And our shipments wouldn't be delivered. None of the ore for
the next shipments would be mined. The men would just hang about,
peacefully waiting for the double pay and the half time that you've
promised them."
"Of an assuredly, that is true, howadji," conceded Najib. "They would--"
"They _will_!" corrected Kirby with grim hopelessness.
"But soon Cabell Effendi will reply to your letter," went on Najib. "And
then the double paying--"
"To my letter!" mocked the raging Kirby.
Then he paused, a sudden inspiration smiting him.
"Najib," he continued after a minute of concentrated thought, "you have
sense enough to know one thing: You have sense enough to know you people
can't get that extra pay till I write to Mr. Cabell and demand it for
you. There's not another one of you who can write English. There's no
one here but yourself who can speak or understand it or make shift to
spell out a few English words in print And Mr. Cabell doesn't know a
word of Arabic--let alone the Arabic script. And your own two years at
Coney Island must have shown you that no New Yorkers would know how to
read an Arabic letter to him. Now I swear to you, by every Christian and
Moslem oath, that _I_ shan't write such a letter! So how are you going
to get word to him that you people are on strike and that you won't do
another lick of work till you get double pay and half time? How are you
going to do that?"
Najib's solid face went blank. Here at last was an argument that struck
home.
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