"For there is not such a thing in the
Arabic as to make strike. We make strike. Thus I say it we 'stroke
ourselves.' If it is the wrong way for saying it--"
"Strike?" repeated Kirby, perplexed. "What do you mean? Are you still
thinking about what I told you to-day? If you are going--"
"I have bethought of it, howadji, ever since," was the reply. "And it is
because of my much bethoughting that I found my splenderous plan. That
is my tidings. I bethought it all out with tremense clearness and
wiseness. Then I told those others, down yonder. At first they were of a
stupidity. For it was so new. But at last I made them understand. And
they rejoiced of it. So it is all settled most sweetly. You may not fear
that they will not stand by it. As soon as that was made sure I came to
you to tell--"
"Najib!" groaned Kirby, his head awhirl. "_Will_ you stop chewing chunks
of indigestible language, and tell me what you are jabbering about? What
was it you thought over? And what is 'all settled'? What will--"
"The strike, of an assuredly," explained Najib, as if in pity of his
chief's denseness. "To-night we make strike. All of us. That is one
tiding. And you, too, make strike with us. That is the other tiding.
Making two tidings. We make strike. To-morrow we all sleep late. No work
is to be made. And so it shall be, on each dear and nice and happy day,
until Cabell Effendi--be his sons an hundred and his wives true!--shall
pay us the money we ask and make short our hours of toil.
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