This prospect brought a grin of pure bliss to Najib’s swarthy face.  He looked in new admiration upon his farsighted chief.  Kirby went on: 

“Not that that will concern us.  For this present strike will settle the Cabell mine.  It means ruin to our business here, and the loss of all your jobs, as well as my own.  Why, you idiot, can’t you see what you’ve done?  If you don’t take that asinine grin off your ugly face, I’ll knock it off!” he burst out, his hard-held patience momentarily fraying.

Then, taking new hold on his self-control, Kirby began again to talk.  As if addressing a defective child, which, as a matter of fact, he was doing, he expounded the hideous situation.

He explained the disloyalty to the Cabells of such a move as Najib had planned.  He pointed out the pride he and Najib had taken in the new business they had secured for the home office; and the fact that this new business had brought an increase of pay to them both as well as to the fellaheen.  He showed how great a triumph for the mine was this vast increase of business; and the stark necessity of impressing the new customers by the promptitude and uniform excellence of all shipments.  He pointed out the utter collapse to this and to all the rest of the mine’s connections which a strike would entail.  Najib listened unmoved.

Hopeless of hammering American ethics into the brain of an Oriental, Kirby set off at a new angle.  He explained the loss of prestige and position which he himself would suffer.  He would be discharged—­probably by cable—­for allowing the mine’s bourgeoning prosperity to go to pieces in such fashion.  Another and less lenient and understanding manager would be sent out to take his place.  A manager whose first official act would probably be the discharging of Najib as the cause of the whole trouble.

Najib listened to this with a new interest, but with no great conviction.

Even Kirby’s declaration that the ridiculous strike be a failure, and that the government would assuredly punish any damage done to the Cabell property, did not serve to impress him.  Najib was a Syrian.  An idea once firm-rooted in his mind, was loathe to let itself be torn thence by mere words.  Kirby waxed desperate.

“You have wrecked this whole thing!” he stormed.  “You got an idiotically wrong slant on what I told you about strikes to-day; and you have ruined us all.  Even if you should go down there to the quarters this minute and tell the men that you were mistaken and that the strike is off—­you know they wouldn’t believe you.  And you know they would go straight ahead with the thing.  That’s the Oriental of it.  They’d refuse to go on working.  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—­”