THE EXPOSURE
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 bit of 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 report as 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," he said, 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 turned back 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 to save 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 disastrous strike. 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, which the 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 want to 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 the entire 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 in the 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, but he 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: eyebrows drawn 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 the motion, 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.