When Pete left, the Swede remained in his chair with anxiety showing through his natural stolidity. Tom gave a helpless glance at him, and followed Pete out into the hall.
"For God's sake, Pete, help me out!" Tom said in a whisper. "He's the fellow I helped get into the union. I told you about him, you know. He came around to-night to tell me he's got a job. When I came in at half past ten he'd been here half an hour already. It's eleven-thirty now. And he ain't said ten words. I want to go to bed, but confound him, he don't know how to leave!"
Pete opened the door. "Say, Petersen, ain't you goin' my way? Come on, we'll go together."
Petersen rose with obvious relief. He shook hands with Tom in awkward silence, and together he and Pete went down the stairs.
Monday morning Tom bought the first revolver he had ever possessed. If he had had any doubt as to the correctness of Pete's news, that doubt would not have been long with him. During the morning, as he went about looking for a job, he twice caught a glimpse of three members of the entertainment committee watching him from the distance; and he knew they were waiting a safe chance to close in upon him. The revolver in his inner vest pocket pressed a welcome assurance against his ribs.
That night when he came down from dinner to carry his new plan from ear to ear, he found Petersen, hands in his overcoat pockets, standing patiently without the doorway of the tenement.
"Hello, Petersen," he said in surprise.
"Hello," said Petersen.
Tom wanted no repetition of his experience of Saturday night. "Got a lot of work to do to-night," he said hurriedly. "So-long."
He started away. The Swede, with no further words, fell into step beside him. For several blocks they walked in silence, then Tom came to a pause before a tenement in which lived a member of the union.