Bread and Roses, Too by Katherine Paterson Page B

throwing rocks—"
    "The workers didn't set no dynamite, Miss Finch. That was a trick."
    Now Rosa did turn to see who had the gall to take up Joe O'Brien's role as teacher's challenger, which had disappeared when he was arrested. She was startled to realize that it was tiny Olga Kronsky, who had hardly ever spoken out in class in her life, which was why Rosa hadn't recognized her voice. "My mama said the owners'd do anything to make the strikers look bad. Maybe those Pinkerton men they hired was the very ones who threw them rocks at your trolley car. Joe Ettor said if anything bad happened, they'd always try to make it look like the workers done it."
    "Did it. The workers did it, Olga."
    "No, ma'am, they ain't done nothing."
    "They
haven't done anything,
Olga, not
they ain't done nothing."
    "But that's what I mean, Miss Finch, my mama ain't done nothing. Joe Ettor said, 'No violence,' and that's what we done. We ain't done no violence."
    Rosa could tell from the look on Olga's face that she had no idea it was her grammar and not her protest that Miss Finch was trying to amend. Miss Finch apparently realized that her cause was hopeless. She sighed deeply and sat down at her desk. "Very well, Olga. I'm afraid you'll be disillusioned soon enough. Ah, welcome back, Celina, you look very nice now."

The Day Hell Breaks Loose
    Jake was sick of it all—the grubbing for food, the nasty places where he had to sleep or the churches where he tried to sleep but which didn't welcome strays like him, who came only for shelter from the winter wind and a chance to pilfer pennies. There had been those few moments with Angelo, and then again when he saw Mrs. Gurley Flynn, when he had almost thought the strike was a good thing, but the feeling hadn't lasted. He had no national hall to march proudly into for warmth and food and companionship during these dark days. There was nothing in the strike for the likes of him but cold and hunger.
    So on that Monday, more than two weeks after the infernal business had begun, he determined once again to return to work. He would earn the money to buy his pa enough whiskey to keep him from beating him, and go back and live in the shack by the river that he had called home since he could remember. He remembered quite well how much he had hated that old life, but this new one was worse. He never knew what to expect from day to day. And he was so cold. He would save out from his pay envelope at least enough money to buy coal for the shack's little stove. Yes, he'd make a fire at night and sleep close to it.
    The crowds on Canal Street were almost as thick as they had been at the station the week before. But they were angry, booing and yelling at workers who were trying to elbow their way through to get to the mill gates or over the canal bridge and on to the Wood or Ayer mills. "Scab! Scab!" they screamed, along with what he guessed were obscenities in their native tongues. He persisted and was nearly at the bridge when a rough hand grabbed his arm.
    "You ain't scabbing, is you, boy?" It was Giuliano.
    Jake decided on the spot that he'd have to give up trying to get to work that day. "No, no," he said. "I come to help picket."
    "I better not catch you crossing that bridge!"
    "I wouldn't!" Jake answered, wriggling out of Giuliano's grasp. "Scab! Scab!" he yelled as he moved away from the angry man ... and right into the legs of a giant horse. The policeman astride it reached down and whacked him on the shoulder with a club. Jake cried out in surprise and then cursed the officer in the one language he was sure to understand.
    "Why, you foul-mouthed little devil!" The policeman pulled his horse back and used its great flank to push Jake toward the canal.
    Hell's bells! He means to drive me right into the water!
The canal water was so filthy that if you didn't freeze to death, the poison would kill you for sure. Jake dodged away, edging toward a man with a huge American flag, who was yelling at the crowd to follow