Part 17 (1/2)

Chapter X

LAST DAYS OF THE CAMPAIGN

After supper, which was eaten in the customary silence, Tom started for the Barrys' to talk over the scheme of circularizing the members of the union. He met Pete coming out of the Barrys' tenement. He joined him and, as they walked away, outlined the new plan.

”That's what I call a mighty foxy scheme,” Pete approved. ”It's a knock-out blow. It'll come right at the last minute, an' Foley won't have time to hit back.”

Tom pointed out the difficulty of getting the members.h.i.+p list. ”You leave that to me, Tom. It's as easy as fallin' off the twenty-third story an' hittin' the asphalt. You can't miss it.”

”But what kind of a deal will you make with Connelly? He's crooked, you know.”

”Yes, he has got pretty much of a bend to him,” Pete admitted. ”But he ain't so worse, Tom. I've traveled a lot with him. When d'you want the book?”

”We've got to get it and put it back without Connelly knowing it's been gone. We'd have to use it at night. Could you get it late, and take it back the next morning?”

”That'd be runnin' mighty close. What's the matter with gettin' it Sat.u.r.day night an' usin' it Sunday?”

”Sunday's pretty late, with the election coming Wednesday. But it'll do, I guess.”

Tom spent the evening at one corner of the dining-table from which he had turned back the red cloth, laboriously scratching on a sheet of ruled letter paper. He had never written when he could avoid it. His ideas were now clear enough, but they struggled against the unaccustomed confinement of written language. The words came slowly, with physical effort, and only after crossing out, and interlining, and crossing out again, were they joined into sentences.

At ten o'clock Maggie, who had been calling on a friend, came in with Ferdinand. The boy made straight for the couch and was instantly asleep.

Maggie was struck at once by the unwonted sight of her husband writing, but her sulkiness fought her curiosity for more than a minute, during which she removed her hat and jacket, before the latter could gain a grudged victory. ”What are you doing?” she asked shortly.

”Writing a letter,” he answered, keeping his eyes on the paper.

She leaned over his shoulder and read a few lines. Her features stiffened. ”What're you going to do with that?”

”Print it.”

”But you'll have to pay for it.”

”Yes.”

”How much?”

”About fifty dollars.”

She gasped, and her sullen composure fled. ”Fifty dollars! For that--that----” Breath failed her.

Tom looked around. Her black eyes were blazing. Her hands were clenched.

Her full breast was rising and falling rapidly.

”Tom Keating, this is about the limit!” she broke out. ”Hain't your foolishness learnt you anything yet? It's cost you seven dollars a week already. And here you are, throwing fifty dollars away all in one lump!

Fifty dollars!” Her breath failed her again. ”That's like you! You'll throw money away, and let me go without a decent rag to my back!”

Tom arose. ”Maggie,” he said, in a voice that was cold and hard, ”I don't expect any sympathy from you. I don't expect you to understand what I'm about. I don't think you want to understand. But I do expect you to keep still, if you've got nothing better to say than you've just said!”

Maggie had lost herself. ”Is that a threat?” she cried furiously. ”Do you mean to threaten me? Why, you brute! D'you think you can make me keep still? You throw away money that's as much mine as yours!--you make me suffer for it!--and yet you expect me never to say a word, do you?”

Tom glared at her. His hands tingled to lay hold of her and shake her.