l owners would yield at once.
Some went back to work, only to be "seen" by the militant, watchful
pickets--generally in their rooms, at night. One evening, as Janet was
walking home, she chanced to overhear a conversation taking place in the
dark vestibule of a tenement.

"Working to-day?"

"Yah."

"Work to-morrow?"

Hesitation. "I d'no."

"You work, I cut your throat." A significant noise. "Naw, I no work."

"Shake!"

She hurried on trembling, not with fear, but exultingly. Nor did she
reflect that only a month ago such an occurrence would have shocked and
terrified her. This was war.... On her way to Fillmore Street she passed,
at every street corner in this district, a pacing sentry, muffled in
greatcoat and woollen cap, alert and watchful, the ugly knife on the end
of his gun gleaming in the blue light of the arc. It did not occur to
her, despite the uniform, that the souls of many of these men were
divided also, that their voices and actions, when she saw them
threatening with their bayonets, were often inspired by that inner
desperation characteristic of men who find themselves unexpectedly in
false situations. Once she heard a woman shriek as the sharp knife grazed
her skirt: at another time a man whose steps had been considerably
hurried turned, at a safe distance, and shouted defiantly:

"Say, who are you working for? Me or the Wool Trust?"

"Aw, get along," retorted the soldier, "or I'll give you yours."

The man caught sight of Janet's button as she overtook him. He was
walking backward.

"That feller has a job in a machine shop over in Barrington, I seen him
there when I was in the mills. And here he is tryin' to put us out
--ain't that the limit?"

The thud of horses' feet in the snow prevented her reply. The silhouettes
of the approaching squad of cavalry were seen down the street, and the
man fled precipitately into an alleyway....

There were ludicrous incidents, too, though never lacking in a certain
pathos. The wife of a Russian striker had her husband arrested because he
had burned her clothes in order to prevent her returning to the mill.
From the police station he sent a compatriot with a message to
Headquarters. "Oye, he fix her! She no get her jawb now--she gotta stay
in bed!" this one cried triumphantly.

"She was like to tear me in pieces when I brought her the clothes," said
Anna Mower, who related her experience with mingled feelings. "I couldn't
blame her. You see, it was t