Tom was not one who, in a hot moment, for the assuagement of his wrath, would bang down his fist and consign himself to a purpose. Here, however, was a case where wrath made the same demand that already had been made by cool, moral judgment--the dethronement of Foley. And Tom felt in himself the power for its accomplishment. He was well furnished with self-confidence,--lacking which any man is an engine without fire. During the last five years--that is, since he was twenty-five, when he began to look upon life seriously--the knowledge had grown upon him that he was abler, and of stronger purpose, than his fellows. He had accepted this knowledge quietly, as a fact. It had not made him presumptuous; rather it had imposed upon him a serious sense of duty. He considered the risks of a fight against Foley. Personal danger,--plenty of that, yes,--but his hot mind did not care for that. Financial loss,--he drew back from thinking what his wife would say; anyhow, there were his savings, which would keep them for awhile, if worst came to worst. As the men were leaving the building at the end of the day's work, Tom drew Barry and Pete to one side. "I know you fellows don't like Foley a lot," he began abruptly, "but I don't know how far you're willing to go. For my part, I can't stand for him any longer. Can't we get together to-night and have a talk?" To this Barry and Pete agreed. "Where'bouts?" asked Barry. Tom hesitated; and he was thinking of his wife when he said, "How about your house?" "Glad to have you," was Barry's answer. Chapter IV A COUNCIL OF WAR Tom lived in the district below West Fourteenth Street, where, to the bewildered explorer venturing for the first time into that region, the jumbled streets seem to have been laid out by an egg-beater. It was almost six o'clock when, hungry and wrathful, he thrust his latch-key into the door of his four-room flat. The door opened into blackness. He gave an irritated groan and groped about for matches, in the search striking his hip sharply against the corner of the dining table. A match found and the gas lit, he sat down in the sitting-room to await his wife's coming. From the mantel a square, gilded clock, on which stood a knight in full armor, counted off the minutes with irritating deliberation. It struck six; no Maggie. Tom's impatience rapidly mounted, for he had promised to be at Barry's at quarter to eight. He was on the point of going to a restaurant for his dinner, when, at half-past six, he heard the fumble of a latch-key in the lock, and in came his wife, followed by their son, a boy of four, crying from weariness. She was a rather large, well-formed, and well-featured young woman, and was showily dressed in the extreme styles of the cheap department stores. She was pretty, with the prettiness of cheap jewelry. Tom rose as she carefully placed her packages on the table. "You really decided to come home, did you?"