“To speak with a briefness, howadji,” he proclaimed grandiloquently.  “We have all stroked ourselfs!”

“You’ve all done—­what?” asked the puzzled Kirby.

“Not we alone, howadji,” amended Najib, “but you also!  We would not berich ourselves and leave you outward in the plan.  It is you also who are to stroke yourself.  And—­”

“For the love of Heaven!” exclaimed Kirby in sudden loss of patience.  “What are you driving at?  What do you mean about ‘stroking yourselves’?  Say it in Arabic.  Then perhaps I can find what you mean.”

“It is not to be said in the Arabic, howadji,” returned Najib, wincing at this slur on his English.  “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.  Then—­”

Kirby sought to speak.  But his breath was gone.  He only gobbled.  Taking the wordless sound for a token of high approval, Najib hastened on, more glibly, with his program.

“On the to-morrow’s morning, howadji,” he said, “we enseech that you will write a sorrowsome letter to Cabell Effendi, in the Broad Street of New York; and say to him that all of us have made strike and that we shall work no more until we have from his hands a writing that our payment shall be two mejidie for every mejidie we have been capturing from his company.  Also and likewise that we shall work but half time.  And that you, howadji, are to receive even as we; save only that your wage is to be enswollen to three times over than what it