Bread and Roses, Too by Katherine Paterson Page A

called Big Bill were coming back to Lawrence to lead the strike. The most beautiful woman in the world was coming back to help them ... to help
him.
Wasn't he on strike against Mr. Billy Wood as much as anybody? Well, he hadn't scabbed, had he? No matter how cold and hungry he was, he, Jake Beale, had never once crossed that cursed bridge and gone through those iron gates.
    Jake brushed aside the times he had been on the verge of crossing the bridge and heading back into the mill. He hadn't, though, had he? Something or someone had always stopped him. God or fate or furious little Giuliano. He wouldn't have to feel ashamed when he saw her again. He could hold his head high. He was one of the oppressed workers she was coming to save.
    There was soup in the halls these days after Annie Lopizzo's death. It had got them a lot of sympathy. In the halls where he sneaked in to eat, in the shops, on the streets, people talked about how, in the rest of the entire U.S. of A., everyone knew how the law in Lawrence was twisted to suit the mill owners. That fool Breen laying that dynamite—and who had paid him? Not the strikers, that was for sure. The girl in the Polish bakery told Jake that the stupid man had no more sense than to wrap the sticks in copies of his undertakers' journal, with his own name on the address label—not likely that a striker would have copies of that lying around.
    "But now undertaker Breen is out on bail while the men who threw snowballs are in jail until next year. And what, what will become of Mr. Ettor and Mr. Giovannitti, who had nothing to do with Annie Lopizzo's death? They'll probably hang."
    Jake listened, trying hard to look properly sorrowful, but all he could think about was that Mrs. Gurley Flynn was coming back. She would know the truth behind all the government lies. She'd make them own up to all their plots and wickedness. He had to see her. Since Ettor and Giovannitti's arrest, meetings on the common had been outlawed. The only places left to meet were the national halls. She mostly went where the women and children gathered, but, by golly, he'd be a kid—or even a woman—Italian, Polish, Turk, whatever it took to weasel his way into every meeting where she was to speak. He might even get himself a bit of grub while he was at it.
    Maybe she would notice him again. Not merely smile this time but pick him out special-like, tell him how brave he was—just a boy, too—to stand up to the owners, to suffer hunger and cold and homelessness, so that he could go on being a part of this great strike.
    He snuffled. His nose was always running these days. As he wiped it on the back of his sleeve, he saw to his horror how dirty his shirt was. If his clothes were that filthy, what of his face? He'd never bothered about bathing before—didn't really believe in it. But she was so clean, so white and lovely, her cheeks like roses on fresh snow. What would she think of a boy like him?
    For the first time in his life, he needed to know what his face looked like. The only mirror he knew of was in the sacristy of Saint Mary's. There was also running water in there, in case he decided to wash up a bit. He wasn't about to wash in the canal. Not only was it frozen and smelly, everyone knew it would make you sick to death if you got a drop or two in your mouth. There was nothing for it. He'd have to go into Saint Mary's and hide out somewhere inside until after dark.
    He went to noon Mass. Well, it was warm in there, and nobody paid attention to him. He slid under the pew afterward so the sexton wouldn't see him as he came down the aisle, checking for trash. Without meaning to, he fell fast asleep. He hadn't had a decent night's sleep since he could remember, and the church, though drafty, seemed almost toasty compared with a trash heap. When he woke up, it was pitch dark except for the little light on the altar and the tiny candles—not so many lit now that people had no money. He felt his way down the aisle and