Great cities thrive on sensations. The yellow journal with its blatant enthusiasms and its brazen effrontery finds a congenial habitat there, not because it is brazen, nor even because it is enthusiastic, but because it supplies a community need. The screaming headline is a mental cocktail. Bellowed forth by a trombone-lunged newsboy, it crashes against the eye, the ear and the brain simultaneously. It whips up tired nerves. It keys the crowd to the keen tension necessary for the doing of the city’s business. And the crowd likes it. Fed hourly on mental stimulants, it becomes a slave to its newspapers.

On the morning after Mary Randall’s dramatic exit from her uncle’s mansion Chicago awoke and clutched at the morning papers with all the eagerness of a drunkard reaching for his dram. A hint of a powerful new thrill lay in the half disclosed first pages. Black headings and “freaked” makeup meant but one thing—a big story.

And Chicago was not disappointed. Occupying the place of honor on the first pages of all of the morning sheets was the announcement of a new assault upon the Vice Trust. To the crowd the name Mary Randall meant nothing. It knew little of her and cared less. But the idea of a young girl, beautiful, socially prominent, immensely wealthy in her own right, declaring war single-handed on a monster so mightily armored and intrenched and so brutally strong as the Vice Trust appealed instantly to the crowd’s imagination. In the crowd’s thought, at least, the girl became a heroine. And though the man in the street openly wearing an air of cheap cynicism spoke of her as “another crazy reformer” or as a “notoriety-hunting crank,” secretly he responded to the enthusiasm of the headline writer who announced her as a “modern Joan of Arc.”

Mary had given out the story herself. A simple letter from her to the city editors announcing that she had left her home and all the luxuries that such a home implied and, accompanied only by a maid, had set forth on a war of extermination against the “vice ring” had been sufficient to set every local room in the city in a frenzy. Re-write men and head writers had done the rest. Every newspaper recorded the launching of her adventure with a luxuriance of illustration and a variety of detail that left nothing more to be said on the subject. Mary had counted rather shrewdly on this. She possessed, among her other natural gifts, a keen judgment of news values. She knew, too, the immense power of the press. By enlisting the agencies of publicity behind her she had multiplied her forces a thousand-fold. At the end of her letter Mary had written a modest appeal to the public. Every newspaper printed it under display type. It read as follows:

“Our city, which should be the heart of American honor, is in the grip of a hideous System. So quietly and surely has this monster worked that our civic blood is poisoned. It feeds upon youth, innocence and purity—all that we as decent citizens love best. I call upon you all to stand by me now in my fight to kill the White Slave Traffic.

Grove Evans read that appeal through and smiled at its naÏvetÉ. Then he looked across his office to his partner, William Brierly, a younger man with pompadour hair and an habitual air of immense self-satisfaction. Brierly was reading the same story in another newspaper. He, too, looked up and smiled.

“You know this girl, don’t you, Grove?” Brierly asked. “By George, she must be interesting. A new kind of female maniac, eh?”

“You’ve met her,” responded Evans. “She was at the Country Club during trophy match last fall. Carries herself like a queen. I remember your raving about her.”

“Ah,” Brierly’s derisive smile faded. “That girl, eh? Say, I saw her make the ninth hole in three. That girl! Say, look here, Grove,” he struck the open paper with his palm, “does she mean this stuff?”

Evans lighted a cigarette before replying. “She sure does,” he stated finally. “I was at the Randalls when she delivered her ultimatum and took to the war path. Talk about a jolt! After she left us, you could hear the shades of night falling. For ten minutes we sat there exhibiting all the vivacity of a deaf and dumb man at a Quaker prayer-meeting.”

Brierly laughed. “Oh, well,” he said. “She’ll do what all these suffragettes do—run around in a circle, yell herself tired, then marry some fellow and forget it.”

He yawned. Evans turned to the huge safe and got out a heavy packet of papers.

“What are you doing, Grove?” Brierly demanded lazily.

“Nothing,” responded Evans curtly. “Just looking over some of our shady leases.”

“Hello!” said Brierly, getting on his feet. “Are you taking this thing seriously?”

Evans turned with a folded paper in his hand.

“You bet your life I am,” he replied. “I know this girl. There’s a strain of wild Irish in her and it’s my opinion that she’s going to raise merry hell!”

The dreamer who had visited the Millville Button Works with the owner of the mill lunched with his friend in the city that day. Quite casually, among other items of interest, Mary Randall’s adventure came up for discussion.

“I don’t know the girl,” said the mill-owner, “but her announcement gives me a fairly good mental picture of her.”

“What’s your picture?” inquired the journalist.

“A rag and a bone and a hank of hair, one of these raving suffragettes. Since bomb-throwing and burning are not fashionable over here, she’s chosen this means of expending her surplus energy.”

“My dear friend, you’re entirely wrong!”

“What! You’ve seen her?”

“Oh, no, but I have quite a different mental picture of her. You remember Joan of Arc? Mount her on a charger, hand her a sword of fire and send her forth to fight for Mary Magdalene. That’s my idea.”

“You’ve borrowed that from the headline writers,” the mill-owner said.

“Not at all. I know the type. A thoughtful young girl, healthy, cultivated and, by the modern miracle, taught how to think. She studies vice conditions in Chicago at first hand and what she sees turns her into a crusader. This girl has spirit. Brought face to face with a great evil, moved by the appeal of helpless womanhood, she throws aside her veneer of false education.”

“Unsexed!”

“Yes, if you would say that the crisis in her life unsexed Portia. Or the crisis in France’s history unsexed Charlotte Corday.”

“You’re fond of historical allusions,” chided the practical man. “Always the literary man, always the dreamer. This girl is a disturber. She’ll unsettle business.”

“Ah, there you are. ‘Unsettles business.’ Did it ever strike you business men that you take yourselves too damn seriously? Any movement, any agitation that ‘unsettles business’ is ipse facto wrong. You business men have had a hand in the martyring of most of the saints and all of the reformers since time began. And, invariably, you are wrong. Why, you’re wrong even about yourselves. You firmly believe that the foundations of the country rest upon you. As a matter of fact, not one per cent of you are producers. You’re middlemen, profit shavers, parasites.”

“My dear fellow,” asked his friend, “where would you be if business men—publishers—didn’t buy your wares?”

“Ha,” answered the writer, “and where would the publishers be if I and others didn’t produce the wares to market? It won’t do. The reason the newspapers and magazines of this country are so bad is because most of the publishers are not newspaper men and magazine writers, but merely business men.”

“Well, I suppose your Joan of Arc will have to have her fling. Then life will swing back to its same old channels and we’ll forget her.”

“Yes, she will have her fling and perhaps we’ll forget her, but life will not swing back to the same old channel. She’ll make a new channel, forgotten though she may be, and it will be a better channel.”

Captain Shammer of the Eighth police district read Mary Randall’s open letter through slowly and carefully. When he had finished he lighted a long black cigar from a box that had been sent him by a world famous confidence man. He smoked thoughtfully for some time. Then he put out a heavy hand and, without looking, pressed a white button at the side of his desk.

A sharp-eyed young man opened the captain’s door.

“Nick,” said the captain, “shut that door a minute and come over here.” He pointed to the black newspaper headline.

“Get that?” he demanded.

“Sure, first thing this morning, Captain.”

“Well?”

“We should worry.”

Captain Shammer rolled his cigar in his mouth. He wasn’t exactly satisfied with the answer.

“All right,” he agreed finally, “but Nick—”

“Yes, Captain.” Nick paused alertly, one hand on the door knob.

“Easy for a while until we see how things break on this.”

“Aye, aye, sir!”

“Curtains drawn, you know, and back rooms quiet. Tell the girls to go slow on the piano playing. Did Ike, the dip, come across?”

“Not yet, Captain.”

“Pinch him today and give him the cooler. Get me?”

“It’s done, cap.”

“Close in on the stuss games. Pass the word to go easy.”

“I get you.”

“Mary Randall, eh?” asked Captain Shammer of vacancy when his aid had gone. “Mary Randall! Well, Mary, you sure have got your nerve with you.”

Senator Barker was a member of the Governor’s vice investigating committee. The committee had been appointed to frame a minimum wage law for women. He was a person of ponderous bulk and mental equipment. He had slipped into office, not because the people yearned for him, but because there had happened to be a battle on between two factions of his natural political opponents in the fortunate hour he had selected for aspiring to office. Like most other American officeholders he spent his days and nights scheming out ways to continue living at the public’s expense. He perused Mary Randall’s screed as he sat over his morning grape-fruit.

In an intermission in the committee meeting Senator Barker leaned across the heavy oak table and pointed out the letter to the Rev. Wallace Stillwell.

“Did you see that?” he inquired huskily.

Mr. Stillwell nodded and drew his thin lips together. He was quite young and just now carried the burden of having been called from an obscure country pulpit to a fashionable church in Chicago. He knew that the wealthy man who was his sponsor in this new position was interested in whole blocks of houses whose curtains were always drawn. He had never forgotten a certain phrase that great man had used when he came in his own automobile to bear the young pastor to the new field of his labors.

“We want you, Mr. Stillwell,” he had said, “because we believe you to be a safe and sane man, one who will not be swept off his feet by wild-eyed reformers and the anarchistic tendencies of the times.”

Mr. Stillwell, therefore, knew why he was wanted in Chicago. The knowledge made him cautious in all things. He thought Senator Barker’s question over carefully. Then he nodded calmly.

“Why, yes, Senator,” he answered. “One could hardly avoid reading it.”

“Well, what about it?”

“Just what do you mean, Senator?”

“You know. What do you think of it, eh?”

“It seems to me,” purred the Rev. Wallace Stillwell, “that the whole exploit is worse than fantastic. It is hardly in good taste. Investigations of the kind this girl has undertaken ought to be left to the men.”

“That’s all right,” put in the Senator, gloomily, “but I’ve noticed lately that the women don’t seem to be willing to do that. They want to take a hand in such matters themselves.” He leaned back in his chair sadly. “It certainly makes it hard for us politicians.”

A woman of ample girth and a handmade complexion pushed her coffee cup away and lighted a fresh cigarette. She had just finished reading Mary Randall’s manifesto. Nature had made her beautiful, but advancing years and too much art had all but destroyed Nature’s handicraft. She inhaled the acrid smoke deeply and then raising her voice, called:

“Celeste! You, Celeste!”

A mulatto girl threw open the door, crying:

“Yes, madame?”

“What you doing?”

“Cleaning up.”

“Get a bottle of wine. Or did those high rollers guzzle it all last night, the drunken beasts?”

“No, madame. I’ve saved one for you.” She opened the bottle and placed the effervescent liquid before her mistress.

“All right, Celeste. Anybody up yet?”

“I hardly think so, madame.”

“Well, I’m up and I wish I wasn’t,” announced a girl who appeared at that moment coming down the broad staircase. She entered the room.

“Got a head this morning, eh, Nellie?” said the madame, knowingly.

“Yes, I’ve got a head,” replied Nellie sullenly, “and a grouch.”

“Make it two, Celeste,” said the madame promptly, indicating the bottle. The colored maid poured out another glass of the liquor. Madame threw the paper across the table to the girl.

“There,” she said, “that’s something that will make you worse.”

“Where?” asked the girl, as she caught up the paper.

“Front page, big headlines. You can’t miss it.”

The girl stepped to the window and pushed aside the heavy curtain. In the morning light she was revealed there petite and charming, despite penciled eyebrows and carmined lips. Her figure was daintily proportioned. There was grace in every line. Her deep brown eyes glowed as she read the words Mary Randall had written.

When she finished reading the girl crumpled the paper in her hand and filled another glass. She lifted the wine slowly.

“Here’s to you, Mary Randall,” she said.

“That’s a rotten toast,” said the madame.

“Is it?” replied the girl. “Well, let me tell you something. I’d like to go straight out of this house and find Mary Randall and say to her: ‘I’m with you, Mary Randall, and I hope to God you win out.’”

“You don’t think of me,” whined the older woman. “Look what a knock that reform stuff gives business.”

“You!” Nellie’s temper flared into a flame. “Say, you ought to be in jail! Now don’t start anything you can’t finish—” The older woman had got to her feet menacingly. “You don’t deserve no pity. You got into this”—she indicated the gaudily furnished house by a gesture, “with your eyes wide open. You picked out this business for yourself. But with me it’s different.” She leaned across the table defiantly. “Yes, how about me? How about Lottie and Emma—and that poor kid that came here happy because she thought she’d found a decent job? Did we pick out this business? Did we? Not on your life. We walked into a trap and we can’t get out. Yes, and there’s thousands like us all over this country.” She snatched up the bottle and poured more wine. “I’m for you, Mary Randall,” she said, raising the glass to the sunlight. “More power to your elbow!”

Mary Randall read the newspapers in a garret room of a tall lodging house. A pile of letters, in a peculiar shade of dark blue, sealed, stamped and ready for the postoffice, lay in a heap before her. She went through each newspaper carefully, noting the display and studying the “features” of her story that had impressed the newspaper men. At last she laid them down.

“Well, Anna,” she said, smiling, addressing her maid. “We’ve made a good beginning. The town, you see, is interested in us.”

Anna’s ordinarily impassive face smiled back at her mistress’ enthusiasm. Her blue eyes lighted with admiring loyalty. She was blonde, big boned and so strongly built as to look actually formidable. Competency and reserve power fairly radiated from her. Her voice betrayed her Scandinavian ancestry.

“Ya-as,” she said, “and in another week they’ll be fighting for us.”

Mary got up from her chair and went to the window, threw it wide open and looked out on the city. She saw its myriad lights rimming the shore of the inland sea. She heard its roar—deep, passionate, powerful. In her imagination she laid her ear close to the city’s heart and she heard it beat strong and true. The smile had left her face and a prayer formed itself silently on her lips. The revery lasted only a moment.

“And now,” she said, “for the next movement in the battle.” She indicated the letters. “There’s our ammunition, Anna,” she said. “Mail them. I’ve picked you for a great honor. You’re to open the engagement with a fusillade of bombshells.”