ering in her eyes.

"I should like to go," she said, her pencil poised at the top of a long
column. "Max would like it, too."

After supper that evening Max returned early from a visit to the injured
man, and told Hilda of a new trouble.

"Do you know that little delegate that's been hanging around?" he asked.

"Grady," she said, and nodded.

"Yes, he's been working the man. I never saw such a change in my life.
He just sat up there in bed and swore at me, and said I needn't think I
could buy him off with this stuff"--he looked down and Hilda saw that
the bowl in his hand was not empty--"and raised a row generally."

"Why?" she asked.

"Give it up. From what he said, I'm sure Grady's behind it."

"Did he give his name?"

"No, but he did a lot of talking about justice to the down-trodden and
the power of the unions, and that kind of stuff. I couldn't understand
all he said--he's got a funny lingo, you know; I guess it's Polack--but
I got enough to know what he meant, and more, too."

"Can he do anything?"

"I don't think so. If we get after him, it'll just set him worse'n pig's
bristles. A man like that'll lose his head over nothing. He may be all
right in the morning."

But Hilda, after Max had given her the whole conversation as nearly as
he could remember it, thought differently. She did not speak her mind
out to Max, because she was not yet certain what was the best course to
take. The man could easily make trouble, she saw that. But if Max were
to lay the matter before Bannon, he would be likely to glide over some
of the details that she had got only by close questioning. And a blunder
in handling it might be fatal to the elevator, so far as getting it done
in December was concerned. Perhaps she took it too seriously; for she
was beginning, in spite of herself, to give a great deal of thought to
the work and to Bannon. At any rate, she lay awake later than usual that
night, going over the problem, and she brought it up, the next morning,
the first time that Bannon came into the office after Max had gone out.

"Mr. Bannon," she said, when he had finished dictating a letter to the
office, "I want to tell you about that man that was hurt."

Bannon tried not to smile at the nervous, almost breathless way in which
she opened the conversation. He saw that, whatever it was, it seemed to
her very important, and he settled comfortably on the table, leaning
back against the wall with his legs stretched out bef