d into the station at Hampton, shrouded in Gothic gloom.
As she left the car Janet was aware of the presence on the platform of an
unusual number of people; she wondered vaguely, as she pushed her way
through them, why they were there, what they were talking about? One
determination possessed her, to go to the Chippering Mill, to Ditmar.
Emerging from the street, she began to walk rapidly, the change from
inaction to exercise bringing a certain relief, starting the working of
her mind, arousing in her a realization of the necessity of being
prepared for the meeting. Therefore, instead of turning at Faber Street,
she crossed it. But at the corner of the Common she halted, her glance
drawn by a dark mass of people filling the end of Hawthorne Street, where
it was blocked by the brick-coloured facade of the Clarendon Mill. In the
middle distance men and boys were running to join this crowd. A girl,
evidently an Irish-American mill hand of the higher paid sort, hurried
toward her from the direction of the mill itself. Janet accosted her.

"It's the strike," she explained excitedly, evidently surprised at the
question. "The Polaks and the Dagoes and a lot of other foreigners quit
when they got their envelopes--stopped their looms and started through
the mill, and when they came into our room I left. I didn't want no
trouble with 'em. It's the fifty-four hour law--their pay's cut two
hours. You've heard about it, I guess."

Janet nodded.

"They had a big mass meeting last night in Maxwell Hall," the girl
continued, "the foreigners--not the skilled workers. And they voted to
strike. They tell me they're walking out over at the Patuxent, too."

"And the Chippering?" asked Janet, eagerly.

"I don't know--I guess it'll spread to all of 'em, the way these
foreigners are going on--they're crazy. But say," the girl added, "it
ain't right to cut our pay, either, is it? They never done it two years
ago when the law came down to fifty-six."

Janet did not wait to reply. While listening to this explanation,
excitement had been growing in her again, and some fearful, overpowering
force of attraction emanating from that swarm in the distance drew her
until she yielded, fairly running past the rows of Italian tenements in
their strange setting of snow, not to pause until she reached the fruit
shop where she and Eda had eaten the olives. Now she was on the outskirts
of the crowd that packed itself against the gates of the Clarendon. It