"It's not over yet."
"It will be . . . I'm gonna fight it to the end. They're startin' to operate the B chain to-night . . . a lot of niggers from the South that ain't organized." He got up and went over to the window, standing with his back to Philip. "We can make trouble for another month or two and then I'm finished, and me . . . I'm out of a job for good . . . down . . . on the blacklist. You know what that means."
It was an eloquent back, big, brawny and squared with defiance, despite all the tone of despair in his voice. The rumpled, yellow hair fairly bristled with vitality and battle. Philip thought, "He's not done yet. He's going on. He's got something to believe in . . . to fight for. For him it's only begun. He's got a giant to fight . . . and I'm fighting only two women."
Suddenly Krylenko turned. "Look," he said. "Look," pointing out of the window. "That's what they're up to now. They've bought up all the loose houses and they're turning the strikers out in the snow . . . on a night like this, God damn 'em. Look!"
Philip looked. Across the street in the falling snow lay a pitiful heap of odds and ends of some Slovak household . . . pots, kettles, battered chairs, blankets, a mattress or two. A woman and four small children, none of them more than six, stood drearily watching.
"And it's a hell of a thing to do. . . . A free country, hell! It belongs to a lot of crooked rich men." Suddenly, he thrust his big fist through the pane of glass and the tinkling fragments fell into the snow in the yard. "We're finished this time . . . but we've only begun!" He laughed. "The windows don't mat-
