"Look here," said McGregor. "I didn't mean to hurt you. Those
two women that came up and interfered with what we were working out
made me furious."
"Women always interfere," said the barber. "They raise hell with men."
His mind ran out and began to play with the world-old problem of the
sexes. "If a lot of women fall in the fight with us men and become our
slaves--serving us as the paid women do--need they fuss about it? Let
them be game and try to help work it out as men have been game and
have worked and thought through ages of perplexity and defeat."
The barber stopped on the street corner to fill and light his pipe.
"Women can change everything when they want to," he said, looking at
McGregor and letting the match burn out in his fingers. "They can have
motherhood pensions and room to work out their own problem in the
world or anything else that they really want. They can stand up face
to face with men. They don't want to. They want to enslave us with
their faces and their bodies. They want to carry on the old, old weary
fight." He tapped McGregor on the arm. "If a few of us--wanting with
all our might to get something done--beat them at their own game,
don't we deserve the victory?" he asked.
"But sometimes I think I would like a woman to live with, you know,
just to sit and talk with me," said McGregor.
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