Tiffany Girl by Deeanne Gist Read Free Book Online Page B

World .” He held out his hand. “Reeve Wilder.”
    The man gave him a wary look, but returned the shake. “You gonna report what the fellows here are doin’ to these gals?”
    He glanced at the group. Two more women approached, their expressions anxious. Hooking elbows, they began to walk the gauntlet as men hurled their barbs and insults.
    “That’s not why I’d come,” Reeve said. “I’d come to see if I could get your side of the story.”
    “What is it you want to know?”
    “Can I buy you a cup of coffee? Sit down with you someplace warm?”
    The man shook his head. “I don’t much like what’s goin’ on here, but I’m not leaving. Not till the rest of ’em do.”
    “Then let’s at least stand over by that lamppost there where it’s not so loud.”
    After a slight hesitation, the man followed him a few yards down the street.
    “Tiffany sure took everybody by surprise hiring these women, didn’t he?” Reeve asked.
    “I’ll say. Never crossed our minds.” He scratched his beard. “We figured this strike would be over in a hurry, with the fair coming up and all. Now, we don’t know what to think.”
    “Do you suppose the women have the strength to cut the glass? To manipulate the metal?”
    “If they’reanything like the strong-armed ironers down in the garment district, then I’d say they probably do. They might not have the muscle to cut as many pieces per day as we can, but I definitely think they could do it. That’s why we’re so worried.”
    Reeve swiped a hand across his mouth. “Surely they won’t be able to solder the joints.”
    The man gave a snort. “No, they wouldn’t be able to do that, but the boys who solder are still working. It’s the glassworkers and glaziers who are striking, not them.”
    “What do you think about Tiffany? Is he a good man to work for?” Reeve didn’t know if this man worked for Tiffany Glass and Decorating Company or one of the other manufacturers, but he’d learned to phrase his questions in such a way that people answered without him ever having to ask.
    “Mr. Tiffany seems to be a good man, but he may as well be President Cleveland. Too far out o’ reach for the likes of me.”
    Reeve withdrew a notepad from inside his jacket. “If he weren’t out of reach, what would you say to him?”
    “You mean, besides us wantin’ to work fifty hours a week instead of sixty? And wantin’ twenty dollars for cutters, and eighteen for glaziers?”
    Reeve nodded. “The union’s already told him that.”
    “Maybe I’d like to see how good o’ work he’d do on bread and ale to stifle his hunger. How he’d feel watching his woman and little ones grow skinnier by the day. He might know all there is about what colors would look just right in a picture window, but I know—and the boys here know—nobody can do good work on an empty stomach.”
    “What’s your name?” Reeve asked, scribbling on his pad.
    “No names.”
    “All right, then. Tell me—”
    A woman’s voice captured his attention. “You throw that, and you’ll be sorry.”
    She was taller than most of the men there, easily six feet. Her shoulders were broad, her posture erect, her expression fierce. The crowd was stunned to a momentary silence. The boy with the snowball hesitated. It was enough for her to get through the door unmolested.
    It had barely closed behind her when the snowball sailed toward it, splatting against the wooden barrier, sticking for a brief second, then sliding to the ground.
    The men roared in anger, making promises of retribution if she dared to challenge them again. Reeve had seen protestors throw tomatoes, rocks, and fists. He’d seen things escalate to the use of knives and guns. The fact that they’d only thrown snowballs was an indication of just how deferent they were being. He feared they wouldn’t be so accommodating tomorrow. And if they resorted to rougher measures, he wasn’t sure what the public’s reaction would be.
    One thing was