us. Furthermore, howadji, tell him, I prythee you, that we———”
A veritable yell from Kirby broke in on the smug instructions, The American had recovered enough of his breath to expend a lungful of it in one profane bellow. In a flash he visualized the whole scene at the fellaheens’ quarters—Najib’s crazy explanation of the strike system and of the supposed immunity from punishment that would follow sabotage and other violence; the fellaheens’ duller brains gradually seizing on the idea until it had become as much a part of their mucilaginous mentality as the Koran itself; and Najib’s friendly desire that Kirby might share in the golden benefits of the new scheme.
Yes, the American grasped the whole thing at once; his knowledge of the East foretelling to him its boundless possibilities for mischief and for the ruin of the mine’s new prosperity. He fairly strangled with the gust of wrath and impotent amaze which gripped him.
Najib smiled up at him as might a dog that had just performed some pretty new trick, or a child who has brought to its father a gift. But the aspect of Kirby’s distorted face there in the dying firelight shocked the Syrian into a grunt of terror. Scrambling to his feet, he sputtered quaveringly.
“Tame yourself, howadji, I enseech you! Why are you not rejoiceful? Will it not mean much money for you; and———”
“You mangy brown rat!” shouted Kirby in fury. “What in blazes have you done? You know, as well as I do, that such an idea will never get out of those fellaheens’ skulls, once it’s really planted there. They’ll believe every word of that wall-eyed rot you’ve been telling them! And they’ll go on a genuine strike on the strength of it. They’ll———”
“Of an assuredly, howadji, they will,” assented the bewildered Najib. “I made me very assured of that. Four times I told it all over to them, until even poor Imbarak—whose witfulness hath been beblown out from his brain by the breath of the Most High—until even Imbarak understood. But why it should enrouse you
