the crowd and cried to the officers:

"That's my boy in there--I've got a right to talk to him."

She started to crowd between the horses, and the policemen thrust her
back.

"Karl--Karl," she cried, "you come out of there; what would papa
say--and you a scab."

She lifted her arms beseechingly and started toward the youth. A
policeman cursed her and felled her with a club.

She lay bleeding on the street, and the strikers stood by and ground
their teeth. Laura Van Dorn stooped over the woman, picked her up and
helped her to walk home. But as she turned away she saw five men walk
out of the ranks of the strike-breakers and join the men on the corner.
A cheer went up, and two more came.

Belgian Hall was filled with workers that night--men and women. In front
of the stage at a long table sat the strike committee. Before them sat
the delegates from the various "locals" and the leaders of the sevens. A
thousand men and women filled the hall--men and women from every quarter
of the globe. That night they had decided to admit the Jews from the
Magnus paint works--the Jews whom the Russians scorned, and the Lettish
people distrusted. Behind all of the delegates in a solid row around the
wall stood the police, watching Grant Adams. He did not sit with the
strike committee but worked his way through the crowd, talking to a
group here and encouraging a man or woman there--but always restless,
always fearing trouble. It was nine o'clock when the meeting opened by
singing "The International." It was sung in twenty tongues, but the
chorus swelled up and men and women wept as they sang.

"Oh, the Brotherhood of men
Shall be the human race."

Then the delegates reported. A Greek woman told how she had been chased
by men on horseback through the woods, in the Park. A Polack man showed
a torn hand that had come under an ax-handle. A Frenchman told how he
had been pursued by a horseman while going for medicine for his sick
child. A Portuguese told how he had brought from the ranks of the
strike-breakers a big fellow worker whom he knew in New Jersey. The
Germans reported that every one of their men in the Valley was out and
working in his garden. Over and over young girls told of insults they
had received. A mania of brutality seemed to have spread through the
officers of the law. A Scotch miner's daughter showed a tear in her
dress made by a soldier's bayonet--

"'In fun,' he said, but I could see na joke."

In a