The Walking Delegate. Scott Leroy
didn't do these things out of love for me," Mr. Baxter put in meaningly. He was getting himself in hand again.
"Sure, I didn't, – not any more'n youse told me about Keating for love o' me."
Foley went on. "The men who want buildings put up have found youse get through on time, an' the others don't – so youse get the business. Why do youse get through on time? Because I see youse get the fastest men in the union. An' because I see youse don't have any labor trouble."
"Neither of which you do solely for love."
"Sure not. Now don't youse say again I haven't made youse. An' don't give me that hot air about bein' friendly to the union. Three years ago youse seen clearer than the others that youse bosses was bound to lose the strike. Youse'd been fightin' the union till then, an' not makin' any more'n the rest o' the bosses. So youse tried a new game. Youse led the other bosses round to give in, an' got the credit o' bein' a friend o' the union. I know how much youse like the union!"
"Pardon me if I fail to see the purpose of all this retrospection," said Mr. Baxter sarcastically.
"I just wanted to remind youse that I'm on to youse from hair to toenails – that's all," Foley answered calmly.
"I think it would be wiser to confine our conversation to the matter in hand," said Mr. Baxter coldly. "Mr. Keating said he was certain to beat you. What chance does he have of being elected?"
"The same as youse."
"And a strike, – how about that?"
"It follows if I'm elected, don't it, there'll not be any strike."
"That's according to our agreement," said Mr. Baxter.
"No," said Foley, as he rose, "Keating ain't goin' to trouble youse much." A hard look came over his face. "Nor me."
Chapter VI
IN WHICH FOLEY PLAYS WITH TWO MICE
Foley left Mr. Baxter's office with the purpose of making straight for the office of Mr. Driscoll; but his inborn desire to play with the mouse caused him to change the direct road to an acute angle having at its apex the St. Etienne Hotel. He paused a moment to look up at the great black skeleton, – a lofty scaffolding that might have been erected for some mural painter ambitious to fresco his fame upon the sky. He saw the crane swing a beam to its place between two of the outside columns, and saw a man step upon its either end to bolt it to its place. Suddenly the crane jerked up the beam, and the men frantically threw their arms around it. As suddenly the crane lowered it. It struck upon the head of a column. Foley saw one man fly from the beam, catch hold of the end of a board that extended over the edge of the building, hang there; saw the beam, freed in some manner from the pulley hook, start down, ridden by one man; and then saw it come whirling downward alone.
"Look out!" he shouted with all his lungs.
Pedestrians rushed wildly from beneath the shed which extended, as a protection to them, over the sidewalk. Horses were jerked rearing backwards. The black beam crashed through the shed and through the pine sidewalk. Foley dashed inside and for the ladder.
Up on the great scaffolding hands had seized the wrists of the pendant man and lifted him to safety. All were now leaning over the platform's edge, gazing far down at the ragged hole in the shed.
"D'you see Pete?" Tom asked at large, in a strained voice.
There were several noes.
"That was certainly the last o' Pig Iron," muttered one of the gang.
He was not disputed.
"It wasn't my fault," said the signalman, as pale as paper. "I didn't give any wrong signals. Someone below must 'a' got caught in the rope."
"I'm going down," said Tom; and started rapidly for the ladder's head – to be met with an ascending current of the sort of English story books ascribe to pirates. Pete's body followed the words so closely as to suggest a possible relation between the two. Tom worked Pete's hand. The men crowded up.
"Now who the" – some pirate words – "done that?" Pete demanded.
"It was all an accident," Tom explained.
"But I might 'a' been kilt!"
"Sure you might," agreed Johnson sympathetically.
"How is it you weren't?" Tom asked.
"The beam, in whirlin' over, swung the end I was on into the floor below. I grabbed a beam an' let it travel alone. That's all."
Foley, breathing deeply from his rapid climb, emerged this instant from the flooring, and walked quickly to the group. "Anybody kilt?" he asked.
The particulars of the accident were given him. "Well, boys, youse see what happens when youse got a foreman that ain't onto his job."
Tom contemptuously turned his back and walked away.
"I don't see why Driscoll don't fire him," growled Jake.
"Who knows what'll happen!" Foley turned a twisted, knowing look about the group. "He's been talkin' a lot!"
He walked over to where Tom stood watching the gang about the north crane. "I'm dead onto your game," he said, in a hard, quiet voice, his eyes glittering.
Tom was startled. He had expected Foley to learn of his plan, but thought he had guarded against such an early discovery. "Well?" he said defiantly.
Foley began to play with his mouse. "I guess youse know things'll begin to happen." He greedily watched Tom's face for signs of inward squirming. "Remember the little promise I made youse t'other day? Buck Foley usually keeps his promises, don't he – hey?"
But the mouse refused to be played with. "The other beam, boys," it called out to three men, and strode away toward them.
Foley watched Tom darkly an instant, and then turned sharply about. At the ladder's head Jake stopped him.
"Get him fired, Buck. Here's your chance to get me that foreman's job you promised me."
"We'll see," Foley returned shortly, and passed down the ladder and along the other leg of the angle to the office of Driscoll & Co. He gave his name to Miss Arnold. She brought back the message that he should call again, as Mr. Driscoll was too busy to see him.
"Sorry, miss, but I guess I'm as busy as he is. I can't come again." And Foley brushed coolly past her and entered Mr. Driscoll's office.
"Good-afternoon, Mr. Driscoll," he said, showing his yellow teeth in a smile, and helping himself to a chair. "Nice afternoon, ain't it?"
Mr. Driscoll wheeled angrily about in his chair. "I thought I sent word to you I was too busy to see you?"
"So youse did, Mr. Driscoll. So youse did."
"Well, I meant it!" He turned back to his desk.
"I s'pose so," Foley said cheerfully. He tilted back easily in his chair, and crossed his legs. "But, youse see, I could hardly come again, an' I wanted very much to see youse."
Mr. Driscoll looked as though he were going to explode. But fits of temper at a thousand dollars a fit were a relief that he could afford only now and then. He kept himself in hand, though the effort it cost him was plain to Foley.
"What d'you want to see me about? Be in a hurry. I'm busy."
The point of Foley's tongue ran gratified between his thin lips, as his eyes took in every squirm of this cornered mouse. "In the first place, I come just in a social way. I wanted to return the calls youse made on me last week. Youse see, I been studyin' up etiquette. Gettin' ready to break into the Four Hundred."
"And in the second place?" snapped Mr. Driscoll.
Foley stepped to the office door, closed it, and resumed his back-tilted seat. "In the second place, I thought I'd like to talk over one little point about the St. Etienne job."
Mr. Driscoll drew a check-book out of a pigeon-hole and dipped his pen. "How much this time?"
The sarcasm did not touch Foley. He made a wide negative sweep with his right arm. "What I'm goin' to tell youse won't cost youse a