"That was the beauty of the job," snarled Bunny. "It wasn't real work. It was more like belonging to a club. I had to stand around a little, and pass things, and so forth. But I got fifteen a month, my meals, and three or four dollars a day in tips."
"I don't blame you, then, for being sore at losing the job," remarked another young "labor" man of Bunny's own stripe. "That kind of job was a good deal like easy graft."
"That's just what it was," rejoined Bunny feelingly. "And I lost it all on account of that—Say, fellows!"
This last appeal Bunny whispered hoarsely. Then he pointed ahead down the street.
"Here comes that soldier-loafer, Overton, now. And his friend with him."
"Now's your chance to take it out, Bunny!" prodded one of the gang.
"Fellows," declared Bunny earnestly, "it's the chance for all of us to take it out of that pair! Think how often the regulars have fired into honest, hard-working men!"
By that designation Bunny referred to rioters.
"There's two of them, and they hain't got no guns or bayonets this time," Bunny Hepburn continued hoarsely. "How many are there of us?"
"Twelve," replied another, "not counting Skinny Carroll."