“We're living now in a funny time, When money is made to burn.”
Mary was too angry with her husband, because of the impending strike and his incendiary utterances, to hold conversation with Saxon, and the latter, bepuzzled, listened to the conflicting opinions of the men.
“Where are we at?” she asked them, with a merriness that concealed her anxiety at heart.
“We ain't at,” Bert snarled. “We're gone.”
“But meat and oil have gone up again,” she chafed. “And Billy's wages have been cut, and the shop men's were cut last year. Something must be done.”
“The only thing to do is fight like hell,” Bert answered. “Fight, an' go down fightin'. That's all. We're licked anyhow, but we can have a last run for our money.”
“That's no way to talk,” Tom rebuked.
“The time for talkin' 's past, old cock. The time for fightin' 's come.”
“A hell of a chance you'd have against regular troops and machine guns,” Billy retorted.
“Oh, not that way. There's such things as greasy sticks that go up with a loud noise and leave holes. There's such things as emery powder—”