spread over the width of East Street, growing larger every minute, until
presently she was hemmed in. Here and there hoarse shouts of approval and
cheers arose in response to invisible orators haranging their audiences
in weird, foreign tongues; tiny American flags were waved; and suddenly,
in one of those unforeseen and incomprehensible movements to which mobs
are subject, a trolley car standing at the end of the Hawthorne Street
track was surrounded, the desperate clanging of its bell keeping pace
with the beating of Janet's heart. A dark Sicilian, holding aloft the
green, red, and white flag of Italy, leaped on the rear platform and
began to speak, the Slav conductor regarding him stupidly, pulling the
bellcord the while. Three or four policemen fought their way to the spot,
striving to clear the tracks, bewildered and impotent in the face of the
alien horde momentarily growing more and more conscious of power.

Janet pushed her way deeper and deeper into the crowd. She wanted to
savour to the full its wrath and danger, to surrender herself to be
played upon by these sallow, stubby-bearded exhorters, whose menacing
tones and passionate gestures made a grateful appeal, whose wild, musical
words, just because they were uncomprehended, aroused in her dim
suggestions of a race-experience not her own, but in which she was now
somehow summoned to share. That these were the intruders whom she, as a
native American, had once resented and despised did not occur to her. The
racial sense so strong in her was drowned in a sense of fellowship. Their
anger seemed to embody and express, as nothing else could have done, the
revolt that had been rising, rising within her soul; and the babel to
which she listened was not a confusion of tongues, but one voice lifted
up to proclaim the wrongs of all the duped, of all the exploited and
oppressed. She was fused with them, their cause was her cause, their
betrayers her betrayers.

Suddenly was heard the cry for which she had been tensely but
unconsciously awaiting. Another cry like that had rung out in another mob
across the seas more than a century before. "Ala Bastille!" became "To
the Chippering!" Some man shouted it out in shrill English, hundreds
repeated it; the Sicilian leaped from the trolley car, and his path could
be followed by the agitated progress of the alien banner he bore. "To the
Chippering!" It rang in Janet's ears like a call to battle. Was she
shouting it, too? A galv