"Is Mr. Baxter in?" Tom inquired.
The uniform noted that Tom's clothes were worn and wrinkled. "He's busy," it said stiffly.
"Is he in?"
"I s'pose he is."
"Well, you tell him I want to see him. Keating's my name. I'll wait if he's busy."
The uniform carelessly handed him a slip of paper. "Write down yer name an' business, an' I'll see if he'll see youse."
With a gleam in his eyes Tom took the printed form, wrote his name and "on business of the Iron Workers' Union."
The boy accepted the slip and calmly read it. Tom gave him a push that sent him spinning. "Get a move on you, there! I'm in a hurry."
The boy gave a startled look back, and walked quickly down an alley that ran between two rows of offices. Tom sat down in one of the leather-bottomed chairs and with a show of coolness, but with inward excitement, waited his interview with Mr. Baxter. He had never met an employer in his life, save regarding his own work or as a member of a strike committee. And now the first he was to meet in a private interview was the most prominent employer in his trade—head of the big firm of Baxter & Co., and president of the Iron Employers' Association.
Several minutes passed before the uniform reappeared and led Tom into Mr. Baxter's office, a large, airy room with red burlap walls, cherry woodwork, cherry chairs, a long cherry table, a flat-top cherry desk. The room was absolutely without attempt at decoration, and was as clean as though it had been swept and dusted the minute before. The only piece of paper in the room was an architect's drawing of a façade, which Mr. Baxter was examining.