One of the papers had managed to get in a hurried editorial on Mr. Baxter's story. "Perhaps their way of trapping Foley smacks strongly of gum-shoe detective methods," the editorial concluded; "but their end, the exposure of a notorious labor brigand, will in the mind of the public entirely justify their means. They have earned the right to be called public benefactors." Such in tone was the whole editorial. It was a prophecy of the editorial praise that was to be heaped upon the contractors in the afternoon papers and those of the next morning.
Tom flung the papers from him in sickened, bewildered wrath. He had expected a personal triumph before the public. He felt there was something wrong; he felt Mr. Baxter had robbed him of his glory, just as Foley had robbed him of his strike. But in the first dazedness of his disappointment he could not understand. He hardly touched the breakfast Maggie had quietly put upon the chair while he had been reading, but sank back and, his eyes on the ceiling with its circle of clustered grapes, began to go over the situation.
At the end of a few minutes he was interrupted by Ferdinand, whom Maggie had sent in with a letter that had just been delivered by a messenger. Tom took it mechanically, then eagerly tore open the envelope. The letter was from the detective agency, and its greater part was the report of the observations made the previous evening by the detectives detailed to watch Mr. Baxter. Tom read it through repeatedly. It brought Foley's whispered words flashing back upon him: "I give it to youse for what it's worth; Baxter started this trick." He began slowly to understand.
But before he had fully mastered the situation there was a loud knock at the hall door. Maggie opened it, and Tom heard a hearty voice sound out: "Good-mornin', Mrs. Keating. How's your husband?"
"You'll find him in the front room, Mrs. Barry," Maggie answered. "All of you go right in."
There was the sound of several feet, and then Mrs. Barry came in and after her Barry and Pete. "Say, Tom, I'm just tickled to death!" she cried, with a smile of ruddy delight. She held out a stubby, pillowy hand and shook Tom's till her black straw hat, that the two preceding summers had done their best to turn brown, was bobbing over one ear. "Every rib I've got is laughin'. How're you feelin'?"
"First rate, except for my ankle. How're you, boys?" He shook hands with Barry and Pete.
"Well, you want to lay still as a bed-slat for a week or two. A sprain ain't nothin' to monkey with, I tell you what. Mrs. Keating, you see't your husband keeps still."
"Yes," said Maggie, setting chairs for the three about the couch, and herself slipping into one at the couch's foot.
Mrs. Barry sank back, breathing heavily, and wiped her moist face. "I said to the men this mornin' that I'd give 'em their breakfast, but I wouldn't wash a dish till I'd been over to see you. Tom, you've come out on top, all right! An' nobody's gladder'n me. Unless, o' course, your wife."