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He telled me he was here to get at the heart o' the workingman, and I said to him that he would hae to look a bit further than the sleeve o' the workin'-man's jaicket. There's no muckle in his head, poor soul. Then there'll be Tam Norie, him that edits our weekly paper Justice for All.
"I've been to the machine-shops and to two or three contractin' carpenters. They all said they was full up with hands men waitin' on their lists for times to improve. Buildin' is slow right now, an' expert hands already on the spot get the pick of the jobs. Machinery is stealin' the bread out of the workin'-man's mouth. A machine takes the place of twenty men in many cases."
The Deacon had a heart, and he knew the nature of self-respect as well as men generally. His mind ran entirely outside of texts for a few minutes, and then, with a sigh for the probable expense, he remarked: "Reckon Flite's notion was right, after all ther' ort to be a workin'-man's chapel." "Ort?" responded Hay; "who d'ye s'pose'd go to it? Nobody?
"Stop?" said the other. "Her? That's E.M. Pierce's she-whelp. True to the breed. She don't care no more for a workin'-woman's life than her father does for a workin'-man's." A policeman hurried up, glanced at the woman and sent in an ambulance call. "I want your name," said Hal to the stranger. "What for?" "Publication now. Later, prosecution. I'm the editor of the 'Clarion."