At eight o’clock a man came in to install a telephone and girl strikers began bringing in new names for the mailing list. At nine o’clock three more stenographers appeared and were put to work, and girls who had been in began sending more names over the ‘phone. The Jewish girl walked up and down, giving orders, making suggestions. From time to time she ran to Sam’s desk and suggested other sources of names for the mailing list. Sam thought that if the other working girls were timid and embarrassed before him this one was not. She was like a general on the field of battle. Her soft brown eyes glowed, her mind worked rapidly, and her voice had a ring in it. At her suggestion Sam gave the girls at the typewriters lists bearing the names of town officials, bankers and prominent business men, and the wives of all these, also presidents of various women’s clubs, society women, and charitable organizations. She called reporters from the town’s two daily papers and had them interview Sam, and at her suggestion he gave them copies of the Hadaway girl letter to print. “Print it,” he said, “and if you cannot use it as news, make it an advertisement and bring the bill to me.” At eleven o’clock Frank came into the room bringing a tall Irishman, with sunken cheeks, black, unclean teeth, and an overcoat too small for him. Leaving him standing by the door, Frank walked across the room to Sam. “Come to lunch with us,” he said. He jerked his thumb over his shoulder toward the tall Irishman. “I picked him up,” he said. “Best brain that’s been in town for years. He’s a wonder. Used to be a Catholic priest. He doesn’t believe in God or love or anything. Come on out and hear him talk. He’s great.” Sam shook his head. “I am too busy. There is work to be done here. We are going to win this strike.” Frank looked at him doubtfully and then about the room at the busy girls. “I don’t know what Harrigan will think of all this,” he said. “He doesn’t like interferences. I never do anything without writing him. I wrote and told him what you were doing here. I had to, you know. I’m responsible to headquarters.” In the afternoon the Hebrew owner of the shirtwaist factory came in to strike headquarters and, walking through the room took off his hat and sat down by Sam’s desk. “What do you want here?” he asked. “The newspaper boys told me of what you had planned to do. What’s your game?” “I want to whip you,” Sam answered quietly, “to whip you good. You might as well get into line. You are going to lose this strike.” “I’m only one,” said the Hebrew. “There is an association of us manufacturers of shirtwaists. We are all in this. We all have a strike on our hands. What will you gain if you do beat me here? I’m only a little fellow after all.” Sam laughed and picking up his pen began writing.