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 Quigg gittin' his four dollars a day for shootin' off his mouth every night at O'Leary's, an' fillin' the men's heads full of capital and rights? An' Dan McGaw's no better. If ye're out for jumpin' on people, Mrs. Moriarty, begin with Quigg an' some of the bummers as is runnin' the Union, an' as gits paid whether the men works or not.”

“Bedad, ye're roight,” said half a dozen women, the tide turning suddenly, while the excitement grew and spread, and other women came in from the several smaller tenements.

“Is the trouble at the brewery?” asked a shrunken-looking woman, opening a door on the corridor, a faded shawl over her head. She was a new-comer, and had been in the tenement only a week or so—not long enough to have the run of the house or to know her neighbors.

“Yes; at Schwartz's,” said Mrs. Todd, stopping opposite her door on the way to her own rooms. “Your man's got a job there, ain't he?”

“He has, mum; he's gateman—the fust job in six months. Ye don't think they'll make him throw it up, do ye, mum?”