"In about a week," he said, nonchalantly.
"What's the matter ?" asked Beaton, wondering what the joke could be.
"Strike," said the policeman.

His interest in Beaton's ignorance seemed to overcome his contempt of it.

"Knocked off everywhere this morning except Third Avenue and one or two cross-town lines." He spat again and kept his bulk at its incline over the gutter to glance at a group of men on the corner below: They were neatly dressed, and looked like something better than workingmen, and they had a holiday air of being in their best clothes.
"Some of the strikers ?" asked Beaton.
The policeman nodded.
"Any trouble yet ?" "There won't be any trouble till we begin to move the cars," said the policeman.
Beaton felt a sudden turn of his rage toward the men whose action would now force him to walk five blocks and mount the stairs of the Elevated station.

"If you'd take out eight or ten of those fellows," he said, ferociously, "and set them up against a wall and shoot them, you'd save a great deal of bother." "I guess we sha'n't have to shoot much," said the policeman, still swinging his locust.

"Anyway, we shant begin it.