They started homeward across the level sunbeams that were stretching themselves out beneath barren trees and over brown lawns for their night's sleep. As they drew near to Ruth's boarding-house they saw a perfectly-tailored man in a high hat go up the steps. He was on the point of ringing the bell when he sighted them, and he stood waiting their coming. A surprised look passed over his face when he recognized Ruth's companion. As they came up the steps he raised his hat to Ruth. "Good-afternoon, Miss Arnold." And to Tom he said carelessly: "Hello, Keating." Tom looked him squarely in the eyes. "Hello, Berman," he returned. Mr. Berman started at the omission of the "Mr." Tom lifted his hat to Ruth, bade her good-afternoon, and turned away, not understanding a sudden pang that shot into his heart. Mr. Berman's eyes followed Tom for a dozen paces. "A very decent sort--for a workingman," he remarked. "For any sort of a man," said Ruth, with an emphasis that surprised her. She took out her latch-key, and they entered. Chapter X LAST DAYS OF THE CAMPAIGN After supper, which was eaten in the customary silence, Tom started for the Barrys' to talk over the scheme of circularizing the members of the union. He met Pete coming out of the Barrys' tenement. He joined him and, as they walked away, outlined the new plan. "That's what I call a mighty foxy scheme," Pete approved. "It's a knock-out blow. It'll come right at the last minute, an' Foley won't have time to hit back." Tom pointed out the difficulty of getting the membership list. "You leave that to me, Tom. It's as easy as fallin' off the twenty-third story an' hittin' the asphalt. You can't miss it." "But what kind of a deal will you make with Connelly? He's crooked, you know." "Yes, he has got pretty much of a bend to him," Pete admitted. "But he ain't so worse, Tom. I've traveled a lot with him. When d'you want the book?" "We've got to get it and put it back without Connelly knowing it's been gone. We'd have to use it at night. Could you get it late, and take it back the next morning?" "That'd be runnin' mighty close. What's the matter with gettin' it Saturday night an' usin' it Sunday?" "Sunday's pretty late, with the election coming Wednesday. But it'll do, I guess." Tom spent the evening at one corner of the dining-table from which he had turned back the red cloth, laboriously scratching on a sheet of ruled letter paper. He had never written when he could avoid it. His ideas were now clear enough, but they struggled against the unaccustomed confinement of written language. The words came slowly, with physical effort, and only after crossing out, and interlining, and crossing out again, were they joined into sentences.