The Walking Delegate. Scott Leroy
await his wife's coming. From the mantel a square, gilded clock, on which stood a knight in full armor, counted off the minutes with irritating deliberation. It struck six; no Maggie. Tom's impatience rapidly mounted, for he had promised to be at Barry's at quarter to eight. He was on the point of going to a restaurant for his dinner, when, at half-past six, he heard the fumble of a latch-key in the lock, and in came his wife, followed by their son, a boy of four, crying from weariness.
She was a rather large, well-formed, and well-featured young woman, and was showily dressed in the extreme styles of the cheap department stores. She was pretty, with the prettiness of cheap jewelry.
Tom rose as she carefully placed her packages on the table. "You really decided to come home, did you?"
"Oh, I know I'm late," she said crossly, breathing heavily. "But it wasn't my fault. I started early enough. But there was such a mob in the store you couldn't get anywhere. If you'd been squeezed and pushed and punched like I was in the stores and in the street cars, well, you wouldn't say a word."
"Of course you had to go!"
"I wasn't going to miss a bargain of that kind. You don't get 'em often."
Tom gazed darkly at the two bulky packages, the cause of his delayed dinner. "Can I have something to eat, – and quick?"
By this time her hat and jacket were off. "Just as soon as I get back my breath," she said, and began to undo the packages.
The little boy came to her side.
"I'm so hungry, ma," he whined. "Gimme a piece."
"Dinner'll be ready in a little while," she answered carelessly.
"But I can't wait!" – and he began to cry.
Maggie turned upon him sharply. "If you don't stop that bawling, Ferdie, you shan't have a bite of dinner."
The boy cried all the louder.
"Oh, you!" she ejaculated; and took a piece of coarse cake from the cupboard and handed it to him. "Now do be still!"
Ferdinand filled his mouth with the cake, and she returned to the packages. "I been wanting something to fill them empty places at the ends of the mantel this long time, and when I saw the advertisement in the papers this morning, I said it was just the thing… Now there!"
Out of one pasteboard box she had taken a dancing Swiss shepherdess, of plaster, pink and green and blue, and out of the other box a dancing Swiss shepherd. One of these peasants she had put on either side of the knight, at the ends of the mantel.
"Now, don't you like that?"
Tom looked doubtfully at the latest adornment of his home. Somehow, he didn't just like it, though he didn't know why. "I guess it'll do," he said at length.
"And they were only thirty-nine cents apiece! Now when I get a new tidy for the mantel, – a nice pink one with flowers. Just you wait!"
"Well, – but let's have dinner first."
"In just a minute." With temper restored by sight of her art treasures, Maggie went into the bedroom and quickly returned in an old dress. The dinner of round steak, fried potatoes and coffee was ready in a very short time. The steak avenged its hasty preparation by presenting one badly burnt side. But Tom ate the poor dinner without complaint. He was used to poor dinners; and his only desire was to get away and to Barry's.
Once during the meal he looked at his wife, a question in his mind. Should he tell her? But his eyes fell back to his plate and he said nothing. She must know some time, of course – but he didn't want the scene now.
But she herself approached uncomfortably near the subject. She had glanced at him hesitatingly several times while they were eating; as he was rising from the table she began resolutely: "I met Mrs. Jones this afternoon. She told me what you said about Foley last night at the meeting. Her husband told her."
Tom paused.
"There's no sense doing a thing of that kind," she went on. "Here we are just beginning to have things a little comfortable. You know well enough what Foley can do to you if you get him down on you."
"Well?" Tom said guardedly.
"Well, don't you be that foolish again. We can't afford it."
"I'll see about it." He went into the sitting-room and returned with hat and overcoat on. "I'm going over to Barry's for awhile – on some business," he said, and went out.
Barry and Pete, who boarded with the Barrys, were waiting in the sitting-room when Tom arrived, – and with them sat Mrs. Barry and a boy of about thirteen and a girl apparently a couple of years younger, the two children with idle school books in their laps. Mrs. Barry's sitting-room, also her parlor, would not have satisfied that amiable lady, the president of the Society for Instructing Wage-Earners in House Furnishing. There was a coarse red Smyrna rug in the middle of the floor; a dingy, blue-flowered sofa, with three chairs to match (the sort seen in the windows of cheap furniture stores on bargain days, marked "Nineteen dollars for Set"); a table in one corner, bearing a stack of photographs and a glass vase holding up a bunch of pink paper roses; a half dozen colored prints in gilt-and-white plaster frames. The room, however, quite satisfied Mrs. Barry, and the amiable president of the S. I. W. E. H. F. would needs have given benign approval to the room's utter cleanliness.
Mrs. Barry, a big, red-faced woman, greeted Tom heartily. Then she turned to the boy and girl. "Come on, children. We've got to chase ourselves. The men folks want to talk." She drove the two before her wide body into the kitchen.
Tom plunged into the middle of what he had to say. "We've talked about Foley a lot – all of us. We've said other unions are managed decently, honestly – why shouldn't ours be? We've said we didn't like Foley's bulldozing ways. We didn't like the tough gang he's got into the union. We didn't like the rough-house meetings. We didn't like his grafting. We've said we ought to raise up and kick him out. And then, having said that much, we've gone back to work – me, you and all the rest of us – and he's kept on bullying us, and using the union as a lever to pry off graft. I'm dead sick of this sort of business. For one, I'm tired talking. I'm ready for doing."
"Sure, we're all sick o' Foley. But what d'you think we ought to do?" queried Barry.
"Fire him out," Tom answered shortly.
"It only takes three words to say that," said Pig Iron. "But how?"
"Fire him out!" Tom was leaning forward in his chair, his elbows on his knees, his big, red hands interlocked. There was determination in his square face, in the set of his powerful red neck, in the hunch of his big shoulders. He gazed steadily at the two men for a brief space. "Boys, my mind's made up. I'm going to fight him."
Pete and Barry looked at him in amazement.
"You're goin' to fight Buck Foley!" cried Barry.
"You're jokin'!" said Pig Iron.
"I'm in dead earnest."
"You know what'll happen to you if you lose?" queried Barry.
"Yes. And I know Foley may not even give me a chance to lose," Tom added grimly.
"You've got nerve to burn, Tom," said Pig Iron. "It's not an easy proposition. Myself, I'd as soon put on the gloves an' mix it up with the devil. An' to spit it right out on the carpet, Tom, I think Buck's done the union a lot o' good."
"You're right there, Pete. No one knows that better than I do. As you fellows know, I left town eight years ago and was bridging in the West four years. I was pretty much of a kid when I went away, but I was old enough to see the union didn't have enough energy left to die. When I came back and saw what Foley'd done, I thought he was the greatest thing that ever happened. If he'd quit right then the union'd 'a' papered the hall with his pictures. But you know how he's changed since then. The public knows it, too. Look how the newspapers have been shooting it into him. I'm not fighting Foley as he was four or five years ago, Pete, but Foley as he is now."
"There's no denyin' he's so crooked now he can't lay straight in bed," Pete admitted.
"We've got to get rid of him some time, haven't we?" Tom went on.
"Yes," the two