The street was dark and empty. Thoughts of Foley's entertainment committee flashed through his head. He whirled about and struck out fiercely with his free arm. His wrist was caught and held by a grip like the first. He was as helpless as if handcuffed.
"I vant a yob," a savage voice demanded.
Tom recognized the tall, angular figure. "Hello, Petersen! What d'you want?"
"I vant a yob."
"A job. How can I give you a job?"
"You take to-day ma yob avay. You give me a yob!"
In a flash Tom understood. The Swede held him accountable for the incident of the morning, and was determined to force another job from him. Was the man crazy? At any rate 'twould be wiser to parley than to bring on a conflict with one possessed of such strength as those hands betokened. So he made no attempt to break loose.
"I can't give you a job, I say."
"You take it avay!" the Swede said, with fierce persistence. "You make me leave!"
"It's your own fault. If you want to work, why don't you get into the union?"