A little while before Tom had been thinking vaguely of the possible use he could make of his power over Mr. Baxter. With lowered gaze, he now thought clearly, rapidly. The moral element of the situation did not appeal to him as strongly at that moment as did the practical. If he exposed Mr. Baxter it would bring himself great credit and prominence, but what material benefit would that exposure bring the union? Very little. Would it be right then for him, the actual head of the union, to use an advantage for his self-glorification that could be turned to the profit of the whole union?
After a minute Tom looked up. "No, I shall not give this to the newspapers. I'm going to use it otherwise—as a lever to get from you bosses what belongs to us. I hate to dirty my hands by using such means; but in fighting men of your sort we've got to take every advantage we get. If I had a thief by the throat I'd hardly let go so we could fight fair. I wouldn't be doing the square thing by the union if I refused to use an advantage of this sort."
He paused an instant and looked squarely into Mr. Baxter's eyes. "Yes, I have a price, and here it is. We're going to win this strike. You understand?"
"I think I do."
"Well?"
"You are very modest in your demands,"—sarcastically. Tom did not heed the remark.
Mr. Baxter half closed his eyes and thought a moment. "What guarantee have I of your silence?"
"My word."
"Nothing else?"
"Nothing else."