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Updated: May 9, 2025
Thus Joe came to know Jacob Izon and Salvatore Giotto and Nathan Latsky. He was greatly interested in Izon, the facts of whose life he soon came to know. Izon was a designer, working at Marrin's, the shirtwaist manufacturer; he made thirty dollars a week, had a wife and two children, and was studying engineering in a night school.
She knew that at Marrin's the conditions were fairly good, though, even there, women and young girls worked sometimes twelve hours and more a day, and earned, many of them, but four or five dollars a week. What tempted Sally, however, was the knowledge that a strike at Marrin's would be the spark to set off the city and bring out the women by the thousands.
Theodore Marrin, you have betrayed your employees. And then farther down: No decent human being would work for such a man. He has no right to be an employer not in such hands should be placed the sacred welfare of men and women. If I were one of Marrin's employees I would prefer the streets to his shop. Marrin looked up at the forty-four.
Then softly the door opened, and a hoarse voice said: "Joe? You there?" Sally and Joe turned around. It was Izon, dark, handsome, fiery, muffled up to his neck, his hat drawn low on his face, and the thin snow scattering from his shoulders and sleeves. "Yes, I'm here," Joe said in a low voice. "What is it?" Izon came over. "Joe!" his voice was passionate "there's trouble brewing at Marrin's."
"Many were arrested, but Joe did not appear against them, and the men from Marrin's were the first to come in and tell of their remorse. As for the thugs and criminals they don't dare lift their heads. Public opinion is hot against them." Thus they talked, intimately, sweetly, and at last the elder woman kissed the younger good-night. "But, dear, you've been crying!"
She knelt at the bedside and buried her face in the cover. "It's my fault!" she cried. "It's my fault!" "Yours, Sally?" cried Joe, quite forgetting the "Miss." "How so?" "I I went to Marrin's and got the girls out." "Got the girls out?" Joe exclaimed. "Where are they?" "On the street." "Bring them into the ruins," said Joe, "and organize them. I'm going to make a business of this thing."
And he was whisked away, a quite self-satisfied human being. That very evening Marrin's name came up again. It was closing-up time, Billy and Slate had already gone, and the room was dark save for the shaded lights over Joe's desk and Sally's table. The two were working quietly, and outside a soft fall of snow was muffling the noise of the city.
He swung his cane lightly as he tripped up the steps, sniffed the air, and knocked on the door of the editorial office. Billy opened. "Yes, sir." "Mr. Blaine in?" "He's busy." "I should hope he was! There, my boy." He deftly waved Billy aside and stepped in. "Well! well! Mr. Blaine!" Joe turned about, and arose, and accepted Mr. Marrin's extended hand. "Who do you think I am?" Joe smiled.
"I want to do something." "What?" "I want to go up to Marrin's to-morrow and get the girls out on strike." "What's that?" "I've done it before; I can do it again." Joe laughed softly. "Miss Sally, what would I do without you? I'd go stale on life, I think." She made an impulsive movement toward him. "Mr. Joe." "Yes?" "I want to help you every way." "I know you do."
Next morning, when Theodore Marrin made the rounds of the vast loft where two hundred girls and forty-five men were busily working the machines racing the air pulsing with noise Jacob Izon arose, trembling, and confronted him. "Well, Jacob!" "I want to tell you something." "Go ahead." "The men have asked me to ask you not to have us make the cloaks." Marrin's red face seemed to grow redder.
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