"Pay? Wal, I'd smile. Pay? Guess I gone right on strike payin'. My union don't let its members pay oftener than they're obliged. But we don't stop non-unions payin'. Oh, no. We jest boost 'em right on an' help 'em pay."
"Strike?" said Abe. "Guess it's a kind o' fashion goin' around strikin'. Everybody's worrying to quit somethin'—an' it's most generly work. But that ain't no use to you, Josh. You got to do work 'fore you ken quit it."
The bullet-headed butcher smiled benignly.
"Work? Say, you ain't heard o' work. Guess you're one o' them all-fired capitalists, wot sets around makin' profit out o' us pore fellers who kill the meat what fills the tins you poison your customers with, by reason you've bought up a job line o' throw outs. Work?" he went on, throwing out his arms in ridiculous burlesque of a strike orator. "We are the fellers who do the work. We make your profit for you. We—we—we are the people wot sets the old world wobblin' around every day. We—us down-trods who have to drink Sharpe's rot-gut whisky while you amuse yourself settin' flies drunk on port wine!"
At that moment the swing door was thrust open, and Pete Farline, the drug-store keeper, and Sid Ellerton pushed their way in.
"Drink, Lionel," demanded Peter wearily.
But the hotel proprietor shook his head and winked at Josh.
"I gone on strike—sure," he said.
Pete looked around at Josh and Abe for enlightenment.
"Strike?" he inquired. "Guess I don't get you."