een" 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 the kids crying with cold and
starvation, and she got so she just cou