“The strike-yes!  It’s a pretty piece of business to have everything thrown out because a parcel of lazy hounds want a chance to lay off and get drunk.”  Dryfoos seemed to think Conrad would make some answer to this, but the young man’s mild face merely saddened, and he said nothing.  “I’ve got a coupe out there now that I had to take because I couldn’t get a car.  If I had my way I’d have a lot of those vagabonds hung.  They’re waiting to get the city into a snarl, and then rob the houses—­pack of dirty, worthless whelps.  They ought to call out the militia, and fire into ’em.  Clubbing is too good for them.”  Conrad was still silent, and his father sneered, “But I reckon you don’t think so.”

“I think the strike is useless,” said Conrad.

“Oh, you do, do you?  Comin’ to your senses a little.  Gettin’ tired walkin’ so much.  I should like to know what your gentlemen over there on the East Side think about the strike, anyway.”

The young fellow dropped his eyes.  “I am not authorized to speak for them.”

“Oh, indeed!  And perhaps you’re not authorized to speak for yourself?”

“Father, you know we don’t agree about these things.  I’d rather not talk—­”

“But I’m goin’ to make you talk this time!” cried Dryfoos, striking the arm of the chair he sat in with the side of his fist.  A maddening thought of Christine came over him.  “As long as you eat my bread, you have got to do as I say.  I won’t have my children telling me what I shall do and sha’n’t do, or take on airs of being holier than me.  Now, you just speak up!  Do you think those loafers are right, or don’t you?  Come!”

Conrad apparently judged it best to speak.  “I think they were very foolish to strike—­at this time, when the Elevated roads can do the work.”

“Oh, at this time, heigh!  And I suppose they think over there on the East Side that it ’d been wise to strike before we got the Elevated.”  Conrad again refused to answer, and his father roared, “What do you think?”

“I think a strike is always bad business.  It’s war; but sometimes there don’t seem any other way for the workingmen to get justice.  They say that sometimes strikes do raise the wages, after a while.”

“Those lazy devils were paid enough already,” shrieked the old man.

“They got two dollars a day.  How much do you think they ought to ‘a’ got?  Twenty?”

Conrad hesitated, with a beseeching look at his father.  But he decided to answer.  “The men say that with partial work, and fines, and other things, they get sometimes a dollar, and sometimes ninety cents a day.”

“They lie, and you know they lie,” said his father, rising and coming toward him.  “And what do you think the upshot of it all will be, after they’ve ruined business for another week, and made people hire hacks, and stolen the money of honest men?  How is it going to end?”

“They will have to give in.”