“You are unlucky,” he said. “I just happened to take hold here. When I have you beaten I will go on and beat the others. There is more money back of me than back of you all, and I am going to beat every one of you.” The next morning a crowd stood before the stairway leading to the factory when the strikebreaking girls came to work. The letters and the newspaper interview had been effective and more than half the strikebreakers did not appear. The others hurried along the street and turned in at the stairway without looking at the crowd. The girl, told off by Sam, stood on the sidewalk passing out pamphlets to the strikebreakers. The pamphlets were headed, “The Story of Ten Girls,” and told briefly and pointedly the stories of ten striking girls and what the loss of the strike meant to them and to their families. After a while there drove up two carriages and a large automobile, and out of the automobile climbed a well-dressed woman who took a bundle of the pamphlets from the girl picket and began passing them about among the people. Two policemen who stood in front of the crowd took off their helmets and accompanied her. The crowd cheered. Frank came hurrying across the street to where Sam stood in front of the barber shop and slapped him on the back. “You’re a wonder,” he said. Sam hurried back to the room and prepared the second letter for the mailing list. Two more stenographers had come to work. He had to send out for more machines. A reporter for the town’s evening paper ran up the stairway. “Who are you?” he asked. “The town wants to know.” From his pocket he took a telegram from a Pittsburgh daily. “What about mail-order strike plan? Give name and story new strike leader there.” At ten o’clock Frank returned. “There’s a wire from Harrigan,” he said. “He’s coming here. He wants a mass meeting of the girls for to-night. I’ve got to get them together. We’ll meet here in this room.” In the room the work went on. The list of names for the mailing had doubled. The picket at the shirtwaist factory reported that three more of the strikebreakers had left the plant. The Jewish girl was excited. She went hurrying about the room, her eyes glowing. “It’s great,” she said. “The plan is working. The whole town is aroused and for us. We’ll win in another twenty-four hours.” And then at seven o’clock that night Harrigan came into the room where Sam sat with the assembled girls, bolting the door behind him. He was a short, strongly built man with blue eyes and red hair. He walked about the room in silence, followed by Frank. Suddenly he stopped and, picking up one of the typewriting machines rented by Sam for the letter writing, raised it above his head and sent it smashing to the floor. “A hell of a strike leader,” he roared. “Look at this. Scab machines! “Scab stenographers!” he said through his teeth. “Scab printing! Scab everything!”