“Here,” he declared, “is something definite to do, a battle in which I will pit myself against this employer for the sake of these women.” He put away from him his experience in the Illinois town, telling himself that the young woman walking beside him would have a sense of honour unknown to the red-haired young workman who had sold him out to Bill and Ed. “I failed with my money,” he thought, “now I will try to help these girls with my energy.” Turning to the Jewish girl he made a quick decision. “I will help you get your places back,” he said. Leaving the girls he went across the street to a barber shop where he could watch the entrance to the factory. He wanted to think out a method of procedure and wanted also to look at the girl strikebreakers as they came to work. After a time several girls came along the street and turned in at the stairway. The flashily dressed Hebrew with the cigar still in his mouth was again by the stairway entrance. The three pickets running forward accosted the file of girls going up the stairs, one of whom, a young American girl with yellow hair, turned and shouted something over her shoulder. The man called Frank shouted back and the Hebrew took the cigar out of his mouth and laughed heartily. Sam filled and lighted his pipe, a dozen plans for helping the striking girls running through his mind. During the morning he went into the grocery store on the corner, a saloon in the neighbourhood, and returned to the barber shop talking to men of the strike. He ate his lunch alone, still thinking of the three girls patiently walking up and down before the stairway. Their ceaseless walking seemed to him a useless waste of energy. “They should be doing something more definite,” he thought. After lunch he joined the soft-eyed Jewish girl and together they walked along the street talking of the strike. “You cannot win this strike by just calling nasty names,” he said. “I do not like that ‘dirty scab’ sticker Frank had in his pocket. It cannot help you and only antagonises the girls who have taken your places. Here in this part of town the people want to see you win. I have talked to the men who come into the saloon and the barber shop across the street and you already have their sympathy. You want to get the sympathy of the girls who have taken your places. Calling them dirty scabs only makes martyrs of them. Did the yellow-haired girl call you a name this morning?” The Jewish girl looked at Sam and laughed bitterly. “Rather; she called me a loud-mouthed street walker.” They continued their walk along the street, across the railroad track and a bridge, and into a quiet residence street. Carriages stood at the curb before the houses, and pointing to these and to the well-kept houses Sam said, “Men have bought these things for their women.” A shadow fell across the girl’s face.