“Vot you mean?”
“Three times—and the cock hasn't crowed yet! That man's a prophet for sure, T-S!”
The magnate pretended not to understand, but the deep flush on his features gave him away.
“How dy'do, Mr. Westerly,” I said. “What do you think of Mr. T-S in the role of the first pope?”
“You mean he's going to act?” inquired the other, puzzled.
“Come off!” exclaimed Rankin, who knew better, of course.
“He's going to be St. Peter,” I insisted, “and hold the keys to the golden gate. He's planning a religious play, you know, for this fellow Carpenter. Maybe he might cast Mr. Westerly for a part—say Pontius Pilate.”
“Ha, ha, ha!” said the secretary of our “M. and M.” “Pretty good! Ha, ha, ha! Gimme a chance at these bunk-shooters—I'll shut 'em up, you bet!”
XXXIII
The chairman of the meeting was a man named Brown, the president of the city's labor council. He was certainly respectable enough, prosy and solemn. But he was deeply moved on this question of clubbing strikers' heads; and you could see that the crowd was only waiting for a chance to shout its indignation. The chairman introduced the president of the Restaurant Workers, a solid citizen whom you would have taken for a successful grocer. He told about what had happened last night at Prince's; and then he told about the causes of the strike, and the things that go on behind the scenes in big restaurants. I had been to Prince's many times in my life, but I had never been behind the scenes, nor had I ever before been to a labor-meeting. I must admit that I was startled. The things they put into the hashes! And the distressing habit of unorganized waiters, when robbed of their tips or otherwise ill-treated, to take it out by spitting into the soup!