"Then when you wake up—you'll strike anyway," he said.
Pete handed him a dollar bill, and Josh's face purpled with laughter.
"Get it, boys," he cried. "Look at that!" he went on, pointing at Sharpe. "There he is, fellers. Ther's the capitalist. Money for nothin'. That's what it is. That's the feller we're on to. Down with Capital, sez I! Up with Labor, or any other old thing. Say, we're right on strike, an' I'm goin' out to get a banner, an' form a parade. I'm jest goin' to make speeches to the populace 'bout things. I'm full up o' Capital. We're sweated, that's wot we are. We won't stand for it, neither. Down with 'em. We want their blood. We want the world—with a fence round it. Say, fellers, ef I git busy that way will you ante up an automobile, an' drink, an' boost me into the government so I ken rob folks right, an' keep out of the penitentiary?"
"Boost you to hell!" cried Sharpe, as the swing doors were pushed open, and a stranger made his way in.
All eyes were turned upon the newcomer. He was a powerfully built man of medium size. The gray in his dark hair showed beneath his soft felt hat, and his eyes were narrow and keen. His dress was the ordinary dress of the city man, and quite unpretentious.
The men in the bar eyed him covertly as he made his way to the counter and called for a "long lager."
Lionel K. Sharpe served him as though strangers were an everyday occurrence in that bar, but he was speculating as to who he might be.
"Hot," said the man, after a long pull at his schooner of beer.
"Some," observed Sharpe, handing him his change.
"Bad road from Calford," the stranger said, after another journey into his beer.