"The what?" asked Bricky.
"The strike."
"Why, man, ain't that just what we've got away from with whole hides?"
"I wasn't hell-bent on getting away from it, Bricky. Didn't I tell you a month ago, in this very room, that there'd got to be a strike?"
"Sure! But we've got what we wanted without it."
"Not yet we haven't."
"What more do we want?"
"We want to smash Dick Malleson."
Bricky pondered for a moment.
"Ye didn't fall far short o' smashin' him," he said finally. "But how in heaven's name will ye git a strike now?"
Lamar took an equal length of time before replying.
"Bricky," he said at last, "you've got to be discharged."
"Me? Discharged? What for?"
"Oh, anything. Neglect of duty. Impertinence. Sabotage. Can't you see that you're what the diplomats call non persona grata at capitalistic headquarters? You've put up a successful fight. You're a union leader. You're a warrior in the ranks of labor. Bricky, you're an agitator, you're a menace; you've got to go. Confound you, man! Can't you see what I'm driving at?"
Bricky was not so dull but that he saw. Yet he did not seem to be very favorably impressed with Lamar's plan. He thought about it for a moment before answering.
"So I'm to be made the goat, am I?" he said, at last.
"You're to be made the goat. That's right. But you'll feed high. Remember what I say: you'll feed high."
Again Bricky pondered. Then he repeated Lamar's words:
