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Updated: June 2, 2025


She picked her way across the vacant lot to the junk-cart and laid her hand upon the grimy handle. The thing moved. The strings of bells set up a familiar jingle. "Easy as a baby carriage!" And Great Taylor laughed. The cart reached the sidewalk, bumped down over the curb and pulling Great Taylor with it went beyond the centre of the street.

She wheeled around, and there in the shadows of the dilapidated old warehouse someone was drooping over the handle of the junk-cart a collarless man with baggy breeches and a nose that leaned toward the smudges and hollows of his cheek. He was striving to move the cart. "Not alone," cried Great Taylor. "You can't do it alone! But we can do it together!" She took hold of the handle.

Slocum is not going to run the yard for the sake of the Marble Workers' Association. He would rather drive a junk-cart. He might be allowed to steer that himself. Giles. Oh! Richard. Good-morning, Giles. Gikles. 'Mornin', Mr. Shackford. Richard rushed back to Mr. Slocum. "The strike is broken, sir!" "What do you mean?" "The thing has collapsed!

Great Taylor slowly rounded a familiar corner, slackened the momentum of the junk-cart, and brought up squarely against the curb. Dragging the wheels, she gained the sidewalk and, beyond, the rims of the cart cut into soft earth. She crossed the vacant lot.

"Pushing a junk-cart ain't so easy," she said, and for a moment she stood there huddled over the handle; then, taking a long, deep breath, like Grit used to do, she straightened herself and sang out, clear and loud, above the noises of the cavernous street: "Rags ... old iron ... bottles and ra-ags."

They say, 'It's nothing, it's only Great Taylor. And do you know what they think when they look down upon you and your junk-cart? They think of you just as you used to think of Grit...." She staggered to her feet. "You leave Grit out of it!" For ten years a sentence had been pulsing through her mind. "Get out!" she cried, "Grit warn't dirty underneath!"

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