The paper did not miss an issue, and as it now
had innumerable canvassers among the strikers, its circulation gained
rapidly--rising finally to 20,000.

Even at this time Joe seemed to take no special notice of Myra. But one
slushy, misty night, when the gas-lamps had rainbow haloes, and gray
figures sluff-sluffed through the muddy snow, she accompanied Joe on one
of his fund-raising tours. They entered the side door of a dingy saloon,
passed through a yellow hall, and emerged finally on the platform of a
large and noisy rear room where several hundred members of the
Teamsters' Union were holding a meeting. Gas flared above the rough and
elemental faces, and Myra felt acutely self-conscious under that
concentrated broadside of eyes. She sat very still, flushing, and feebly
smiling, while the outdoor city men blew the air white and black with
smoke and raised the temperature to the sweating-point.

Joe was introduced; the men clapped; and then he tried hard to arouse
their altruism--to get them to donate to the strike out of their union
funds. However, his speech came limp and a little stale. The applause
was good-natured but feeble. Joe sat down, sighing, and smiling grimly.

An amazing yet natural thing happened. The Chairman arose, leaned over
his table, and said:

"You have heard from Mr. Joe Blaine; now you will hear from the other
member of the committee."

Not for some seconds--not until the stamping of feet rose to a fury of
sound--did Myra realize that _she_ was the other member. She had a
sense of being drained of life, of losing her breath. Instinctively she
glanced at Joe, and saw that he was looking at her a little dubiously, a
little amusedly. What could she do? She had never addressed a meeting in
her life; she had never stood on her feet before a group of men; she had
nothing learned, nothing to say. But how could she excuse herself, how
withdraw, especially in the face of Joe's challenging gaze?

The stamping increased; the men clapped; and there were shouts:

"Come ahead! Come on! That's right, Miss." It was a cruel test, a wicked
predicament. All the old timidity and sensitiveness of her nature held
her back, made her tremble, and bathed her face in perspiration. But a
new Myra kept saying:

"Joe didn't rouse them. Some one must." She set her feet on the floor,
and the deafening thunder of applause seemed to raise her. She took a
step forward. And then with a queer motion she raised her hand.