m sheer
wage-slavery; the first advance toward the ideal of that coming woman,
who should be a man in her freedom and her strength and her power, and
yet woman of woman in her love and her motherhood and wife-hood.
Industry, so Sally knew, was taking the young girls by the million,
overworking them, sapping them of body and soul, and casting them out
unfit to bear children, untrained to keep house, undisciplined to meet
life and to be a comrade of a man. And Sally knew, moreover, what could
be done. She knew what she had accomplished with the hat-trimmers.

Nevertheless, she hesitated, not quite sure that the moment had come.
Joe's words detained her in a way no man's words had ever done before.
But she thought: "I do this for him. I sharpen the edge of his editorial
and drive it home. Words could never hurt Marrin--but I can." She got
under the shelter of the doorway and with numb hand pulled a copy of
_The Nine-Tenths_ from her pocket, unfolded it, and reread the burning
words of: "Forty-five Treacherous Men." They roused all her fighting
blood; they angered her; they incited her.

"Joe! Joe!" she murmured. "It's you driving me on--it's you! Here goes!"

It was in some ways a desperate undertaking. Once, in Newark, a rough of
an employer had almost thrown her down the stairs, man-handling her, and
while Marrin or his men would not do this, yet what method could she use
to brave the two hundred and fifty people in the loft? She was quite
alone, quite without any weapon save her tongue. To fail would be
ridiculous and ignominious. Yet Sally was quite calm; her heart did not
seem to miss a beat; her brain was not confused by a rush of blood. She
knew what she was doing.

She climbed that first flight of semi-circular stairs without hindrance,
secretly hoping that by no mischance either Marrin or one of his
sub-bosses might emerge. There was a door at the first landing. She
passed it quickly and started up the second flight. Then there was a
turning of a knob, a rustling of skirts, and a voice came sharp:

"Where are you going?"

Sally turned. The forelady stood below her--large, eagle-eyed woman,
with square and wrinkled face, quite a mustache on her upper lip. Sally
spoke easily.

"Up-stairs."

"For what?"

"To see one of the girls. Her mother's sick."

The forelady eyed Sally suspiciously.

"Did you get a permit from the office?"

Sally seemed surprised.

"Permit? No! Do you have to get a permit?"

T