew it was with joy

  that she wrung her hands.

  The days came and went. She had little notion of time. Sometimes,

  centuries agone, it seemed to her it was since Billy had gone to

  jail. At other times it was no more than the night before. But

  through it all two ideas persisted: she must not go to see Billy

  in jail; it was a blessing she had lost her baby.

  Once, Bud Strothers came to see her. She sat in the front room

  and talked with him, noting with fascination that there were

  fringes to the heels of his trousers. Another day, the business

  agent of the union called. She told him, as she had told Bud

  Strothers, that everything was all right, that she needed

  nothing, that she could get along comfortably until Billy came

  out.

  A fear began to haunt her. WHEN HE CAME OUT. No; it must not be.

  There must not be another baby. It might LIVE. No, no, a thousand

  times no. It must not be. She would run away first. She would

  never see Billy again. Anything but that. Anything but that.

  This fear persisted. In her nightmare-ridden sleep it became an

  accomplished fact, so that she would awake, trembling, in a cold

  sweat, crying out. Her sleep had become wretched. Sometimes she

  was convinced that she did not sleep at all, and she knew that

  she had insomnia, and remembered that it was of insomnia her

  mother had died.

  She came to herself one day, sitting in Doctor Hentley's office.

  He was looking at her in a puzzled way.

  "Got plenty to eat?" he was asking.

  She nodded.

  "Any serious trouble?"

  She shook her head.

  "Everything's all right, doctor . . . except . . ."

  "Yes, yes," he encouraged.

  And then she knew why she had come. Simply, explicitly, she told

  him. He shook his head slowly.

  "It can't be done, little woman," he said

  "Oh, but it can!" she cried. "I know it can."

  "I don't mean that," he answered. "I mean I can't tell you. I

  dare not. It is against the law. There is a doctor in Leavenworth

  prison right now for that."

  In vain she pleaded with him. He instanced his own wife and

  children whose existence forbade his imperiling.

  "Besides, there is no likelihood now," he told her.

  "But there will be, there is sure to be," she urged.

  But he could only shake his head sadly.

  "Why do you want to know?" he questioned finally.

  Saxon poured her heart out to him. She told of her first year of

  happiness with Billy, of the hard times caused by the labor

  troubles, of the change in Billy so that there was no love-life

  left, of her own deep horror. Not if it died, she concluded. She

  could go through that again. But if it should live. Billy would

  soon be out of jail, and then the danger would begin. It was only

  a few words. She would never tell any one. Wild horses could not

  drag it out of her.

  But Doctor Hentley continued to shake his head. "I can't tell

  you, little woman. It's a shame, but I can't take the risk. My

  hands are tied. Our laws are all wrong. I have to consider those

  who are dear to me."

  It was when she got up to go that he faltered. "Come here," he

  said. "Sit closer."

  He prepared to whisper in her ear, then, with a sudden excess of

  caution, crossed the room swiftly, opened the door, and looked

  out. When he sat down again he drew his chair so close to hers

  that the arms touched, and when he whispered his beard tickled

  her ear.

  "No, no," he shut her off when she tried to voice her gratitude.

  "I have told you nothing. You were here to consult me about your

  general health. You are run down, out of condition--"

  As he talked he moved her toward the door. When he opened it, a

  patient for the dentist in the adjoining office was standing i
n

  the hall. Doctor Hentley lifted his voice.

  "What you need is that tonic I prescribed. Remember that. And

  don't pamper your appetite when it comes back. Eat strong,

  nourishing food, and beefsteak, plenty of beefsteak. And don't

  cook it to a cinder. Good day."

  At times the silent cottage became unendurable, and Saxon would

  throw a shawl about her head and walk out the Oakland Mole, or

  cross the railroad yards and the marshes to Sandy Beach where

  Billy had said he used to swim. Also, by going out the Transit

  slip, by climbing down the piles on a precarious ladder of iron

  spikes, and by crossing a boom of logs, she won access to the

  Rock Wall that extended far out into the bay and that served as a

  barrier between the mudflats and the tide-scoured channel of

  Oakland Estuary. Here the fresh sea breezes blew and Oakland sank

  down to a smudge of smoke behind her, while across the bay she

  could see the smudge that represented San Francisco. Ocean

  steamships passed up and down the estuary, and lofty-masted

  ships, towed by red-stacked tugs.

  She gazed at the sailors on the ships, wondered on what far

  voyages and to what far lands they went, wondered what freedoms

  were theirs. Or were they girt in by as remorseless and cruel a

  world as the dwellers in Oakland were? Were they as unfair, as

  unjust, as brutal, in their dealings with their fellows as were

  the city dwellers? It did not seem so, and sometimes she wished

  herself on board, out-bound, going anywhere, she cared not where,

  so long as it was away from the world to which she had given her

  best and which had trampled her in return.

  She did not know always when she left the house, nor where her

  feet took her. Once, she came to herself in a strange part of

  Oakland. The street was wide and lined with rows of shade trees.

  Velvet lawns, broken only by cement sidewalks, ran down to the

  gutters. The houses stood apart and were large. In her vocabulary

  they were mansions. What had shocked her to consciousness of

  herself was a young man in the driver's seat of a touring car

  standing at the curb. He was looking at her curiously and she

  recognized him as Roy Blanchard, whom, in front of the Forum,

  Billy had threatened to whip. Beside the car, bareheaded, stood

  another young man. He, too, she remembered. He it was, at the

  Sunday picnic where she first met Billy, who had thrust his cane

  between the legs of the flying foot-racer and precipitated the

  free-for-all fight. Like Blanchard, he was looking at her

  curiously, and she became aware that she had been talking to

  herself. The babble of her lips still beat in her ears. She

  blushed, a rising tide of shame heating her face, and quickened

  her pace. Blanchard sprang out of the car and came to her with

  lifted hat. "Is anything the matter?" he asked.

  She shook her head, and, though she had stopped, she evinced her

  desire to go on.

  "I know you," he said, studying her face. "You were with the

  striker who promised me a licking."

  "He is my husband," she said.

  "Oh! Good for him." He regarded her pleasantly and frankly. "But

  about yourself? Isn't there anything I can do for you? Something

  IS the matter."

  "No, I'm all right," she answered. "I have been sick," she lied;

  for she never dreamed of connecting her queerness with sickness.

  "You look tired," he pressed her. "I can take you in the machine

  and run you anywhere you want. It won't be any trouble. I've

  plenty of time."

  Saxon shook her head.

  "If . . . if you would tell me where I can catch the Eighth street

  cars. I don't often come to this part of town."

  He told her where to find an electric car and what transfers to

  make, and she was surprised at the distance she had wandered.

  "Thank you," she said. "And good bye."

  "Sure I can't do anything now?"

  "Sure."

  "Well, good bye," he smiled good humoredly. "And tell that

  husband of yours to keep in good condition. I'm likely to make

  him need it all when he tangles up with me."

  "Oh, but you can't fight with him," she warned. "You mustn't. You

  haven't got a show."

  "Good for you," he admired. "That's the way for a woman to stand

  up for her man. Now the average woman would be so afraid he was

  going to get licked--"

  "But I'm not afraid . . . for him. It's for you. He's a terrible

  fighter. You wouldn't have any chance. It would be like . . .

  like . . ."

  "Like taking candy from a baby?" Blanchard finished for her.

  "Yes," she nodded. "That's just what he would call it. And

  whenever he tells you you are standing on your foot watch out for

  him. Now I must go. Good bye, and thank you again."

  She went on down the sidewalk, his cheery good bye ringing in her

  ears. He was kind--she admitted it honestly; yet he was one of

  the clever ones, one of the masters, who, according to Billy,

  were responsible for all the cruelty to labor, for the hardships

  of the women, for the punishment of the labor men who were

  wearing stripes in San Quentin or were in the death cells

  awaiting the scaffold. Yet he was kind, sweet natured, clean,

  good. She could read his character in his face. But how could

  this be, if he were responsible for so much evil? She shook her

  head wearily. There was no explanation, no understanding of this

  world which destroyed little babes and bruised women's breasts.

  As for her having strayed into that neighborhood of fine

  residences, she was unsurprised. It was in line with her

  queerness. She did so many things without knowing that she did

  them. But she must be careful. It was better to wander on the

  marshes and the Rock Wall.

  Especially she liked the Rock Wall. There was a freedom about it,

  a wide spaciousness that she found herself instinctively trying

  to breathe, holding her arms out to embrace and make part of

  herself. It was a more natural world, a more rational world. She

  could understand it--understand the green crabs with white-

  bleached claws that scuttled before her and which she could see

  pasturing on green-weeded rocks when the tide was low. Here,

  hopelessly man-made as the great wall was, nothing seemed

  artificial. There were no men here, no laws nor conflicts of men.

  The tide flowed and ebbed; the sun rose and set; regularly each

  afternoon the brave west wind came romping in through the Golden

  Gate, darkening the water, cresting tiny wavelets, making the

  sailboats fly. Everything ran with frictionless order. Everything

  was free. Firewood lay about for the taking. No man sold it by

  the sack. Small boys fished with poles from the rocks, with no

  one to drive them away for trespass, catching fish as Billy had

  caught fish, as Cal Hutchins had caught fish. Billy had told her

  of the great perch Cal Hutchins caught on the day of the eclipse,

  when he had little dreamed the heart of his manhood would be

  spent in convict's garb.

  And here was food, food th
at was free. She watched the small boys

  on a day when she had eaten nothing, and emulated them, gathering

  mussels from the rocks at low water, cooking them by placing them

  among the coals of a fire she built on top of the wall. They

  tasted particularly good. She learned to knock the small oysters

  from the rocks, and once she found a string of fresh-caught fish

  some small boy had forgotten to take home with him.

  Here drifted evidences of man's sinister handiwork--from a

  distance, from the cities. One flood tide she found the water

  covered with muskmelons. They bobbed and bumped along up the

  estuary in countless thousands. Where they stranded against the

  rocks she was able to get them. But each and every melon--and she

  patiently tried scores of them--had been spoiled by a sharp gash

  that let in the salt water. She could not understand. She asked

  an old Portuguese woman gathering driftwood.

  "They do it, the people who have too much," the old woman

  explained, straightening her labor-stiffened back with such an

  effort that almost Saxon could hear it creak. The old woman's

  black eyes flashed angrily, and her wrinkled lips, drawn tightly

  across toothless gums, wry with bitterness. "The people that have

  too much. It is to keep up the price. They throw them overboard

  in San Francisco."

  "But why don't they give them away to the poor people?" Saxon

  asked.

  "They must keep up the price."

  "But the poor people cannot buy them anyway," Saxon objected. "It

  would not hurt the price."

  The old woman shrugged her shoulders.

  "I do not know. It is their way. They chop each melon so that the

  poor people cannot fish them out and eat anyway. They do the same

  with the oranges, with the apples. Ah, the fishermen! There is a

  trust. When the boats catch too much fish, the trust throws them

  overboard from Fisherman Wharf, boat-loads, and boat-loads, and

  boatloads of the beautiful fish. And the beautiful good fish sink

  and are gone. And no one gets them. Yet they are dead and only

  good to eat. Fish are very good to eat."

  And Saxon could not understand a world that did such things--a

  world in which some men possessed so much food that they threw it

  away, paying men for their labor of spoiling it before they threw

  it away; and in the same world so many people who did not have

  enough food, whose babies died because their mothers' milk was

  not nourishing, whose young men fought and killed one another for

  the chance to work, whose old men and women went to the poorhouse

  because there was no food for them in the little shacks they wept

  at leaving. She wondered if all the world were that way, and

  remembered Mercedes' tales. Yes; all the world was that way. Had

  not Mercedes seen ten thousand families starve to death in that

  far away India, when, as she had said, her own jewels that she

  wore would have fed and saved them all? It was the poorhouse and

  the salt vats for the stupid, jewels and automobiles for the

  clever ones.

  She was one of the stupid. She must be. The evidence all pointed

  that way. Yet Saxon refused to accept it. She was not stupid. Her

  mother had not been stupid, nor had the pioneer stock before her.

  Still it must be so. Here she sat, nothing to eat at home, her

  love-husband changed to a brute beast and lying in jail, her arms

  and heart empty of the babe that would have been there if only

  the stupid ones had not made a shambles of her front yard in

  their wrangling over jobs.

  She sat there, racking her brain, the smudge of Oakland at her

  back, staring across the bay at the smudge of Ban Francisco. Yet

  the sun was good; the wind was good, as was the keen salt air in

  her nostrils; the blue sky, flecked with clouds, was good. All

  the natural world was right, and sensible, and beneficent. It was

  the man-world that was wrong, and mad, and horrible. Why were the

  stupid stupid? Was it a law of God? No; it could not be. God had