"
"Oh, Nan! How horridly you talk," cried Bess. "That is
impossible."
"Not hurt in the machinery, not mangled by the looms," Nan went
on to say, gravely. "But dreadfully hurt nevertheless, Bess.
Father has been expecting it, I believe. Let's go and read the
poster."
"Why it is a poster, isn't it?" cried Bess. "What does it say?"
The two school girls, both neatly dressed and carrying their
bags of text books, pushed into the group before the yellow
quarter-sheet poster pasted on the fence.
The appearance of Nan and Bess was distinctly to their advantage
when compared with that of the women and girls who made up the
most of the crowd interested in the black print upon the poster.
The majority of these whispering, staring people were foreigners.
All bore marks of hard work and poverty. The hands of even the
girls in the group were red and cracked. It was sharp winter
weather, but none wore gloves.
If they wore a head-covering at all, it was a shawl gathered at
the throat by the clutch of frost-bitten fingers. There was snow
on the ground; but few wore overshoes.
They crowded away from the two well-dressed high-school girls,
looking at them askance. Bess Harley scarcely noticed the mill-
hands' wives and daughters.
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