are 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 ki