The Nine-Tenths Part 27

"Forty-five."

"And the women?"

"They're busy on shirtwaists."

"And what did the men do?"

"As they were told."

"So you fellows are cutting under the strikers--you're scabs."

Izon clutched the chair harder.

"I told them so--I said, 'For G.o.d's sake, be men--strike, if this isn't stopped.'"

"And what did they say?"

"They'd think it over!"

Sally arose and spoke quietly.

"Make them meet here. _I'll_ talk to them!"

Izon muttered darkly:

"Marrin's a dirty scoundrel!"

Joe smote his hands together.

"We'll fix him. You get the men down here! You just get the men!"

And then Joe understood that his work was not child's play; that the fight was man-size; that it had its dangers, its perils, its fierce struggles. He felt a new power rise within him--a warrior strength. He was ready to plunge in and give battle--ready for a hand-to-hand conflict. Now he was to be tested in the fires; now he was to meet and make or be broken by a great moment. An electricity of conflict filled the air, a foreboding of disaster. His theories at last were to meet the crucial test of reality, and he realized that up to that moment he had been hardly more than a dreamer.

V

FORTY-FIVE TREACHEROUS MEN

Out of the white, frosty street the next night, when every lamp up and down shone like a starry jewel beneath the tingling stars, forty-five men emerged, crowding, pushing in the hall, wedging through the doorway, and filling the not-too-large editorial office. Joe had provided camp-stools, and the room was soon packed with sitting and standing men, circles of shadowy beings, carelessly clothed, with rough black cheeks and dark eyes--a bunch of jabbering aliens, excited, unfriendly, curious, absorbed in their problem--an ill-kempt lot and quite unlovely.

At the center stove, a little way off from its red heart, sat Joe and Sally and Izon. The men began to smoke cigarettes and little cigars, and with the rank tobacco smell was mingled the sweaty human odor. The room grew densely hot, and a window had to be thrown open. A vapor of smoke filled the atmosphere, shot golden with the lights, and in the smoke the many heads, bent this way and that, leaning forward or tilted up, showed strange and a little unreal. Joe could see faces that fascinated him by their vivid lines, their starting dark eyes and the white eye-b.a.l.l.s, their bulging noses and big mouths. Hands fluttered in lively gestures and a storm of Yiddish words broke loose.

Joe arose, lifting his hand for silence. Men pulled each other by the sleeve, and a strident "'Ssh!" ran round the room.

"Silence!" cried Joe. His voice came from the depths of his big chest, and was masterful, ringing with determination.

An expectant hush followed. And then Joe spoke.

"I want to welcome you to this room. It belongs to you as much as to anybody, for in this room is published a paper that works for your good.

But I not only want to welcome you: I want to ask your permission to speak at this meeting."

There were cries of: "Speak! Go on! Say it!"

Joe went on. Behind his words was a menace.

"Then I want to say this to you. Your boss, Mr. Marrin, has done a cowardly and treacherous thing. He has made scabs of you all. You are no better than strike-breakers. If you do this work, if you make these cloaks, you are traitors to your fellow-workers, the cloak-makers. You are crippling other workmen. You are selling them to their bosses. But I'm sure you won't stand for this. You are men enough to fight for the cause of all working people. You belong to a race that has been persecuted through the ages, a brave race, a race that has triumphed through hunger and cold and ma.s.sacres. You are great enough to make this sacrifice. If this is so, I call on you to resist your boss, to refuse to do his dirty work, and I ask you--if he persists in his orders--to lay down your work and _strike_."

He sat down, and there was a miserable pause. He had not stirred them at all, and felt his failure keenly. It was as if he had not reached over the fence of race. He told himself he must school himself in the future, must broaden out. As a matter of fact, it was the menace in his tone that hushed the meeting. The men rather feared what lay behind Joe's words.

At once, however, one of the men leaped to his feet, and began a fiery speech in Yiddish, speaking gaspingly, pa.s.sionately, hotly, shaking his fist, fluttering his hands, tearing a pa.s.sion to tatters. Joe understood not a word, but the burden of the speech was:

"Why should we strike? What for? For the cloak-makers? What have we to do with cloak-makers? We have troubles enough of our own. We have our families to support--our wives and children and relations. Shall they starve for some foolish cloak--makers? Comrades, don't listen to such humbug. Do your work--get done with it. You have good jobs--don't lose them. These revolutionists! They would break up the whole world for their nonsense! It's not they who have to suffer; it's us working people. We do the starving, we do the fighting. Have sense; bethink yourselves; don't make fools out of yourselves!"

A buzz of talk arose with many gesticulations.

"He's right! Why should we strike--Och, Gott, such nonsense!--No more strike talk."

Then Sally arose, pale, eyes blazing. She shook a stanch little fist at the crowd. But how different was her speech from the one in Carnegie Hall--that time when she had been truly inspired.

"Shame on all of you! You're a lot of cowards! You're a lot of traitors!

You can't think of anything but your bellies! Shame on you all! Women would never stand for such things--young girls, your sisters or your daughters, would strike at once! Let me tell you what will happen to you. Some day there will be a strike of shirt-waist-makers, and then your boss will go to the cloak-house and say, 'Now you make shirtwaists for me,' and the cloak-makers will make the shirtwaists, saying, 'When we were striking, the shirtwaist-makers made cloaks; now we'll make waists.' And that will ruin your strike, and ruin you all. Working people must unite! Working people must stand by each other! That's your only power. The boss has money, land, machinery, friends. What have you?

You only have each other, and if you don't stand by each other, you have nothing at all. Strike! I tell you! Strike and show 'em! Show 'em!

Rise and resist! You have the power! You are bound to win! Strike! I tell you!"

Then a man shouted: "Shall a woman tell us what to do?" and tumult broke loose, angry arguments, words flying. The air seemed to tingle with excitement, expectation, and that sharp feeling of human crisis. Joe could feel the circle of human nature fighting about him. He leaned forward, strangely shaken.

Izon had arisen, and was trying to speak. The dark, handsome young man was gesturing eloquently. His voice poured like a fire, swept the crowd, and he reached them with their own language.

"Comrades! Comrades! Comrades!" and then his voice rose and stilled the tumult, and all leaned forward, hanging on his words. "You must"--he was appealing to them with arms outstretched--"you must! You will strike; you will not be cowards! Not for yourselves, O comrades, but for your children--_your children_! Do I not know you? Do I not know how you toil and slave and go hungry and wear out your bodies and souls? Have I not toiled with you? Have I not shared your struggles and your pain? Do I not know that you are doing all, all for your children--that the little ones may grow up to a better life than yours--that your little ones may be happier, and healthier, and richer, and finer? Have I not seen it a thousand times? But what sort of a world will your children find when they grow up if you do not fight these battles for them? If you let the bosses enslave you--if you are cowards and slaves--will not your children be slaves? Oh, we that belong to Israel, have we not fought for freedom these b.l.o.o.d.y thousand years? Are we to cease now? Can't you see?

Can't you open your hearts and minds?" His voice came with a pa.s.sionate sob. "Won't you see that this is a fight for the future--a fight for all who work for wages--a fight for freedom? Not care for the cloak-makers?

They are your brothers. Care for them, lest the day come when you are uncared for! Strike! You must--you _must_! Strike, comrades! We will hang by each other! We will suffer together! And it will not be the first time! No, not the first time--or the last!"

He sank exhausted on his chair, crumpled up. Sweat was running down his white face. There was a moment's hush--snuffling, and a few coa.r.s.e sobs--and then a young man arose, and spoke in trembling voice:

"I move--we send Jacob Izon to-morrow to our boss--and tell him--either no cloaks, or--we strike!"

"Second! Second!"

Joe put the motion.

"All in favor, say aye."

There was a wild shout of ayes. The motion was carried. Then the air was charged with excitement, with fiery talk, with denunciation and ardor.

"Now we're in for it!" said Joe, as the room was emptied, and the aroused groups trudged east on the crunching snow.