I know what it's like down there. Nobody else knows, except Irene Shane and Mary Conyngham."
"Does your Ma know it?" asked McTavish, with a grin.
"She must know it. She pretends not to."
"And the Reverend Castor?"
"No . . . I suppose he doesn't."
Philip thanked him abruptly, and went out of the door. When he had gone, McTavish poked up the fire, and sat staring into it. "I'm a regular old woman in some ways," he thought, "trying to meddle in people's affairs. But it needs a whole army to cope with Em."
Outside, the world of the Flats lay spread out before him no longer alive with flame and clamor, but still now and cold and dead beneath the softly falling snow. There was no glow of fire; no wheel turned. Only the locomotives shrieked and puffed backward and forward over the shining rails. The streets were alive with people: they stood in little groups in the snow. On the bridge a little knot of them surrounded a speaker unknown to him, who harangued them in three tongues, urging them not to lose faith. At Hennessey's corner the lights cast a glow over the fallen snow—it was really white now that there was no longer any soot—and the tinny piano sent forth its showers of brassy notes into air that was no longer filled with the pounding of gigantic hammers. And the saloon was filled to the doors. Now and then a drunken Pole or Croat fell through the doors into the street. He saw what McTavish meant. They weren't strong enough yet.
