The Pole lifted his shoulders haughtily.
"I do it—I, the president of the Independent Workers of the World."
"All right, old cock, but what do you do?"
"The orchestra." Morani waved a satisfied hand toward the music. "It play. No come-a to meeting."
"Can't say I'm sorry," muttered Werner under his breath.
"Men—many men—they play cards where boss can see," said Heppel, mildly chiding the lack of faith in his fellow-conspirator. "Camp same, boss think. Meeting in bush same time. Everything fine."
The local president of the Workers of the World spread his hands out in modest deprecation of such applause. Werner seemed convinced.
"You'd pull the wool over the eyes of a professional burglar, Koppy, while you stole his jemmy. But what's the idea of the meeting to-night? A crash—right off the bat?"
Koppy shrugged his shoulders; everything was in the lap of the gods; inspiration was one of his holds on his followers.
"'Cause every damn one of them will do what you say," Werner assured him, "from waiting to say grace before tackling the soup, to blowing that trestle to perdition. That is, if they can do it in the dark."