Almost every man and woman in the tenement district knew Oscar Schwartz, and had felt the power of his obstinate hand during the long strike of two years before, when, the Union having declared war, Schwartz had closed the brewery for several months rather than submit to its dictation. The news, therefore, that the Union had called a meeting and appointed a committee to wait on Mr. Schwartz, to protest against his giving work to a non-union woman filled them with alarm. The women remembered the privations and suffering of that winter, and the three dollars a week doled out to them by the Central Branch, while their husbands, who had been earning two and three dollars a day, were drinking at O'Leary's bar, playing cards, or listening to the encouraging talk of the delegates who came from New York to keep up their spirits. The brewery employed a larger number of men than any other concern in Rockville, so trouble with its employees meant serious trouble for half the village if Schwartz defied the Union and selected a non-union woman to do the work.
They knew, too, something of the indomitable pluck and endurance of Tom Grogan. If she were lowest on the bids, she would fight for the contract, they felt sure, if it took her last dollar.
McGaw was a fool, they said, to bid so high; he might have known she would cut his throat, and bring them no end of trouble.
Having nursed their resentment, and needing a common object for their wrath, the women broke out against Tom. Many of them had disliked her ever since the day, years ago, when she had been seen carrying her injured husband away at night to the hospital, after months of nursing at home. And the most envious had always maintained that she meant at the time to put him away forever where no one could find him, so that she might play the man herself.
"Why should she be a-comin' in an' a-robbin' us of our pay?" muttered a coarse, red-faced virago, her hair in a frowse about her head, her slatternly dress open at the throat. "Oi'll be one to go an' pull her off the dock and jump on her. What's she a-doin', any-how, puttin' down prices! Ef her ole man had a leg to walk on, instid of his lyin' to-day a cripple in the hospital, he'd be back and be a-runnin' things."
"She's doin' what she's a right to do," broke out Mrs. Todd indignantly. Mrs. Todd was the wife of the foreman at the brewery, and an old friend of Tom's. Tom had sat up with her child only the week before. Indeed, there were few women in the tenements, for all their outcry, who did not know how quick had been her hand to help when illness came, or the landlord threatened the sidewalk, or the undertaker insisted on his money in advance.
"It's not Tom Grogan that's crooked," Mrs. Todd continued, "an' ye all know it. It's that loafer, Dennis Quigg, and that old sneak, Crimmins. They never lifted their hands on a decent job in their lives, an' don't want to. When my man Jack was out of work for four months last winter, and there wasn't a pail of coal in the house, wasn't Quigg gittin' his four dollars a day for shootin' off his mouth every night at O'Leary's, an' fillin' the men's heads full of capital and rights? An' Dan McGaw's no better. If ye're out for jumpin' on people, Mrs. Moriarty, begin with Quigg an' some of the bummers as is runnin' the Union, an' as gits paid whether the men works or not."
"Bedad, ye're roight," said half a dozen women, the tide turning suddenly, while the excitement grew and spread, and other women came in from the several smaller tenements.
"Is the trouble at the brewery?" asked a shrunken-looking woman, opening a door on the corridor, a faded shawl over her head. She was a new-comer, and had been in the tenement only a week or so--not long enough to have the run of the house or to know her neighbors.
"Yes; at Schwartz's," said Mrs. Todd, stopping opposite her door on the way to her own rooms. "Your man's got a job there, ain't he?"
"He has, mum; he's gateman--the fust job in six months. Ye don't think they'll make him throw it up, do ye, mum?"
"Yes; an' break his head if he don't. Thet's what they did to my man three years gone, till he had to come in with the gang and pay 'em two dollars a month," replied Mrs. Todd.
"But my man's jined, mum, a month ago; they wouldn't let him work till he did. Won't ye come in an' set down? It's a poor place we have--we've been so long without work, an' my girl's laid off with a cough. She's been a-workin' at the box-factory. If the Union give notice again, I don't know what'll become of us. Can't we do somethin'? Maybe Mrs. Grogan might give up the work if she knew how it was wid us. She seems like a dacent woman; she was in to look at me girl last week, hearin' as how we were strangers an' she very bad."
"Oh, ye don't know her. Ye can save yer wind and shoe-leather.
She's on ter McGaw red hot; that's the worst of it. He better look out; she'll down him yet," said Mrs. Todd.
As the two entered the stuffy, close room for further discussion, a young girl left her seat by the window, and moved into the adjoining apartment. She had that yellow, waxy skin, hollow, burning eyes, and hectic flush which tell the fatal story so clearly.
While the women of the tenements were cursing or wringing their hands, the men were devoting themselves to more vigorous measures.
A meeting was called for nine o'clock at Lion Hall.
It was held behind closed doors. Two walking delegates from Brooklyn were present, having been summoned by telegram the night before, and who were expected to coax or bully the weak-kneed, were the ultimatum sent to Schwartz refused and an order for a sympathetic strike issued.
At the brewery all was quiet. Schwartz had read the notice left on his desk by the committee the night before, and had already begun his arrangements to supply the places of the men if a strike were ordered. When pressed by Quigg for a reply, he said quietly:--"The price for hauling will be Grogan's bid. If she wants it, it is hers."
