make them scab. The women worried over the approach of starvation; they worried over the grizzling of hungry children, and not only that, they worried over there being no money for paint and powder.
As often happens in times of strikes, the newspapers reported pathetic cases of men fighting on at the cost of parting with their wives. But these men couldn’t turn out their wives and children, even when the latter did urge them to be scabs. From the age of fifteen or sixteen they longed to possess a wife, but, not earning enough to keep one, and being only soy workers, they had had to abstain for long years. The wife they had at last got, after ten or fifteen years of hardship, saving up little by little! And as for the children, who was going to bring them up if the bread-winner deserted them? Whichever way they turned there was no hope, but in Niemon’s case his wife was the least of his troubles. He had, in addition, an old father and mother and he had no way of getting rid of them. They were against the strike. The old mother in a shrill, piercing voice cursed as sons of bitches the leaders who had begun the strike. Was her son going to kill the parent who had given him birth, and brought him up, she raged. Niemon was at a loss to answer. The one who had silenced his mother and stopped her from uttering one word more of complaint was that girl.
“She’s pretty smart,” said Machida approvingly later, when he heard of this. “Her face is that meek and mild, but she must be pretty strong.”
“She can make a speech, too—not too bad.”
