This modernized propaganda was nothing less than a dimensionality reduction attack in this era. Imagine: every single person who bought clothes would find, stitched into the very fabric of the garment, a label detailing the monumental achievements of Ms. Dorothea, Ann, and Alice in their relentless fight for women's rights.
This wasn't merely recognition; it was akin to a father telling his son, "Son, your life's work has been so magnificent, we're dedicating an entire, separate page in the family tree, detailing to your every struggle, every triumph."
The raw, intoxicating feeling that coursed through Ms. Dorothea, Ann, and Alice now was more potent than the finest opium. Dutch's words had struck a nerve, electrifying them. Their faces flushed crimson, breath came in ragged gasps, minds reeling, momentarily stunned into silence.
What had they just heard? He was going to name clothes after them? He was going to immortalize their contributions to women's rights directly on the labels themselves? My God! How was this any different from their names appearing among the actual American presidential candidates?
Ms. Dorothea, Ann, and Alice were on the verge of collapsing from sheer, overwhelming ecstasy!
Dutch reached out, his hand steady, supporting Ms. Dorothea and Ann, while Jenny swiftly moved to steady Miss Alice, fearing the three would simply faint from the sheer force of their excitement. Dutch smiled, observing the three women, their faces flushed like overripe fruit, drunk on the heady wine of recognition. He was profoundly satisfied with their explosive reaction.
What defined a top-tier capitalist? This. This was it. To compel others to work with absolute dedication, yet leave them convinced they had reaped an unimaginable profit. A perfect symbiosis, a win-win achieved through subtle manipulation.
"Oh! Mr. Arthur! Mr. Arthur! Oh, I… I truly don't know how to thank you! Mr. Arthur! Please, rest assured, Mr. Arthur, we will promote all of your clothing! Oh, Mr. Arthur, you are truly a great man, I have never encountered such a magnificent man as you!" Ms. Dorothea's words tumbled out, incoherent with pure exhilaration. Ann and Miss Alice, beside her, were equally overcome, breathing rapidly, too utterly thrilled to form a coherent thought.
Miss Camille, however, simply stared at Dutch, her eyes gleaming with an almost solidified interest, a silent intensity that compelled Ms. O'Shea to step forward and possessively link arms with Dutch, staking her claim.
Originally, they had dismissed Ms. Dorothea's effusive praise for Mr. Arthur as mere professional courtesy, a byproduct of shared interests. But now, as the tangible benefits rained down upon them, the feeling of comfort and unadulterated happiness was simply beyond description.
Dutch smiled, waving a dismissive hand. He looked at Arthur, who was still lost in admiration of the exquisite sewing machines. "Hosea, Marston," he instructed, "you two go rent a train car, immediately. Our machines will require the aid of a train for transport. Oh, and secure a few more cars. I anticipate our soon-to-be-hired female employees in Saint Denis might need train passage to Valentine."
No sooner had Dutch finished speaking than the excited Ms. Ann eagerly interjected, "Oh, Mr. Arthur, no need to rent! The Saint Denis train lines are controlled by the Heidy Family! I will personally arrange a private train for your exclusive use, right now! Oh, Mr. Arthur, please do not refuse! This is merely a small token of our gratitude, a humble reciprocation!"
"Hahaha, alright, Ann, then let us proceed directly to recruitment. I imagine those ladies and madams must have been waiting anxiously for a considerable time," Dutch said with a triumphant smile, nodding and gesturing towards the commotion outside. At this very moment, a deafening clamor of female voices filled the air. Ms. Dorothea's network had already spread the news like wildfire, and the women of Saint Denis, who had long yearned for such an opportunity, were now literally running, scrambling, gathering.
The group emerged from the warehouse, utterly oblivious to the chaotic maelstrom that had engulfed Saint Denis in those fleeting minutes. Just ten minutes prior, Ms. Dorothea's agents had unleashed the news: Dutch was about to begin recruiting.
The announcement sparked an instant, city-wide women's hundred-meter sprint. Ladies who first caught wind of the news almost instinctively dropped their work, abandoning everything, and bolted towards the warehouse. As they ran, clever women who spotted the desperate stampede, and received no answers to their frantic questions, instantly grasped the gravity of the situation.
They fell in line, a relentless tide, racing towards the warehouse. Even the slow to react finally understood, casting aside their burdens, joining the frenzied rush.
The news spread like a contagion, infecting every corner of Saint Denis. Women washing clothes at the dock simply hurled their laundry aside, sprinting towards the warehouse, scaling obstacles with desperate hands and feet. They almost invented 'parkour'.
The entire street became a river of running women. They spanned every age, every appearance, their only commonality the various qualities of their tattered, patched garments. Even the ladies from the bar, the bathhouse attendants from the hotel, burst forth, scrambling and rushing towards the warehouse.
This spectacle brought the men on the street to a stunned halt. Some murmured in disbelief, others bellowed curses. "Shit! Have they gone crazy? Why are they all running like lunatics on the street? Is this a synchronized time of the month?!"
"Damn women! Why don't the Saint Denis police issue a decree to prevent these damned wenches from running around freely! Shit! They've dirtied my clothes!"
"Oh, look at this horde of running women, what a bunch of fools! Oh, shit! Why is my wife among them?!"
Every man held an air of profound condescension. In this era, there were no laws to protect women, their fundamental place dictated by society was that of an obedient, submissive, meaningless figure confined to the home.
Witnessing such a mass of women running wildly, defying all norms, was utterly intolerable to these men, their minds still trapped in the antiquated mindset of a dying era.
But no one paid them any mind. The women, driven by a desperate, singular purpose, rushed frantically towards the warehouse. By the time Dutch and his group emerged, over five hundred women had already converged outside, a silent, expectant multitude. Their clothes were old, tattered, patched, their eyes filled with a mixture of apprehension, worry, and a hidden, fierce longing.
Their lives were so utterly impoverished that the dignified treatment Dutch offered felt nothing short of a divine blessing, a step into heaven itself. And still, from the distant streets, a continuous stream of women arrived, their numbers swelling by the minute. In just ten minutes, over five hundred had gathered, a stark, undeniable testament that even in a prosperous place like Saint Denis, countless souls languished in profound poverty.