“What will you bet there ain't a strike?”
“I ain't betting this morning,” said Clarence, blandly. “But if there is one we are ready for it. You bet the hands won't catch us napping. We are ready for 'em any time and all the time.” This, delivered with a large air, impressed Spide exceedingly.
“Have you sent for the militia a'ready?” he asked, anxiously.
“That's saying,” noting the effect of his words. “I can't go blabbing about, telling what the road's up to, but we are awake, and the hands will get it in the neck if they tackle the boss. He's got dam little use for laboring men, anyhow.”
To Clarence, Oakley was the most august person he had ever known. He religiously believed his position to be only second in point of importance and power to that of the President of the United States.
He was wont to invest him with purely imaginary attributes, and to lie about him at a great rate among his comrades, who were ready to credit any report touching a man who was reputed to be able to ride on the cars without a ticket. Human grandeur had no limits beyond this.
“There was a meeting last night. I bet you didn't know that,” said Spide.
“I heard something of it. Was your father at the meeting, Spide?” he asked, dropping his tone of hostility for one of gracious familiarity. The urchin promptly crossed the ditch and stood at his side.
“Of course the old man was. You don't suppose he wouldn't be in it?”
“Oh, well, let 'em kick. You see the boss is ready for 'em,” remarked Clarence, indifferently. He wanted to know what Spide knew, but he didn't feel that he could afford to show any special interest. “Where you going—swimming?” he added.