TTom's arrangement with the detective agency was that Baxter and Foley were to be watched day and night, and that he was to have as frequent reports as it was possible to give. Just before six o'clock that same afternoon he called at the office for his first report. It was ready—a minute account of the movements of the two men between one and five. There was absolutely nothing in it of value to him, except that its apparent completeness was a guarantee that if anything was to be found the men on the case would find it.
Tom's arrangement with the detective agency was that Baxter and Foley were to be watched day and night, and that he was to have as frequent reports as it was possible to give. Just before six o'clock that same afternoon he called at the office for his first report. It was ready—a minute account of the movements of the two men between one and five. There was absolutely nothing in it of value to him, except that its apparent completeness was a guarantee that if anything was to be found the men on the case would find it.
Never before in Tom's life had there been as many hours between an evening and a morning. He dared not lessen his suspense and the hours by discussing his present move with friends; they could not help him, and, if he told them, there was the possibility that some word might slip to Foley which would rouse suspicion and destroy the thousandth chance. But at length morning came, and at ten o'clock Tom was at the detective agency. Again there was a minute report, the sum of whose worth to him was—nothing.
He went into the street and walked, fear and suspense mounting higher and higher. In ten hours the union would meet to decide, and as yet he had no bitof evidence. At twelve o'clock he was at the office again. There was nothing for him. Eight more hours. At two o'clock, dizzy and shaking from suspense, he came into the office for the third time that day. A report was waiting.
He glanced it through, then trying to speak calmly, said to the manager: "Send anything else to my house."
Tom had said to himself that he had one chance in a thousand. But this was a miscalculation. His chance had been better than that, and had been made so by Mr. Baxter's shrewd arrangement for his dealings with Foley, based upon his theory that one of the surest ways of avoiding suspicion is to do naturally and openly the thing you would conceal. Mr. Baxter's theory overlooked the possibility that suspicion might already be roused and on watch.
Tom did not look at the sheet of paper in the hallway or in the street; with three thousand union men in the street, all of whom knew him, one was likely to pounce upon him at any minute and gain his secret prematurely. With elation hammering against his ribs, he hurried through a cross street toward the little park, which in the last five months had come to be his study. The sheet of paper was buttoned tightly in his coat, but all the time his brain was reading a few jerky phrases in the detail-packed report.
In the park, and on a bench having the seclusion of a corner, he drew the report from his pocket and read it eagerly, several times. Here was as much as he had hoped for—evidence that what he had suspected was true. With the few relevant facts of the reportas a basis he began to reconstruct the secret proceedings of the last three weeks. At each step he tested conjectures till he found the only one that perfectly fitted all the known circumstances. Progress from the known backward to the unknown was not difficult, and by five o'clock the reconstruction was complete. He then began to lay his plans for the evening.
Tom preferred not to face Maggie, with her demands certain to be repeated, so he had his dinner in a restaurant whose only virtue was its cheapness. At half past seven he arrived at Potomac Hall, looking as much his usual self as he could. He passed with short nods the groups of men who stood before the building—some of whom had once been his supporters, but who now nodded negligently—and entered the big bar-room. There were perhaps a hundred men here, all talking loudly; but comparatively few were drinking or smoking—money was too scarce. He paused an instant just within the door and glanced about. The men he looked for were not there, and he started rapidly across the room.
"Hello, Keating! How's your strike?" called one of the crowd, a man whom, two months before, he himself had convinced a strike should be made.
"Eat-'Em-Up Keating, who don't know when he's had enough!" shouted another, with a jeer.
"Three cheers for Keating!" cried a third, and led off with a groan. The three groans were given heartily, and at their end the men broke into laughter.
Tom burned at these crude insults, but kept straight on his way.
There were also friends in the crowd,—a few.When the laughter died down one cried out: "What's the matter with Keating?" The set answer came, "He's all right!"—but very weak. It was followed by an outburst of groans and hisses.
As Tom was almost at the door the stub of a cigar struck smartly beneath his ear, and the warm ashes slipped down inside his collar. There was another explosion of laughter. Tom whirled about, and with one blow sent to the floor the man who had thrown the cigar. The laugh broke off, and in the sudden quiet Tom passed out of the bar-room and joined the stream of members going up the broad stairway and entering the hall.
The hall was more than half filled with men—some sitting patiently in their chairs, some standing with one foot on chair seats, some standing in the aisles and leaning against the walls, all discussing the same subject, the abandonment of the strike. The general mood of the men was one of bitter eagerness, as it was also the mood of the men below, for all their coarse jesting,—the bitterness of admitted defeat, the eagerness to be back at their work without more delay.
Tom glanced around, and immediately he saw Petersen coming toward him, his lean brown face glowing.
"Hello, Petersen. I was looking for you," he said in a whisper when the Swede had gained his side. "I want you by me to-night."
"Yah."
Petersen's manner announced that he wanted to speak, and Tom now remembered, what he had forgotten in his two days' absorption, the circumstances under which he had last seen the Swede. "How are things at home?" he asked.
"Ve be goin' to move. A better house." After this bit of loquacity Petersen smiled blissfully—and said no more.
Tom told Petersen to join him later, and then hurried over to Barry and Jackson, whom he saw talking with a couple other of his friends in the front of the hall. "Boys, I want to tell you something in a minute," he whispered. "Where's Pete?"
"The committee's havin' a meetin' in Connelly's office," answered Barry.
Tom hurried to Connelly's office and knocked. "Come in," a voice called, and he opened the door. The five men were just leaving their chairs.
"Hello, Pete. Can I see you as soon's you're through?" Tom asked.
"Sure. Right now."
Connelly improved the opportunity by offering Tom some advice, emphasized in the customary manner, and ended with the request: "Now for God's sake, keep your wind-hole plugged up to-night!"
Tom did not reply, but as he was starting away with Pete he heard Foley say to the secretary: "Youse can't blame him, Connelly. Some o' the rest of us know it ain't so easy to give up a fight."
Tom found Barry, Petersen and the three others waiting, and with them was Johnson, who having noticed Tom whispering to them had carelessly joined the group during his absence. "If you fellows'll step back here I'll finish that little thing I was telling," hesaid, and led the way to a rear corner, a dozen yards away from the nearest group.
When he turned to face the six, he found there were seven. Johnson had followed. Tom hesitated. He did not care to speak before Johnson; he had always held that person in light esteem because of his variable opinions. And he did not care to ask Johnson to leave; that course might beget a scene which in turn would beget suspicion. It would be better to speak before him, and then see that he remained with the group.
"Don't show the least surprise while I'm talking; act like it was nothing at all," he began in a whisper. And then he told them in a few sentences what he had discovered, and what he planned to do.
They stared at him in astonishment. "Don't look like that or you'll give away that we've got a scheme up our sleeves," he warned them. "Now I want you fellows to stand by me. There may be trouble. Come on, let's get our seats. The meeting will open pretty soon."
He had already picked out a spot, at the front end on the right side, the corner formed by the wall and the grand piano. He now led the way toward this. Half-way up the aisle he chanced to look behind him. There were only six men. Johnson was gone.
"Take the seats up there," he whispered, and hurried out of the hall, with a fear that Johnson at that minute might be revealing what he had heard to Foley. But when he reached the head of the stairway he saw at its foot Foley, Hogan, and Brown starting slowly up. With sudden relief he turnedback and joined his party. A little later Connelly mounted the platform and gave a few preliminary raps on his table, and Johnson was forgotten.
The men standing about the hall found seats. Word was sent to the members loitering below that the meeting was beginning, and they came up in a straggling body, two hundred strong. Every chair was filled; men had to stand in the aisles, and along the walls, and in the rear where there were no seats. It was the largest gathering of the union there had been in three years. Tom noted this, and was glad.
All the windows were open, but yet the hall was suffocatingly close. Hundreds of cigars were momently making it closer, and giving the upper stratum of the room's atmosphere more and more the appearance of a solid. Few coats were on; they hung over the arms of those standing, and lay in the laps of those who sat. Connelly, putting down his gavel, took off his collar and tie and laid them on his table, an example that was given the approval of general imitation. Everywhere faces were being mopped.
Connelly rapped again, and stood waiting till quiet had spread among the fifteen hundred men. "I guess you all know what we're here for," he began. "If there's no objection I guess we can drop the regular order o' business and get right to the strike."
There was a general cry of "consent."
"Very well. Then first we'll hear from the strike committee."
Foley, as chairman of the strike committee, should have spoken for it; but the committee, being aware of the severe humiliation he was suffering, and tosave him what public pain it could, had sympathetically decided that some other member should deliver its report. And Foley, with his cunning that extended even to the smallest details, had suggested Pete, and Pete had been selected.
Pete now rose, and with hands on Tom's shoulders, calmly spoke what the committee had ordered. The committee's report was that it had nothing new to report. After carefully considering every circumstance it saw no possible way of winning the strike. It strongly advised the union to yield at once, as further fighting meant only further loss of wages.
Pete was hardly back in his seat when it was moved and seconded that the union give up the strike. A great stamping and cries of "That's right!" "Give it up!" "Let's get back to work!" joined to give the motion a tremendous uproar of approval.
"You have heard the motion," said Connelly. "Any remarks?"
Men sprang up in all parts of the crowd, and for over an hour there were brief speeches, every one in favor of yielding. In substance they were the same: "Since the strike's lost, let's get back to work and not lose any more wages." Every speaker was applauded with hand-clapping, stamps, and shouts; an enthusiasm for retreat had seized the crowd. Foley was called for, but did not respond. Other speakers did, however, and the enthusiasm developed to the spirit of a panic. Through speeches, shouts, and stamping Tom sat quietly, biding his time.
Several of the speakers made bitter flings at the leadership that had involved them in this disastrousstrike. Finally one man, spurred to abandon by applause, ended his hoarse invective by moving the expulsion of the members who had led the union into the present predicament. So far Foley had sat with face down, without a word, in obvious dejection. But when this last speaker was through he rose slowly to his feet. At sight of him an eager quiet possessed the meeting.
"I can't say's I blame youse very much for what youse've said," he began, in a voice that was almost humble, looking toward the man who had just sat down. "I helped get the union into the strike, yes, an' I want youse boys"—his eyes moved over the crowd—"to give me all the blame that's comin' to me."
A pause. "But I ain't the only one. I didn't do as much to bring on the strike as some others." His glance rested on Tom. "The fact is, I really didn't go in for the strike till I saw all o' youse seemed to be in for it. Then o' course I did, for I'm always with youse. An' I fought hard, so long's there was a chance. Mebbe there's a few"—another glance at Tom—"that'd like to have us keep on fightin'—an' starve. Blame me all youse want to, boys—but Buck Foley don't want none o' youse to starve."
He sank slowly back into his chair. "You did your best, Buck!" a voice shouted, and a roar of cheers went up. To those near him he seemed to brighten somewhat at this encouragement.
"Three cheers for Keating!" cried the man who had raised this shout in the bar-room, springing to his feet. And again he led off with three groans, whichthe crowd swelled to a volume matching the cheers for Foley. Connelly, in deference to his office, pounded with his gavel and called for silence—but weakly.
Tom flushed and his jaw tightened, but he kept his seat.
The crowd began once more to demand Foley's views on the question before the house. He shook his head at Connelly, as he had repeatedly done before. But the meeting would not accept his negative. They added the clapping of hands and the stamping of feet to their cries. Foley came up a second time, with most obvious reluctance.
"I feel sorter like the man that was run over by a train an' had his tongue cut out," he began, making what the union saw was a hard effort to smile. "I don't feel like sayin' much.
"It seems to me that everything worth sayin' has been said already," he went on in his previous humble, almost apologetic, tone. "What I've got to say I'll say in the shadow of a minute. I size up the whole thing like this: We went into this strike thinkin' we'd win, an' because we needed more money. An' boys, we ought to have it! But we made a mistake somewhere. I guess youse've found out that in a fight it ain't always the man that's right that wins. It's the strongest man. The same in a strike. We're right, and we've fought our best, but the other fellows are settin' on our chests. I guess our mistake was, we wasn't as strong when we went into the fight as we thought we was.
"Now the question, as I see it, is: Do we wantto keep the other fellow on our chests, we all fagged out, with him mebbe punchin' our faces whenever he feels like it?—keep us there till we're done up forever? Or do we want to give in an' say we've had enough? He'll let us up, we'll take a rest, we'll get back our wind an' strength, an' when we're good an' ready, why, another fight, an' better luck! I know which is my style, an' from what youse boys've said here to-night, I can make a pretty good guess as to what's your style."
He paused for a moment, and when he began again his voice was lower and there was a deep sadness in it that he could not hide. "Boys, this is the hardest hour o' my life. I ain't very used to losin' fights. I think youse can count in a couple o' days all the fights I lost for youse. [A cry, "Never a one, Buck!"] An' it comes mighty hard for me to begin to lose now. If I was to do what I want to do, I'd say, 'Let's never give in.' But I know what's best for the union, boys ... an' so I lose my first strike."
He sank back into his seat, and his head fell forward upon his breast. There was a moment of sympathetic silence, then an outburst of shouts: "It ain't your fault!" "You've done your best!" "You take your lickin' like a man!" But these individual shouts were straightway lost in cries of "Foley!" "Foley!" and in a mighty cheer that thundered through the hall. Next to a game fighter men admire a game loser.
This was Tom's moment. He had been waiting till Foley should place himself on record before theentire union. He now stood up and raised his right hand to gain Connelly's attention. "Mr. Chairman!" he called.
"Question!" "Question!" shouted the crowd, few even noticing that Tom was claiming right of speech.
"Mr. Chairman!" Tom cried again.
Connelly's attention was caught, and for an instant he looked irresolutely at Tom. The crowd, following their president's eyes, saw Tom and broke into a great hiss.
"D'you want any more speeches?" Connelly put to the union.
"No!" "No!" "Question!" "Question!"
"All in favor of the motion——"
The desperate strait demanded an eminence to speak from, but the way to the platform was blocked. Tom vaulted to the top of the grand piano, and his eyes blazed down upon the crowd.
"You shall listen to me!" he shouted, breaking in on Connelly. His right arm pointed across the hall to where Foley was bowed in humiliation. "Buck Foley has sold you out!"
In the great din his voice did not carry more than a dozen rows, but upon those rows silence fell suddenly. "What was that?" men just behind asked excitedly, their eyes on Tom standing on the piano, his arm stretched toward Foley. A tide of explanation moved backward, and the din sank before it.
Tom shouted again: "Buck Foley has sold you out!"
This time his words reached the farthest man inthe hall. There was an instant of stupefied quiet. Then Foley himself stood up. He seemed to have paled a shade, but there was not a quaver in his voice when he spoke.
"This's a nice little stage play our friend's made up for the last minute. He's been fightin' a settlement right along, an' this is his last trick to get youse to put it off. He's sorter like a blind friend o' mine who went fishin' one day. He got turned with his back to the river, an' he fished all day in the grass. I think Keating's got turned in the wrong direction, too."
A few in the crowd laughed waveringly; some began to talk excitedly; but most looked silently at Tom, still stunned by his blow-like declaration.
Tom paid no attention to Foley's words. "Fifty thousand dollars was what he got!" he said in his loudest voice.
For the moment it was as if those fifteen hundred men had been struck dumb and helpless. Again it was Foley who broke the silence. He reared his long body above the bewildered crowd and spoke easily. "If youse boys don't see through that lie youse're blind. If I was runnin' the strike alone an' wanted to sell it out, what Keating's said might be possible. But I ain't runnin' it. A committee is—five men. Now how d'youse suppose I could sell out with four men watchin' me—an' one o' them a friend o' Keating?"
He did not wait for a response from his audience. He turned to Connelly and went on with a provoked air: "Mr. Chairman, youse know, an' the rest o'the committee knows, that it was youse who suggested we give up the strike. An' youse know I held out again' givin' in. Now ain't we had enough o' Keating's wind? S'pose youse put the question."
What Foley had said was convincing; and, even at this instant, Tom himself could but admire the self-control, the air of provoked forbearance, with which he said it. The quiet, easy speech had given the crowd time to recover. As Foley sat down there was a sudden tumult of voices, and then loud cries of "Question!" "Question!"
"Order, Mr. Chairman! I demand the right to speak!" Tom cried.
"No one wants to hear you, and the question's called for."
Tom turned to the crowd. "It's for you to say whether you'll hear me or——"
"Out of order!" shouted Connelly.
"I've got facts, men! Facts! Will it hurt you to hear me? You can vote as you please, then!"
"Question!" went up a roar, and immediately after it a greater and increasing roar of "Keating!" "Keating!"
Connelly could but yield. He pounded for order, then nodded at Tom. "Well, go on."
Tom realized the theatricality of his position on the piano, but he also realized its advantage, and did not get down. He waited a moment to gain control of his mind, and his eyes moved over the rows and rows of faces that gleamed dully from sweat and excitement through the haze of smoke.
What he had to say first was pure conjecture, buthe spoke with the convincing decision of the man who has guessed at nothing. "You've heard the other men speak. All I ask of you is to hear me out the same way. And I have something far more important to say than anything that's been said here to-night. I am going to tell you the story of the most scoundrelly trick that was ever played on a trade union. For the union has been sold out, and Buck Foley lies when he says it has not, and he knows he lies!"
Every man was listening intently. Tom went on: "About three weeks ago, just when negotiations were opened again, Foley arranged with the bosses to sell out the strike. Fifty thousand dollars was the price. The bosses were to make a million or more out of the deal, Foley was to make fifty thousand, and we boys were to pay for it all! Foley's work was to fool the committee, make them lose confidence in the strike, and they of course would make the union lose confidence and we'd give up. That was his job, and for it he was to have fifty thousand dollars.
"Well, he was the man for the job. He worked the committee, and worked it so slick it never knew it was being worked. He even made the committee think it was urging him to give up the strike. How he did it, it's beyond me or any other honest man even to guess. No one could have done it but Foley. He's the smoothest crook that ever happened. I give you that credit, Buck Foley. You're the smoothest crook that ever happened!"
Foley had come to his feet with a look that was more of a glaring scowl than anything else: eyebrowsdrawn down shaggily, a gully between them—nose drawn up and nostrils flaring—jaws clenched—the whole face clenched. "Mr. President, are youse goin' to let that man go on with his lies?" he broke in fiercely.
The crowd roused from its tension. "Go on, Keating! Go on!"
"If he goes on with them lies, I for one ain't goin' to stay to listen to 'em!" Foley grabbed his coat from the back of his chair and started to edge through to the aisle.
"If you leave, Buck Foley, it's the same as a confession of guilt!" shouted Tom. "Stay here and defend yourself like a man, if you can!"
"Against youse?" He laughed a dry cackling laugh, and his returning self-mastery smoothed out his face. And then his inherent bravado showed itself. On reaching the aisle, instead of turning toward the door, he turned toward the platform and seated himself on its edge, directing a look of insouciant calm upon the men.
"Whatever lies there are, are all yours, Buck Foley," Tom went on. He looked again at the crowd, bending toward him in attention. "The trick worked. How well is shown by our being on the point of voting to give up the strike. Little by little our confidence was destroyed by doubt, and little by little Foley got nearer to his money—till to-day came. I'm speaking facts now, boys. I've got evidence for everything I'm going to tell you. I know every move Foley's made in the last thirty-six hours.
"Well, this morning,—I'll only give the big facts, facts that count,—this morning he went to get the price of us—fifty thousand dollars. Where do you suppose he met Baxter? In some hotel, or some secret place? Not much. Cunning! That word don't do justice to Foley. He met Baxter in Baxter's own office!—and with the door open! Could anything be more in harmony with the smooth scheme by which he fooled the committee? He left the door wide open, so everyone outside could hear that nothing crooked was going on. He swore at Baxter. He called him every sort of name because he would not make us any concession. After a minute or two he came out, still swearing mad. His coat was buttoned up—tight. It was unbuttoned when he went in. And the people that heard thought what an awful calling-down Baxter had got.
"Foley went first to the Independence Bank. He left seventeen thousand there. At the Jackson Bank he left fifteen thousand, and at the Third National eighteen thousand. Fifty thousand dollars, boys—his price for selling us out! And he comes here to-night and pretends to be broken-hearted. 'This is the hardest hour of my life,' he says; 'and so I lose my first strike.' Broken-hearted!—with fifty thousand put in the bank in one day!"
There was a tense immobility through all the crowd, and a profound stillness, quickly broken by Foley before anyone else could forestall him. There was a chance that Tom's words had not caught hold—his thousandth chance.
"If that fool is through ravin', better put themotion, Connelly," he remarked the instant Tom ended, in an even tone that reached the farthest edge of the hall. No one looking at him at this instant, still sitting on the edge of the platform, would have guessed his show of calmness was calling from him the supreme effort of his life.
Voices buzzed, then there rose a dull roar of anger.
It had been Foley's last chance, and he had lost. He threw off his control, and leaped to his feet, his face twisted with vengeful rage. He tossed his hat and coat on the platform, and without a word made a rush through the men toward Tom.
"Let him through, boys!" Tom shouted, and sprang from the piano. Petersen stepped quickly to his side, but Tom pushed him away and waited in burning eagerness in the little open space. And the crowd, still dazed by the revelations of the last scene, looked fascinated upon this new one.
But at this moment an interruption came from the rear of the hall. "Letter for Foley!" shouted a voice. "Letter for Foley!"
Foley paused in his rush, and turned his livid face toward the cry. The sergeant-at-arms was pushing his way through the center aisle, repeating his shout, his right hand holding an envelope aloft. He gained Foley's side and laid the letter in the walking delegate's hand. "Messenger just brought it! Very important!" he cried.
Foley glared at Tom, looked at the letter, hesitated, then ripped open the envelope with a bony forefinger. The crowd looked on, hardly breathing, while he read.
IN WHICH MR. BAXTER SHOWS HIMSELF A MAN OF RESOURCES
IIt was just eight o'clock when Johnson gave three excited raps with the heavy iron knocker on the door of Mr. Baxter's house in Madison Avenue. A personage in purple evening clothes drew the door wide open, but on seeing the sartorial character of the caller he filled the doorway with his own immaculate figure.
It was just eight o'clock when Johnson gave three excited raps with the heavy iron knocker on the door of Mr. Baxter's house in Madison Avenue. A personage in purple evening clothes drew the door wide open, but on seeing the sartorial character of the caller he filled the doorway with his own immaculate figure.
"Is Mr. Baxter at home?" asked Johnson eagerly.
"He is just going out," the other condescended to reply.
That should have been enough to dispose of this common fellow. But Johnson kept his place. "I want to see him, for just a minute. Tell him my name. He'll see me. It's Johnson."
The personage considered a space, then disappeared to search for Mr. Baxter; first showing his discretion by closing the door—with Johnson outside of it. He quickly reappeared and led Johnson across a hall that was as large as Johnson's flat, up a broad stairway, and through a wide doorway into the library, where he left him, standing, to gain what he could from sight of the rows and rows of leather-backed volumes.
Almost at once Mr. Baxter entered, dressed in a dinner coat.
"You have something to tell me?" he asked quickly.
"Yes."
"This way." Mr. Baxter led Johnson into a smaller room, opening upon the library, furnished with little else besides a flat-top walnut desk, a telephone, and a typewriter on a low table. Here Mr. Baxter sometimes attended to his correspondence, with the assistance of a stenographer sent from the office, when he did not feel like going downtown; and in here, when the mood was on him, he sometimes slipped to write bits of verse, a few of which he had published in magazines under a pseudonym.
Mr. Baxter closed the door, took the chair at the desk and waved Johnson to the stenographer's. "I have only a minute. What is it?"
For all his previous calls on Mr. Baxter, this refined presence made Johnson dumb with embarrassment. He would have been more at his ease had he had the comfort of fumbling his hat, but the purple personage had gingerly taken his battered derby from him at the door.
"Well?" said Mr. Baxter, a bit impatiently.
Johnson found his voice and rapidly told of Tom's discovery, as he had heard it from Tom twenty minutes before, and of the exposure that was going to be made that evening. At first Mr. Baxter seemed to start; the hand on the desk did certainly tighten. But that was all.
"Did Mr. Keating say, in this story he proposesto tell, whether we offered Mr. Foley money to sell out, or whether Mr. Foley demanded it?" he asked, when Johnson had ended.
"He didn't say. He didn't seem to know."
Mr. Baxter did not speak for a little while; then he said, with a quiet carelessness: "What you have told me is of no great importance, though it probably seems so to you. It might, however, have been of great value. So I want to say to you that I thoroughly appreciate the promptness with which you have brought me this intelligence. If I can still depend upon your faithfulness, and your secrecy——" Mr. Baxter paused.
"Always," said Johnson eagerly.
"And your secrecy—" this with a slight emphasis, the gray eyes looking right through Johnson; "you can count upon an early token of appreciation, in excess of what regularly comes to you."
"You've always found you could count on me, ain't you?"
"Yes."
"And you always can!"
Mr. Baxter touched a button beneath his desk. "Have Mitchell show Mr. Johnson out," he said to the maid who answered the ring. "Do you know where Mrs. Baxter is?"
"In her room, sir."
Johnson bowed awkwardly, and backed away after the maid.
"Good-night," Mr. Baxter said shortly, and followed the two out. He crossed the library with theintention of going to the room of his wife, who had come to town to be with him during the crisis of the expected victory, but he met her in the hall ready to go out.
"My dear, some important business has just come up," he said. "I'm afraid there's nothing for me to do but to attend to it to-night."
"That's too bad! I don't care for myself, for it's only one of those stupid musical comedies. I only cared to go because I thought it would help you through the suspense of the evening."
After the exchange of a few more words he kissed her and she went quietly back to her room. He watched her a moment, wondering if she would bear herself with such calm grace if she knew what awaited him in to-morrow's papers.
He passed quickly back into the little office, and locked the door behind him. Then the composure he had worn before Johnson and his wife swiftly vanished; and he sat at the desk with interlocked hands, facing the most critical situation of his life. There was no doubting what Johnson had told him.
When to-morrow's papers appeared with their certain stories—first page, big headlines—of how he and other members of the Executive Committee, all gentlemen of reputation, had bribed a walking delegate, and a notoriously corrupt walking delegate, to sell out the Iron Workers' strike—the members of the committee would be dishonored forever, and he dishonored more than all. And his wife, how could she bear this? How could he explain to her, whobelieved him nothing but honor, once this story was out?
He forced these sickening thoughts from his brain. He had no time for them. Disgrace must be avoided, if possible, and every minute was of honor's consequence. He strained his mind upon the crisis. The strike was now nothing; of first importance, of only importance, was how to escape disgrace.
It was the peculiar quality of Mr. Baxter's trained mind that he saw, with almost instant directness, the best chance in a business situation. Two days before it had taken Tom from eleven to eleven, twelve hours, to see his only chance. Mr. Baxter now saw his only chance in less than twelve minutes.
His only chance was to forestall exposure, by being the first to tell the story publicly. He saw his course clearly—to rush straight to the District Attorney, to tell a story almost identical with Tom's, and that varied from the facts on only two points. First of these two points, the District Attorney was to be told that Foley had come to them demanding fifty thousand dollars as the price of settlement. Second, that they had seen in this demand a chance to get the hands of the law upon this notorious walking delegate; that they had gone into the plan with the sole purpose of gaining evidence against him and bringing him to justice; that they had been able to secure a strong case of extortion against him, and now demanded his arrest. This same story was to go to the newspapers before they could possibly get Tom's. The committee would then appear to the world in noworse light than having stooped to the use of somewhat doubtful means to rid themselves and the union of a piratical blackmailer.
Mr. Baxter glanced at his watch. It was half-past eight. He stepped to the telephone, found the number of the home telephone of the District Attorney, and rang him up. He was in, luckily, and soon had the receiver at his ear. Could Mr. Baxter see him in half an hour on a matter of importance—of great public importance? Mr. Baxter could.
He next rang up Mr. Murphy, who had been with him in his office that morning when the money had been handed to Foley. Mr. Murphy was also at home, and answered the telephone himself. Could Mr. Baxter meet him in fifteen minutes in the lobby of the Waldorf-Astoria? Very important. Mr. Murphy could.
As he left the telephone it struck him that while the committee must seemingly make every effort to secure Foley's arrest, it would be far better for them if Foley escaped. If arrested, he would naturally turn upon them and tell his side of the affair. Nobody would believe him, for he was one against five, but all the same he could start a most unpleasant story.
One instant the danger flashed upon Mr. Baxter. The next instant his plan for its avoidance was ready. He seated himself at the typewriter, drew off its black sole-leather case, ran in a sheet of plain white paper, and, picking at the keys, slowly wrote a message to Foley. That finished, he ran in a plain envelope, which he addressed to Foley at PotomacHall. This letter he would leave at the nearest messenger office.
Five minutes later Mr. Baxter, in a business suit, passed calmly through his front door, opened for him by the purple personage, and out into the street.
THE LAST OF BUCK FOLEY
TThe letter which Foley read, while the union looked on, hardly breathing, was as follows:
The letter which Foley read, while the union looked on, hardly breathing, was as follows:
All is over. The District Attorney will be told to-night you held them up, forcing them to give you the amount you received. They have all the evidence; you have none. Their hands are clean. Against you it is a perfect case of extortion.
All is over. The District Attorney will be told to-night you held them up, forcing them to give you the amount you received. They have all the evidence; you have none. Their hands are clean. Against you it is a perfect case of extortion.
Though the note was unsigned, Foley knew instantly from whom it came. The contractors, then, were going to try to clear themselves, and he was to be made the scapegoat. He was to be arrested; perhaps at once. Foley had thought over his situation before, its possibilities and its dangers. His mind worked quickly now. If he came to trial, they had the witnesses as the note said—and he had none. As they would be able to make it out, it would be a plain case of extortion against him. He could not escape conviction, and conviction meant years in Sing Sing. Truly, all was over. He saw his only chance in an instant—to escape.
The reading of the note, and this train of thought, used less than a minute. Foley crushed the sheet of paper and envelope into a ball and thrust them into a trousers pocket, and looked up with the determination to try his only chance. His eyes fell upon what in the tense absorption of the minute he had almost forgotten—fifteen hundred men staring at him with fixed waiting faces, and one man staring at him with clenched fists in vengeful readiness.
At sight of Tom his decision to escape was swept out of him by an overmastering fury. He rushed toward Tom through the alleyway the men had automatically opened at Tom's command. But Petersen stepped quickly out, a couple of paces ahead of Tom, to meet him.
"Out o' the way, youse!" he snarled.
But Petersen did not get out of the way, and before Tom could interfere to save the fight for himself, Foley struck out savagely. Petersen gave back a blow, just one, the blow that had gained the fight for him a week ago. Foley went to the floor, and lay there.
This flash of action released the crowd from the spell that held them. They were roused from statues to a mob. "Kill him! Kill him!" someone shouted, and instantly the single cry swelled to a tremendous roar.
Had it not been for Tom, Foley would have come to his end then and there. The fifteen hundred men started forward, crushing through aisles, upsetting the folding chairs and tramping over their collapsed frames, pushing and tearing at each other to get to where Foley lay. Tom saw that in an instant the front of that vindictive mob would be stamping the limp body of the walking delegate into pulp. He sprang to Foley's side, seized him by his collar anddragged him forward into the space between the piano and the end wall, so that the heavy instrument was a breastwork against the union's fury.
"Here Petersen, Pete, the rest of you!" he cried. The little group that had stood round him during the meeting rushed forward. "In there!" He pushed them, as a guard, into the gap before Foley's body.
Then he faced about. The fore of that great tumult of wrath was already pressing upon him and the little guard, and the men behind were fighting forward over chairs, over each other, swearing and crying for Foley's death.
"Stop!" shouted Tom. Connelly, stricken with helplessness, completely lost, pounded weakly with his gavel.
"Kill him!" roared the mob. "Kill the traitor!"
"Disgrace the union by murder?" Tom shouted. "Kill him?—what punishment is that? Nothing at all! Let the law give him justice!"
The cries from the rear of the hall still went up, but the half dozen men who had crowded, and been crowded, upon the little guard now drew back, and Tom thought his words were having their effect. But a quick glance over his shoulder showed him Petersen, in fighting posture—and he knew why the front men had hesitated; and also showed him Foley leaning dizzily against the piano.
The hesitation on the part of the front rank lasted for but an instant. They were swept forward by the hundreds behind them, and Foley's line of defenders was crushed against the wall. It was all upwith Foley, Tom thought; this onslaught would be the last of him. And as his own body went against the wall under the mob's terrific pressure, he had a gasping wish that he had not interfered two minutes before. The breath was all out of him, he thought his ribs were going to crack, he was growing faint and dizzy—when the pressure suddenly released and the furious uproar hushed almost to stillness. He regained his balance and his breath and glanced dazedly about.
There, calmly standing on the piano and leaning against the wall, was Foley, his left hand in his trousers pocket, his right uplifted to command attention.
"Boys, I feel it sorter embarrassin' to interrupt your little entertainment like this," he began blandly, but breathing very heavily. "But I suppose I won't have many more chances to make speeches before youse, an' I want to make about a remark an' a half. What's past—well, youse know. But what I got to say about the future is all on the level. Go in an' beat the contractors! Youse can beat 'em. An' beat 'em like hell!"
He paused, and gave an almost imperceptible glance toward an open window a few feet away, and moved a step nearer it. A look of baiting defiance came over his face, and he went on: "As for youse fellows. The whole crowd o' youse just tried to do me up—a thousand or two again' one. I fooled the whole bunch o' youse once. An' I can lick the whole bunch o' youse, too!—one at a time. But not just now!"
With his last word he sprang across to the sill of the open window, five feet away. Tom had noted Foley's glance and his edging toward the window, and guessing that Foley contemplated some new move, he had held himself in readiness for anything. He sprang after Foley, thinking the walking delegate meant to leap to his death on the stone-paved court below, and threw his arms about the other's knees. In the instant of embracing he noticed a fire-escape landing across the narrow court, an easy jump—and he knew that Foley had had no thought of death.
As Tom jerked Foley from the window sill he tripped over a chair and fell backward to the floor, the walking delegate's body upon him. Foley was on his feet in an instant, but Tom lay where he was with the breath knocked out of him. He dimly heard the union break again into cries; feet trampled him; he felt a keen shooting pain. Then he was conscious that some force was turning the edge of the mob from its path; then he was lifted up and placed at the window out of which he had just dragged Foley; and then, Petersen's arm supporting him, he stood weakly on one foot holding to the sill.
For an instant he had a glimpse of Foley, on the platform, his back to the wall. During the minute Tom had been on the floor a group of Foley's roughs, moved by some strange reawakening of loyalty, had rushed to his aid, but they had gone down; and now Foley stood alone, behind a table, sneering at the crowd.
"Come on!" he shouted, with something betweena snarl and a laugh, shaking his clenched fist. "Come on, one at a time, an' I'll do up every one o' youse!"
The next instant he went down, and at the spot where he sank the crowd swayed and writhed as the vortex of a whirlpool. Tom, sickened, turned his eyes away.
Turned them to see three policemen and two men in plain clothes with badges on their lapels enter the hall, stand an instant taking in the scene, and then with drawn clubs plunge forward into the crowd. The cry of "Police!" swept from the rear to the front of the hall.
"We're after Foley!" shouted the foremost officer, a huge fellow with a huge voice, by way of explanation. "Get out o' the way!"
The last cry he repeated at every step. The crowd pressed to either side, and the five men shouldered slowly toward the vortex of the whirlpool. At length they gained this fiercely swaying tangle of men.
"If youse kill that man, we'll arrest every one o' youse for murder!" boomed the voice of the big policeman.
The vortex became suddenly less violent. The five officers pulled man after man back, and reached Foley's body. He was lying on his side, almost against the wall, eyes closed, mouth slightly gaping. He did not move.
"Too late!" said the big policeman. "He's dead!"
His words ran back through the crowd which had so lusted for this very event. Stillness fell upon it.
The big policeman stooped and gently turned thelong figure over and placed his hand above the heart. The inner circle of the crowd looked on, waiting. After a moment the policeman's head nodded.
"Beatin'?" asked one of the plain clothes men.
"Yes. But mighty weak."
"I'll be all right in a minute," said a faint voice.
The big policeman started and glanced at Foley's face. The eyes were open, and looking at him.
"I s'pose youse're from Baxter?" the faint voice continued.
"From the District Attorney."
"Yes." A whimsical lightness appeared in the voice. "I been waitin' for youse. Lucky youse come when youse did. A few minutes later an' youse might not 'a' found me still waitin'."
He placed his hands beside him and weakly tried to rise, but fell back with a little groan. The big policeman and another officer helped him to his feet. The big policeman tried to keep an arm round him for support, but Foley pushed it away and leaned against the wall, where he stood a moment gazing down on the hundreds of faces. His shirt was ripped open at the neck and down to the waist; one sleeve was almost torn off; his vest was open and hung in two halves from the back of his neck; coat he had not had on. His face was beginning to swell, his lips were bloody, and there was a dripping cut on his forehead.
One of the plain clothes men drew out a pair of handcuffs.
"Youse needn't put them on me," Foley said. "I'll go with youse. Anyhow——"
He glanced down at his right hand. It was swollen, and was turning purple.
The plain clothes man hesitated.
"Oh, he can't give us no trouble," said the big policeman.
The handcuffs were pocketed.
"I'm ready," said Foley.
It was arranged that two of the uniformed men were to lead the way out, the big policeman was to come next with Foley, and the two plain clothes men were to be the rearguard.
The big policeman placed an arm round Foley's waist. "I better give youse a lift," he said.
"Oh, I ain't that weak!" returned Foley. "Come on." He started off steadily. Certainly he had regained strength in the last few minutes.
As the six men started a passage opened before them. The little group of roughs who had come to Foley's defense a few minutes before now fell in behind.
Half-way to the door Foley stopped, and addressed the crowd at large:
"Where's Keating?"
"Up by the piano," came the answer.
"Take me to him for a minute, won't youse?" he asked of his guard.
They consulted, then turned back. Again a passage opened and they marched to where Tom sat, very pale, leaning against the piano. The crowd pressed up, eager to get a glimpse of these two enemies, now face to face for the last time.
"Look out, Tom!" a voice warned, as Foley, withthe policeman at his side, stepped forth from his guard.
"Oh, our fight's all over," said Foley. He paused and gazed steadily down at Tom. None of those looking on could have said there was any softness in his face, yet few had ever before seen so little harshness there.
"I don't know of a man that, an hour ago, I'd 'a' rather put out o' business than youse, Keating," he at length said quietly. "I don't love youse now. But the real article is scarce, an' when I meet it—well, I like to shake hands."
He held out his left hand. Tom looked hesitantly up into the face of the man who had brought him to fortune's lowest ebb—and who was now yet lower himself. Then he laid his left hand in Foley's left.
Suddenly Foley leaned over and whispered in Tom's ear. Then he straightened up. "Luck with youse!" he said shortly and turned to his guards. "Come on."
Again the crowd made way. Foley marched through the passage, his head erect, meeting every gaze unshrinkingly. The greater part of the crowd looked on silently at the passing of their old leader, now torn and bruised and bleeding, but as defiant as in his best days. A few laughed and jeered and flung toward him contemptuous words, but Foley heeded them not, marching steadily on, looking into every face.
At the door he paused, and with a lean, blood-trickled smile of mockery, and of an indefinite something else—perhaps regret?—gazed back for a moment on the men he had led for seven years. Then he called out, "So-long, boys!" and waved his left hand with an air that was both jaunty and sardonic.
He turned about, and wiping the red drops from his face with his bare left hand, passed out of Potomac Hall. Just behind him and his guard came the little group of roughs, slipping covert glances among themselves. And behind them the rest of the union fell in; and the head of the procession led down the broad stairway and forth into the street.
Then, without warning, there was a charge of the roughs. The five officers were in an instant overwhelmed—tripped, or overpowered and hurled to the pavement—and the roughs swept on. The men behind rushed forward, and without any such purpose entangled the policemen among their numbers. It was a minute or more before the five officers were free and had their bearings, and could begin pursuit and search.
But Buck Foley was not to be found.
TOM'S LEVEE