Tom expressed his thanks warmly, and obediently made them brief. "But I don't know what you did it for?" he ended.
"About fifty reporters have been asking that same thing."
The telephone in Ruth's office began to ring. He waited expectantly.
"Mr. Bobbs wants to speak to you," said Ruth, appearing at the door.
"Tell him I'm out—or dead," he ordered, and went on to Tom: "And he's about the seventeenth contractor that's asked the same question, and tried to walk on my face. Maybe because I don't love Foley. I don't know myself. A man goes out of his head now and then, I suppose." His eyes snapped crossly.
"If you're sorry this morning, withdraw the bail and I'll——"
"Don't you try to be a fool, too! All I ask of you is, don't skip town, and don't blow up any more buildings."
Tom gave his word, smiling into the cross face; and was withdrawing, when Mr. Driscoll stood up. "When this strike you started is over come around to see me." He held out his hand; his grasp was warm and tight. "Good-by."
Tom, having none of that control and power of simulation which are given by social training, knew of but one way to pass safely by the danger beyond Mr. Driscoll's door. He hurried across Ruth's office straight for the door opening into the hallway. He had his hand on the knob, when he felt how brutal was his discourtesy. He turned his head. Ruth sat before the typewriter, her white face on him.
"Good-by," he said.