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.