"Don't youse waste none o' the thinks in your brain-box on no strike," returned Foley. He had early discovered Mr. Baxter's dislike of uncouth expressions.
"But there's a great deal of serious talk."
"There's always wind comin' out o' men's mouths."
Mr. Baxter showed not a trace of the irritation he felt.
"Is there going to be a strike?"
"Not if I know myself. And I think I do." He blew out a great cloud of smoke.
"But one of your men—a Mr. Keating—is stirring one up."
"He thinks he is," Foley corrected. "But he's got another think comin'. He's a fellow youse ought to know, Baxter. Nice an' cultivated; God-fearin' an' otherwise harmless."
Mr. Baxter's face tightened. "I know, Mr. Foley, that this situation is much more serious than you pretend," he said sharply.
Foley tilted back in his chair. "If youse seen a lion comin' at youse with a yard or so of open mouth youse'd think things was gettin' a little serious. But if youse knew the lion'd never make its last jump, youse wouldn't go into the occupation o' throwin' fits, now would youse?"