"Come across with the free lunch," Hendrik bade the proprietor. To his men he said, "Boys, get ready!"
These men-that-were—miserable worms, scum of the earth, walking cuspidors—began to take off their armor. The bartenders were husky, but hadn't the boss commanded, Get ready! and didn't all men know he meant, Get ready to eat? Moreover, each sandwich felt he might dodge the bung-starters, but not the boss's right flipper!
The union was making ready to fight with the desperation of men whose retreat is cut on by a foe who never heard of The Hague Convention.
"Hey, no rough-house!" yelled the proprietor.
"Free lunch!" retorted Hendrik. Then he added, "Quick!"
The sandwich-men's nostrils began to dilate with the contagion of the battle spirit. One after another, these beasts of the gutter took off the boards and leaned them against the wall, out of the way, and eyed the boss expectantly, waiting for the word—men once more! Hendrik, with the eye of a strategist and the look of a prize-fighter, planned the attack. Like a very wise man who lived to be the most popular of all our Presidents, he did his thinking aloud.
On occasions like this Hendrik's mind also worked in battle-cries and best expressed itself in action.
"Free lunch," said Hendrik, "is free. It is everybody's. It is therefore ours!"
"Give us our grub!" hoarsely cried the union.
"Three to each bartender," said Hendrik. "When I yell 'Now!' jump in, from both ends of the bar at once—six of you here; you six over there. Fleming, you smash the mirrors back of the bar with those empty schooners. Mulligan, you cop some bottles of booze, and wait outside—do you hear? Wait outside!—for us. I'll attend to the cash-register myself. Now, you," he said peremptorily to the proprietor, "do we get the free lunch? Say no; won't you, please?"