Construction industry -- Fiction; Labor unions -- Fiction; New York (N.Y.) -- Fiction; Strikes and lockouts -- Fiction
But Jake's vengeance did not then fall. Tom heard a cry go up and run
through the crowd: "Police! Police!" In an instant the whirlpool half
calmed. The cry brought to their feet the two men who had last borne him
down. Tom scrambled up, saw the mob untangle itself into individuals,
and saw, turning the corner, a squad of policemen, clubs drawn, Murphy
marching at the captain's side.
The captain drew his squad up beside the doorway of the hall, and
himself mounted the two steps. "If there's any more o' this rough house,
I'll run in every one o' you!" he shouted, shaking his club at the men.
The Foleyites laughed, and defiance buzzed among them, but they knew the
better part of valor. It was a Foley principle to observe the law when
the law is observing you.
Five minutes later the captain's threat was made even more potent for
order by the appearance of the reserves from another precinct; and in a
little while still another squad leaped from clanging patrol wagons,
making in all fifty policemen that had answered Murphy's call. Twenty of
these were posted in the stairway, and the rest were placed on guard in
the street.
A new order came from the bar-room, and Foley's men withdrew to beyond
the limits of police influence and intercepted the men coming to vote,
using blandishment and threats, and leading some into the bar-room to be
further convinced.
Tom, who stood outside watching the restoration of order, now started
back to the hall. On the way he glanced through the side door into the
bar-room. It was heavy with smoke, and at the bar was a crowd, with
Foley as its center. "I don't know what youse think about Keating
callin' in the police," he was saying, "but youse can bet I know what
Buck Foley thinks! A man that'll turn the police on his own union!" And
then as a fresh group of men were led into the room: "Step right up to
the counter, boys, an' have your measure taken for a drink. I've bought
out the place, an' am givin' it away. Me an' Carnegie's tryin' to die
poor."
Tom mounted to the hall with a secret satisfaction in the protection of
the broad-chested bluecoats that now held the stairway. A fusillade of
remarks from the men marking their ballots greeted his entrance, but he
passed up to the platform without making answers.
Pete's mouth fell agape at sight of him. "Hello! You look like you been
ticklin' a grizzly under the chin!"
Tom noted the relishing grins of the Foley tellers. "The trouble
downstairs is all over. I'll tell you all about it after awhile," he
said shortly; and sat down just behind Pete to watch the voting.
Public-domain text, read in full here on John Shaqi.
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