IN FOLEY'S "OFFICE"
Buck Foley's greatest weakness was the consciousness of his strength.
Two years before he would have been a much more formidable opponent, for
then he was alert for every possible danger and would have put forth his
full of strength and wits to overwhelm an aspiring usurper. Now he was
like the ring champion of several years' standing who has become too
self-confident to train.
Foley felt such security that he made light of the first reports of
Tom's campaigning brought him by his intimates. "He can't touch me," he
said confidently. "After he rubs sole leather on asphalt a few more
weeks, he'll be so tame he'll eat out o' my hand."
It was not till the meeting at which Tom's ticket was presented that
Foley awoke to the possibility of danger. He saw that Tom was
tremendously in earnest, that he was working hard, that he was gaining
strength among the men. If Tom were to succeed in getting out the
goody-goody element, or even a quarter of it----Foley saw the menacing
possibility.
Connelly hurried up to him at the close of the meeting. "Say, Buck,
this here looks serious!" he whispered. "A lot o' the fellows are
gettin' scared."
"What's serious?"
"Keating's game."
"I'd forgotten that. I keep forgettin' little things. Well, s'pose youse
get the bunch to drop in at Mulligan's."
Half an hour later Foley, who knew the value of coming late, sauntered
into the back room of Mulligan's saloon, which drinking-place was
distant two blocks from Potomac Hall. This back room was commonly known
as "Buck's Office," for here he met and issued orders to his
lieutenants. It was a square room with a dozen chairs, three tables,
several pictures of prize fighters and several nudes of the brewers'
school of art. Connelly, Jake Henderson, and six other men sat at the
tables, beer glasses before them, talking with deep seriousness.
Foley paused in the doorway. "Hello, youse coffin-faces! None o' this
for mine!" He started out.
"Hold on, Buck!" Connelly cried, starting up.
Foley turned back. "Take that crape off your mugs, then!"
"We were talkin' about Keating," Connelly explained. "It strikes us he
means business."
It was a principle in Foley's theory of government not to ask help of
his lieutenants in important affairs except when it was necessary; it
fed his love of power to feel them dependent upon his action. But it was
also a principle that they should feel an absolute confidence in him. He
now saw dubiety on every face; an hour's work was marked out. He sat
down, threw open his overcoat, put one foot on a table and tipped back
in his chair. "Yes, I s'pose Keating thinks he does mean business."
With his eyes fixed carelessly on the men he drew from a vest pocket a
tight roll of bills, with 100 showing at either end, and struck a match;
and moved the roll, held cigar-wise between the first and second fingers
of his left hand, and the match toward his mouth. With a cry Connelly
sprang forward and seized his wrist.
"Now what the hell----" Foley began, exasperatedly. His eyes fell to his
hand, and he grinned. "Well! Now I wonder where that cigar is." He went
one by one through the pockets of his vest. "Well, I reckon I'll have to
buy another. Jake, ask one o' the salesladies to fetch in some cabbage."
Jake Henderson stepped to the door and called for cigars. Mulligan
himself responded, bearing three boxes which he set down before Foley.
"Five, ten and fifteen," he said, pointing in turn at the boxes.
Foley picked up the cheapest box and snuffed at its contents. "These the
worst youse got?"
"Got some two-fers."
"Um! Make youse think youse was mendin' the asphalt, I s'pose. I guess
these's bad enough. Help youselves, boys." But it was the fifteen-cent
box he started around.
The men took one each, and the box came back to Foley. "Hain't youse
fellows got no vest pockets?" he demanded, and started the box around
again.
When the box had completed its second circuit Mulligan took it and the
two others and started out. "Hold on, Barney," said Foley. "What's the
matter with your beer?"
"My beer?"
"Been beggin' the boys to have some more, but they don't want it."
"My beer's----"
"Hi, Barney! Don't youse see he's shootin' hot air into youse?" cried
Jake delightedly. "Chase in the beer!"
"No, youse don't have to drink nothin' youse don't like. Bring in some
champagne, Barney. I'm doin' a scientific stunt. I want to see what
champagne does to a roughneck."
"How much?" asked Mulligan.
"Oh, about a barrel." He drew from his trousers pocket a mixture of
crumpled bills, loose silver, and keys. From this he untangled a
twenty-dollar bill and handed it to Mulligan.
"Fetch back what youse don't want. An' don't move like your feet was
roots, neither."
Two minutes later Mulligan returned with four quart bottles. Immediately
behind him came a girl in the dress of the Salvation Army. "Won't you
help us in our work?" she said, holding her tin box out to Foley.
"Take what youse want." He pointed with his cigar to the change Mulligan
had just laid upon the table.
With hesitation she picked up a quarter. "This much?" she asked, smiling
doubtfully.
"No wonder youse're poor!" He swept all the change into his palm.
"Here!" and he thrust it into her astonished hands.
After she had stammered out her thanks and departed, Foley began to fill
the glasses from a bottle Mulligan had opened. Jake, moistening his
lips, put out his hand in mock refusal.
"Only a drop for me, Buck."
Foley filled Jake's glass to the brim. "Well, there's several. Pick your
choice."
He filled the other glasses, then lifted his own with a "Here's how!"
They all raised the fragile goblets clumsily and emptied them at a gulp.
"Now put about twenty dollars' worth o' grin on your faces," Foley
requested.
"But what about Keating?" asked Connelly anxiously, harking back to the
first subject. "He's startin' a mighty hot fight. An' really, Buck, he's
a strong man."
"Yes, I reckon he is." Foley put one hand to his mouth and yawned
mightily behind it. "But he's sorter like a big friend o' mine who went
out to cut ice in July. His judgment ain't good."
"Of course, he ain't got no chance."
"The same my friend had o' fillin' his ice-house."
"But it strikes me we ought to be gettin' busy," Connelly persisted.
"See here, Connelly. Just because I ain't got a couple o' niggers
humpin' to keep the sweat wiped off me, youse needn't think I'm
loafin'," Foley returned calmly.
The others, who had shared Connelly's anxiety, were plainly affected by
Foley's large manner.
"Youse can just bet Buck'll be there with the goods when the time
comes," Jake declared confidently.
"That's no lie," agreed the others.
"Oh, I ain't doubtin' Buck. Never a once!" said Connelly. "But what's
your plans, Buck?"
Foley gazed mysteriously over their heads, and slowly blew out a cloud
of smoke. "Youse just keep your two eyes lookin' my way."
Foley knew the value of coming late. He also knew the value of leaving
as soon as your point is made. His quick eyes now saw that he had
restored the company's confidence; they knew he was prepared for every
event.
"I guess I'll pull out," he said, standing up. "Champagne ain't never
been the same to me since me an' Morgan went off in his yacht, an' the
water give out, an' we had to wash our shirts in it." He looked through
the door into the bar-room. "Say, Barney, if these roughnecks want
anything more, just put it down to me." He turned back to the men.
"So-long, boys," he said, with a wave of his hand, and went out through
the bar-room.
"The man that beats Buck Foley's got to beat five aces," declared Jake
admiringly.
"Yes," agreed Connelly. "An' he don't keep a strangle holt on his money,
neither."
Which two sentiments were variously expressed again and again before the
bottoms of the bottles were reached.
If Foley was slow in getting started, he was not slow to act now that he
was started. During the following two weeks any contractor that so
wished could have worked non-union men on his jobs for all the trouble
Foley would have given him. Buck had more important affairs than the
union's affairs.
Foley's method of electioneering was even more simple than Tom's. He saw
the foreman on every important job in the city. To such as were his
friends he said:
"Any o' that Keating nonsense bein' talked on this job?" If there was
not: "Well, it's up to youse to see that things stay that way." If there
was: "Shut it up. If any o' the men talk too loud, fire 'em. If youse
ain't got that authority, find somethin' wrong with their work an' get
'em fired. It's your business to see that not a man on your job votes
again' me!"
To such few as he did not count among his friends he said:
"Youse know enough to know I'm goin' to win. Youse know what's the wise
thing for youse to do, all right. I like my friends, an' I don't like
the men that fight me. I ain't likely to go much out o' my way to help
Keating an' his push. I think that's enough, ain't it?"
It was--especially since it was said with a cold look straight into the
other's eyes. An hour's speech could not have been more effective.
Foley made it his practice to see as many of the doubtful workmen as
possible during their lunch hour. He had neither hope nor desire that
they should come out and vote for him. His wish was merely that they
should not come out and vote for Tom. To them his speech was mainly
obvious threats. And he called upon the rank and file of his followers
to help him in this detail of his campaign. "Just tell 'em youse think
they won't enjoy the meetin' very much," was his instruction, given with
a grim smile; and this opinion, with effective elaboration, his
followers faithfully delivered.
When Foley dropped into his office on the Tuesday night before election
he found Jake, Connelly and the other members of his cabinet anxiously
awaiting him. Connelly thrust a copy of Tom's letter into his hands.
"Now wha' d'you think o' that?" he demanded. "Blamed nigh every man in
the union got one to-night."
As Foley read the blood crept into his face. "'Bully,' 'blood-suckin'
grafter', 'trade union pirate', 'come out and make him walk the plank',"
Jake quoted appreciatively, watching Foley's face.
By the time he reached the end Foley had regained his self-control.
"Well, that's a purty nice piece o' writin', ain't it, now?" he said,
looking at the sheet admiringly. "Didn't know Keating was buttin' into
literchure. Encouragin', ain't it, to see authors springin' up in every
walk o' life. This here'll get Keating the votes o' all the lit'ry
members, sure."
"It'll get him too many!" growled Connelly anxiously.
"A-a-h, go count yourself, Connelly!" Foley looked at the secretary with
a pity that was akin to disgust. "Youse give me an unpleasant feelin' in
my abdomen!"
He pushed the letter carelessly across to Connelly. "O' course it'll
bring the boys out," he said, in his previous pleasant voice. "But the
trouble with Keating is, he believes in the restriction o' output. He
believes a man oughtn't to cast more'n one vote a day."
But Foley, for all his careless jocularity, was aware of the seriousness
of Tom's last move, and till long after midnight the cabinet was in
session--to the great profit of Barney Mulligan's cash register.