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 li