a man tells me dey can’t do dat and be on de square. Is dat straight? Do you guess I can get out my twent-fi’?”
Some of the old women was crying. The factory girls was plumb distracted. They’d lost all their savings and they’d be docked for the time they lost coming to see about it.
There was one girl—a pretty one—in a red shawl, crying in a corner like her heart would dissolve. Buck goes over and asks her about it.
“It ain’t so much losing the money, mister,” says she, shaking all over, “though I’ve been two years saving it up; but Jakey won’t marry me now. He’ll take Rosa Steinfeld. I know J—J—Jakey. She’s got $400 in the savings bank. Ai, ai, ai—” she sings out.
Buck looks all around with that same funny look on his face. And then we see leaning against the wall, puffing at his pipe, with his eye shining at us, this newspaper reporter. Buck and me walks over to hims
“You’re a real interesting writer,” says Buck. “How far do you mean to carry it? Anything more up your sleeve?”
“Oh, I’m just waiting around,” says the reporter, smoking away, “in case any news turns up. It’s up to your stockholders now. Some of them might com-
187
