"Why every feller's strikin' now," grinned Josh.
"Oh."
"Quit servin' drinks?" asked Sid, supporting himself on the bar.
Lionel K. Sharpe shook his head and laughed.
"Nope," he said, amid a cloud of smoke. "Just quit chalkin' up Pete's score."
He obtained the laugh he required, and set glasses before the newcomers.
"Seein' it's that way, Lal, I'll have to go on strike sousin' your poison," Farline retorted. Then he turned to the others. "Say, fellers, let's strike for decent liquor, an' when we get it let's strike for havin' it free. If we get that, we'll have pipes laid on over our beds, and strike again if we don't get 'em."
"Why, yes," laughed Josh. "Then we'll strike cos the rats we see ain't spiders."
"Sure," nodded Abe. "An' strike like hell if they grow wings."
Lionel K. Sharpe held out his hand for Pete's money.