"No. That's what they ought to have. But when you've been a union man longer you'll know we boys don't ask the police to mix in our affairs. When there's a strike, they're always turned against us by the bosses. So we leave 'em alone." They were but half a dozen squares from Mulligan's saloon. Tom set out in its direction, and five minutes later, with Petersen behind him, he walked into the doorway of the room beyond the bar. As he had expected, there sat Foley, and with him were three of his men. Foley started, and half rose from his chair, but settled back again. His discomposure confirmed what Tom had already guessed--that Foley's was the brain behind the evening's stratagem, and that he was awaiting his deputies' report. "I guess you were expecting somebody else," Tom said grimly from the doorway, one hand on the revolver in his coat pocket. "I just dropped in to tell you Jake Henderson and his bunch are waiting for you up over Murphy's saloon." Foley was dazed, as he could not help but be, thus learning his last plan had failed. "Youse saw 'em?" "I did." He looked Tom over. And then his eyes took in the figure of Petersen just within the doorway. He grasped instinctively at the chance to raise a laugh. "Was Rosie there?" he queried. The three dutifully guffawed. "Yes," said Tom. "Rosie was there." Foley took a bracing hold of himself, and toyed with the stem of his beer glass. "Much obliged for comin' in to tell me," he said, with a show of carelessness. "But I guess the boys ain't in no hurry." "No, I guess not," Tom agreed. "They said they'd wait till you came." With that he tossed the key upon the table, turned and strode forth from the saloon. Outside he thrust a gripping arm through Petersen's, which straightway took on an embarrassed limpness, and walked away. Chapter XVIII THE STOLEN STRIKE Tom mounted the stairs of Potomac Hall early the next evening. During the day he had told a few friends the story of the encounter of the night before. The story had spread in versions more or less vague and distorted, and now on his entry of the hall he was beset by a crowd who demanded a true and detailed account of the affair. This he gave. "Oh, come now, Tom! This's hot air you're handin' us out about Babe!" expostulated one of the men. "It's the truth." "Get out! I saw Kid Morgan chase him a block. He can't fight." "You think not? Well, there's one way you can convince yourself." "How's that?" "Try it with him for about a minute," answered Tom. There was a laugh, in which the man joined. "I tell you what, boys," he said, after it had subsided. "I hit Babe on the back o' the neck with a glove the day Kid chased him. If what Tom says is straight, I'm goin' to beg Babe's pardon in open meetin'." "Me, too," chimed in another. "It's so," said Tom, thinking with a smile of what was in store for Petersen.