LITMIR.BIZ

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religion." The point of red again slipped between his lips.

      "Well? – I said I was busy."

      "Well, here it is: Don't youse think youse got a pretty bum foreman on the St. Etienne job?"

      "What business is that of yours?"

      "Won't youse talk in a little more of a Christian spirit, Mr. Driscoll?"

      It was half a minute before Mr. Driscoll could speak in any kind of a spirit. "Will you please come to the point!"

      "Why, I'm there already," the walking delegate returned sweetly. "As I was sayin', don't youse think your foreman on the St. Etienne job is a pretty bum outfit?"

      "Keating? – I never had a better."

      "D'youse think so? Now I was goin' to suggest, in a friendly way, that youse get another man in his place."

      "Are you running my business, or am I?"

      "If youse'd only talk with a little more Christian – "

      The eyes clicked. The members of the church to which Mr. Driscoll belonged would have stuffed fingers into their horrified ears at the language in which Foley was asked to go to a place that was being prepared for him.

      Foley was very apologetic. "I'm too busy now, an' I don't get my vacation till August. Then youse ain't goin' to take my advice?"

      "No! I'm not!"

      The walking delegate stopped purring. He leaned forward, and the claws pushed themselves from out their flesh-pads. "Let's me and youse make a little bet on that, Mr. Driscoll. Shall we say a thousand a side?"

      Driscoll's eyes and Foley's battled for a moment. "And if I don't do it?" queried Mr. Driscoll, abruptly.

      "I don't like to disturb youse by talkin' about unpleasant things. It would be too bad if you didn't do it. Youse really couldn't afford any more delays on the job, could youse?"

      Mr. Driscoll made no reply.

      Foley stood up, again purring. "It's really good advice, ain't it? I'll send youse round a good man in the mornin' to take his place. Good-by."

      As Foley passed out Mr. Driscoll savagely brushed the papers before him to one side of his desk, crushing them into a crumpled heap, and sat staring into the pigeon-holes. He sent for Mr. Berman, who after delivering an opinion in favor of Foley's proposition, departed for his own office, pausing for a moment to lean over the desk of the fair secretary. Presently, with a great gulp, Mr. Driscoll touched a button on his desk and Miss Arnold appeared within the doorway. She was slender, but not too slender. Her heavy brown hair was parted in the middle and fell over either end of her low, broad forehead. The face was sensitive, sensible, intellectual. Persons chancing into Mr. Driscoll's office for the first time wondered how he had come by such a secretary.

      "Miss Arnold, did you ever see a jelly fish?" he demanded.

      "Yes."

      "Well, here's another."

      "I can't say I see much family resemblance," smiled Miss Arnold.

      "It's there, all right. We ain't got any nerve."

      "It seems to me you are riding the transmigration of soul theory at a pretty hard pace, Mr. Driscoll. Yesterday, when you upset the bottle of ink, you were a bull in a china shop, you know."

      "When you know me a year or two longer, you'll know I'm several sorts of dumb animals. But I didn't call you to give you a natural history lecture. Get Duffy on the 'phone, will you, and tell him to send Keating around as soon as he can. Then come in and take some letters that I want you to let me have just as quick as you can get them off."

      Two hours later Tom appeared in Miss Arnold's office. She had seen him two or three times when he had come in on business, and had been struck by his square, open face and his confident bearing. She now greeted him with a slight smile. "Mr. Driscoll is waiting for you," she said; and sent him straight on through the next door.

      Mr. Driscoll asked Tom to be seated and continued to hold his bulging eyes on a sheet of paper which he scratched with a pencil. Tom, with a sense of impending disaster, sat waiting for his employer to speak.

      At length Mr. Driscoll wheeled about abruptly. "What d'you think of Foley?"

      "I've known worse men," Tom answered, on his guard.

      "You must have been in hell, then! You think better of him than I do. And better than he thinks of you. He's just been in to see me. He wants me to fire you."

      Tom had half-guessed this from the moment Duffy had told him Mr. Driscoll wanted him, but nevertheless he was startled by its announcement in words. He let several seconds pass, the while he got hold of himself, then asked in a hard voice: "And what are you going to do?"

      Mr. Driscoll knew what he was going to do, but his temper insisted on gratification before he told his plan. "What can I do?" he demanded testily. "It's your fault – the union's fault. And I don't have any sympathy to waste for anything that happens to any of you. Why don't you put a decent man in as your business agent?"

      Tom passed all this by. "So you're going to fire me?"

      "What else can I do?" Mr. Driscoll reiterated.

      "Hasn't my work been satisfactory?"

      "It isn't a question of work. If it's any satisfaction to you, I'll say that I never had a foreman that got as much or as good work out of the men."

      "Then you're firing me because Foley orders you to?" There were both pity and indignation in Tom's voice.

      Mr. Driscoll had expected to put his foreman on the defensive; instead, he found himself getting on that side. "If you want it right out, that's it. But what can I do? I'm held up."

      "Do?" Tom stood up before his employer, neck and face red, eyes flashing. "Why, fight him!"

      "I've tried that" – sarcastically – "thanks."

      "That's what's the matter with you bosses! You think more of dollars than you do of self-respect!"

      Mr. Driscoll trembled. "Young man, d'you know who you're talking to?"

      "I do!" Tom cried hotly. "To the man who's firing me because he's too cowardly to stand up for what's right!"

      Mr. Driscoll glared, his eyes clicked. Then he gave a great swallow. "I guess you're about right. But if I understand the situation, I guess there's a lot of men in your union that'd rather hold their jobs than stand up for what's right."

      Tom, in his turn, had his fires drawn. "And I guess you're about right, too," he had to admit.

      "I may be a coward," Mr. Driscoll went on, "but if a man puts a gun to my head and says he'll pull the trigger unless I do what he says, I've got to do it, that's all. And I rather guess you would, too. But let's pass this by. I've got a plan. Foley can make me put you off one job, but he can't make me fire you. Let's see; I'm paying you thirty a week, ain't I?"

      "That's it."

      "Well, I'm going to give you thirty-five a week and put you to work in the shop as a superintendent. Foley can't touch you there, – or me either. Isn't that all right?" Mr. Driscoll wore a look of half-hearted triumph.

      Tom had regarded Mr. Driscoll so long with dislike that even this proposal, apparently uttered in good faith, made him suspicious. He began to search for a hidden motive.

      "Well?" queried Mr. Driscoll impatiently.

      He could find no dishonest motive. "But if I took the job I'd have to go out of the union," he said finally.

      "It oughtn't break your heart to quit Foley's company."

      Tom walked to the window and looked meditatively into the street. Mr. Driscoll's offer was tempting. It was full of possibilities that appealed to his ambition. He was confident of his ability to fill this position, and was confident that he would develop capacity to fill higher positions. This chance would prove the first of a series of opportunities that would lead him higher and higher, – perhaps even to Mr. Driscoll's own desk. He knew he had it in him. And the comfort, even the little luxuries, the broader opportunities for self-development that would be his, all

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