"Yes."
"Very well. Then I'll want you to leave to-morrow."
Tom started. "Leave?"
"Yes. Didn't I mention that the job is in Chicago?"
Mr. Baxter watched Tom closely out of his steely gray eyes. He saw the flush die out of Tom's face, saw Tom's clasped hands suddenly tighten—and knew his answer before he spoke.
"I can't do it," he said with an effort. "I can't leave New York."
Mr. Baxter studied Tom's face an instant longer.... But it was too honest.
He turned toward his desk with a gentle abruptness. "I am very sorry, Mr. Keating. Good-day."
With Mr. Baxter there was small space between actions. He had already decided upon his course in case this plan should fail. Tom was scarcely out of his office before he was writing a note to Buck Foley.
Foley sauntered in the next morning, hands in overcoat pockets, a cigar in one corner of his mouth. "What's this I hear about a strike?" Mr. Baxter asked, as soon as the walking delegate was seated.