"Comrades, this is another insult thrown in the face of the working class. There are no more than forty people in the hall and they close the doors and tell us it’s full..." The crowd began swaying back and forth, hats, umbrellas bobbing in the sleety rain. Then she saw the two cops dragging Compton off and heard the jangle of the patrol wagon. "Shame, shame," people yelled. They began to back off from the cops; the flow was away from the hall. People were moving quietly and dejectedly down the street toward the trolley tracks with the cordon of mounted police pressing them on. Suddenly Webb whispered in her ear, "Let me lean on your shoulder," and jumped onto a hydrant. "This is outrageous," he shouted, "you people had a permit to use the hall and had hired it and no power on earth has a right to keep you out of it. To hell with the cossacks." Two mounted police were loping towards him, opening a lane through the crowd as they came. Webb was off the hydrant and had grabbed Daughter’s hand, "Let’s run like hell," he whispered and was off doubling back and forth among the scurrying people. She followed him laughing and out of breath. A trolley car was coming down the main street. Webb caught it on the move but she couldn’t make it and had to wait for the next. Meanwhile the cops were riding slowly back and forth among the crowd breaking it up. Daughter’s feet ached from paddling in slush all afternoon and she was thinking that she ought to get home before she caught...
(Note: Some parts of the text appear unrelated or inserted oddly, such as product mentions like "Polo Lacoste en gros," "Casque Beats," etc., which seem out of context and may not have direct relevance to the narrative.)