This set Tom to thinking again. On Monday evening--that afternoon Foley had ordered the men back to work on the St. Etienne Hotel--Tom announced a new plan to Barry and Pete. "We want to get every argument we can to use on the boys. It struck me we might make some use of the bosses. It's to their interest, as well as to ours, for us to have the right sort of delegate. If we could say that the bosses are sick of Foley and want us to get a decent man, and will guarantee to keep us at work no matter what Foley says,--that might have influence on some of the weak-kneed brothers." "The boys'd say the bosses ain't runnin' the union," said Pete. "If you get the bosses on your side, the boys'll all stand by Foley." "I thought of that. That's what'd happen if we got mixed up with anybody on the Executive Committee of the bosses except Baxter. The boys think Murphy, Bobbs, and Isaacs are pretty small potatoes, and they think Driscoll's not on the square. I guess it's a case of the pot calling the kettle black, but you know what Foley says about Driscoll. But with Baxter it's different. He's friendly to the union, and the boys know it. A word from him might help a lot. And he hates Foley, and Foley has no use for him. I've heard Buck say as much." "It's worth tryin', anyhow," Pete and Barry agreed. "Well, I'm going to brace him to-morrow after work," said Tom. Chapter V TOM SEEKS HELP FROM THE ENEMY At the end of work the next day Tom joined the rush of men down the ladders and the narrow servants' stairways, the only ones in as yet, and on gaining the street made for the nearest saloon. Five cents invested in beer secured for him the liberty of the house. He washed himself, brushed his hair and clothing, and set forth for the office of Baxter & Co. Baxter & Co. occupied one side of the tenth floor of a big downtown office building. Tom found himself in a large waiting-room, divided by a wooden railing, beyond which at a desk sat an imperious youth in a blue uniform. "Is Mr. Baxter in?" Tom inquired. The uniform noted that Tom's clothes were worn and wrinkled. "He's busy," it said stiffly. "Is he in?" "I s'pose he is." "Well, you tell him I want to see him. Keating's my name. I'll wait if he's busy." The uniform carelessly handed him a slip of paper. "Write down yer name an' business, an' I'll see if he'll see youse." With a gleam in his eyes Tom took the printed form, wrote his name and "on business of the Iron Workers' Union." The boy accepted the slip and calmly read it. Tom gave him a push that sent him spinning. "Get a move on you, there! I'm in a hurry."