The walking delegate spoke with extreme deliberation. "I come around, _Mister_ Driscoll, to find out what the hell youse mean by workin' scabs on that St. Etienne job. Youse signed an agreement to work only union men, but if I didn't watch youse, youse'd have your work alive with scabs. Now, damn youse, unless youse get them scabs off that job an' do it quicker'n youse ever done anything before, youse'll wish youse had!" Foley made no mistake in his pre-calculation of the effect of this speech. Mr. Driscoll sprang to his feet, with a trembling that his reddish-gray whiskers exaggerated. His glasses tumbled from his nose, and his feet scrunched them unnoted into the rug. "If there's a scab on the job, I didn't know it. If those men're scabs Duffy must have made a mistake. If----" "If one o' youse bosses ever breaks a contract, oh, it's always a mistake!" "If you'd come around here and talked like a gentleman, I'd had 'em off inside of an hour," Mr. Driscoll roared. "But, by thunder, I don't let any walking delegate insult me and tell me what I've _got_ to do!" "Then youse ain't goin' to fire the scabs?" "Not till hell freezes over!" Mr. Driscoll's eyes clicked, and he banged his pudgy fist upon his desk. "Then the men'll go back to work on the day hell freezes over," returned Foley, rising to go. "But I have an idea youse'll want to see me a day or two before then. I've come to youse this time. The next time we talk, youse'll come to me. There's my card." And he went out with the triumphant feeling of the man who can guide events. At ten o'clock the next morning he clambered again to the top of the St. Etienne Hotel. The Italian and Swede were still at work. "Lay down your tools, boys!" he called out to the two gangs. "The job's struck!" The men crowded around him, demanding information. "Driscoll won't fire the scabs," he explained. "Kick 'em off,--settle it that-a-way!" growled one of the men. "We can't afford to lose wages on account o' two scabs." "That'd only settle this one case. We've got to settle the scab question with Driscoll for good an' all. It's hard luck, boys, I know," he said sympathetically, "but we can't do nothin' but strike. We've got to lick Driscoll into shape." Leaving the men talking hotly as they changed their clothes for the street, Foley went down the ladder to bear the same message and the same comfort to the riveters. The next morning the general contractor for the building got Mr. Driscoll on the telephone. "Why aren't you getting that ironwork up?" he demanded. Mr. Driscoll started into an explanation of his trouble with Foley, but the general contractor cut him short. "I don't care what the trouble is. What I care about is that you're not getting that ironwork up. Get your men right back to work." "How?" queried Mr. Driscoll sarcastically. "That's your business!" answered the general contractor, and rang off.