At ten o'clock the next morning he clambered again to the top of the St. Etienne Hotel. The Italian and Swede were still at work.
"Lay down your tools, boys!" he called out to the two gangs. "The job's struck!"
The men crowded around him, demanding information.
"Driscoll won't fire the scabs," he explained.
"Kick 'em off,—settle it that-a-way!" growled one of the men. "We can't afford to lose wages on account o' two scabs."
"That'd only settle this one case. We've got to settle the scab question with Driscoll for good an' all. It's hard luck, boys, I know," he said sympathetically, "but we can't do nothin' but strike. We've got to lick Driscoll into shape."
Leaving the men talking hotly as they changed their clothes for the street, Foley went down the ladder to bear the same message and the same comfort to the riveters.
The next morning the general contractor for the building got Mr. Driscoll on the telephone. "Why aren't you getting that ironwork up?" he demanded.
Mr. Driscoll started into an explanation of his trouble with Foley, but the general contractor cut him short. "I don't care what the trouble is. What I care about is that you're not getting that ironwork up. Get your men right back to work."
"How?" queried Mr. Driscoll sarcastically.