"Fighting with one of your stripe isn't worth the while," Tom retorted, shortly. "Come along, Evarts. I'll show you the way out of camp."
As Reade spoke he took hold of the ex-foreman's arm gently.
"Leggo of me!" raged the foreman, clenching and raising one of his fists.
"Don't make the mistake of touching me," urged Tom, quietly, "but come along. This way out of camp!"
Evarts swung suddenly, driving a fist straight at Reade's face. But the young chief engineer was always alert at such times. One of his feet moved in between Evarts's feet, and the ex-foreman flopped down on his back.
"Come on, now!" commanded Tom, jerking the fallen foe to his feet. "This time you'll hurry out of camp."
"Are you going to stand for it, men?" yelled Evarts, his face aflame with anger. "Come on—-all of you! Show that you're not a pack of cowards and slaves!"
From more than a hundred throats came an ominous yell. The crowd surged around Reade and Hazelton. Mr. Bascomb, seeing his chance, dodged and ran out of the crowd. But Mr. Prenter, with a spring, placed himself at Tom Reade's side.
"Come on, men!" yelled the sallow-faced fellow.
"Run dem w'ite slave-drivers outah camp!" yelled a score of negroes. Yells in Italian and Portuguese also filled the air.
In an instant it was plain that Tom Reade had stirred up more than a hornet's nest.
"Come on, Harry," spoke Tom, firmly. "Let's run this pair out of camp.
Then we'll come back and look for more trouble-makers and trouble-hunters!
Make way there, men!"
One excitable Italian rushed through the crowd, brandishing a revolver. As alarmed men fell back, the Italian confronted Reade, holding the revolver almost in the latter's face and firing.
CHAPTER X
THE NIGHT IS NOT OVER
Tom winced slightly, as the pistol was discharged, for some of the powder burned his face.
Mr. Prenter, who stood beside him, had knocked up the barrel so that the bullet sped over the heads of the crowd.
In a twinkling Tom had hold of the Italian's arm. He wrenched the pistol away, spraining the Italian's arm. Instantly Tom "broke" the weapon, dropping the cartridges out into his pocket. Then he hurled the weapon as far as he could throw it into the shadows of the night.
"You breaka my arm!" snarled the Italian, showing his white teeth.
"Your face is next!" Tom retorted, letting his fist drive. It caught the
Italian on the nose, breaking that member.
"Kill him! Kill Reade!" came the hoarse yell on the night air.
"You'll find it a tough job, men!" Tom called, warningly. "I won't die easily, and I'll take a few men along with me when I go. Now, stand out of the way! I shall consider any man an enemy who blocks my path!"
Tom hit resolutely out, at first. Soon the men crowding about him began to realize that they had taken a large contract on their hands in attempting to cow this young engineer.
Then, too, another element entered into the fight. While there were some wild and troublesome men in camp, there were also many straightforward, excellent fellows among them. There were church-going negroes there, Italians who were thrifty and law-abiding, and Portuguese who loved nothing better than law and order.
The better element among the men came thronging forward, willing and ready to fight under such excellent generalship as they knew they would find with Tom Reade.
Other men, of both stripes, came pouring forth from shanties and tents.
The yells and the shot had alarmed the foremen, who now came along on the run.
"Dill, Johnson!" Tom called, as he saw some of the foremen trying to push or punch their way through the throng. "Help me to run Evarts and this other trouble-hunter out of the camp!"
The menacing yells grew fewer and fainter as the cheers of loyal laborers rose.
The foremen seized both trouble makers and began to run them along with more skill than gentleness.
Tom ran along, keeping his glance on the enraged men of the camp, many of whom followed on the outskirts of the crowd. Harry Hazelton occupied himself in similar fashion.
"Now, you get out of this—-and stay out!" ordered Foreman Dill, giving Evarts a shove that sent him spinning across the boundary line of the company's property.
"You, too!" growled Foreman Johnson, giving the bootlegger a kick that sent him staggering along in his efforts to keep on his feet.
It was rough treatment, but Tom's course, all through, had been of the only sort that could break down the threatened riot.
"Now, see if that Italian can be found who fired the shot in my face," Tom called. "I'll know him if I lay eyes on him."
There was a prompt search, but the Italian could not be found.
"If he has left camp, and keeps away, perhaps he'll be safe," Tom announced. "But, if I run across him again I'll seize him, hold him for the officers of the law, and see to it that he's sent to prison for attempted murder."
"Here are two men we want!" called Hazelton.
Tom ran to his chum, who was holding an American by the arm. Mr. Prenter had hold of another.
"Two more of Evarts's bootleggers, eh?" muttered Reade. "Let me see."
On one of the men he found a bottle of liquor. On the other no liquor was discovered.
"Did Evarts pay you fellows a salary, or commission?" Tom demanded.
"Commiss—-" began one of the bootleggers, then stopped himself with a vocal jerk. "Evarts? I don't even know who he is."
"Yes, you do," chuckled Tom Reade. "You were on the point, too, of telling us that he paid you a commission on your sales, instead of a weekly wage. Now, my men, I've looked you well over and shall know you again. If I find you in camp, hereafter, you'll be dealt with in a way that you don't like. Savvy? Comprenay? Understand? Now—-git!"
"Now, men, get back to your camp," shouted Tom. "To-morrow I'll try to find time for a good and sociable talk with all of you. Try to enjoy your few leisure hours all you can, but remember that the men who can't get along without liquor and gambling are the kind of men we don't want here. Any man who is dissatisfied can get his pay from Mr. Renshaw tonight or to-morrow morning. For those who stood by us I have every feeling of respect and gratitude. Those who thought to fight us—-or some of them—-will have better sense by tomorrow. We don't want to impose on any man here, but there are some things that we shall have to stop doing. Good night, men!"
Engineers, superintendent and foremen now left the men, going towards their barracks.
"I've a little job for you, Peters, if you don't mind going back into the camp," suggested Tom.
"It's not to go back and fight, single-handed, is it?" Mr. Peters asked, with a smile.
"Nothing like it," Tom laughed. "Peters, we have plenty of really good men among our laborers, haven't we?"
"Scores and scores of 'em, sir—-among all three kinds of the men, negroes,
Italians and Portuguese."
"I wish you would go back, then, and pick out two of each race—-six men in all. They must be honest, staunch and able to hold their tongues."
"Do you want them for fighting, sir?" asked Peters.
"Not a bit of a fight in it. I want them to use their eyes and report to me."
"Going to employ spotters on the camp?" asked Mr. Prenter, quickly.
"Not a single spot!" Tom declared with emphasis. "I haven't any use for information turned in by spotters."
"I'm glad to hear you say that, Reade," nodded the treasurer.
"What I want the men for, Peters, is something honest and manly, and with no fighting in it," Tom continued. "I want information, and I'll pay the man well who can bring it to me. Now, go and get your six men. Bring them up to the house within half an hour."
Nodding, Peters turned and strode back.
When the others gained the house where the engineers and superintendent lived the foremen took leave of their chiefs.
As Tom, Harry and Mr. Prenter went up the steps to the porch the front door opened to let out Mr. Bascomb.
"Is that revolting row all over?" demanded the president of the Melliston
Company.
"What row?" asked Mr. Prenter, innocently.
"That riot back in camp," shivered Mr. Bascomb. "I simply abhor all fighting."
"So I noticed," commented Mr. Prenter, dryly. "Yes; I believe the trouble is over, unless our young chief engineer intends to stir up something new before bedtime. Do you, Reade?"
"I haven't anything in mind," Tom answered with a smile. "Gentlemen, I am afraid you may think I do things with a high hand. But I have been at this engineering business just long enough to know that I must banish all serious vices from a camp of laborers if I hope to get the best results in work out of the men. So I must tackle some problems rather stiffly, and use my fists when I'm driven to a corner."
"I am not thoroughly satisfied of the wisdom of your course," said Mr.
Bascomb slowly.
"Sorry to disagree with you, Bascomb," broke in the treasurer, "but I've had some experience in handling what is called wild labor, and I believe that Reade goes at it in just the right way. I don't believe there are really fifty really wild or troublesome men in that camp. The few bad ones usually start trouble going, and then the good ones are driven into it. Let Reade stop the vices over yonder, in the way that he wants to, and the worst of the crowd will call for their time and leave camp. We shall then have a thoroughly good lot of men left, who'll do more and better work."
"That is," almost whined President Bascomb, "if Reade, in doing what he wants, doesn't stir up so much enmity that we have the rest of our wall blown out into the gulf."
"Mr. Bascomb," put in Tom, "while I must have control of the men and their camp I don't wish to do anything to cast reflection on yourself as the head of the company. May I therefore ask, sir, if there is any especial reason why Evarts should be allowed in this camp?"
President Bascomb fidgeted in the porch chair on which he was sitting.
"I—-I don't know of any reason, Mr. Reade, why Evarts should be allowed in camp if his presence prevents you from keeping order as you wish."
"Then you approve, sir, of my intention to keep him out?"
"I—-I won't question your right to handle the matter as you wish, Mr.
Reade," was the president's evasive reply.
"Thank you, sir."
Peters was soon back with the six men—-two each of the negroes, Italians and Portuguese. All of them understood English.
Harry described the negro who had attacked him on the retaining wall, after which Tom asked:
"Have any of you men ever seen that negro? Have you any idea who he is, and where he can be found?"
None of the six admitted any knowledge of the mysterious black man.
"Then I want you to keep his description in mind," continued Tom. "Keep your eyes open, at all times, for any chance glimpse of him. The man who brings me information leading to the capture of that big negro will receive a reward of one hundred dollars in gold." "Keep your eyes open, won't you? You may find him prowling around the wall at any time. He may walk out on the wall, or he may be found hiding near in a boat. Watch for him."
All promised eagerly that they would do all in their power to earn the hundred dollars.
"That's what I call good business!" cried Mr. Prenter approvingly, as soon as the foreman and the men had gone.
"Does the hundred dollars come out of the company treasury, Reade, or from your own pocket?" inquired President Bascomb.
"Really I hadn't thought of the matter," answered Tom.
"The company can afford to pay its own bills," broke in Mr. Prenter, rather gruffly.
"It's about time to turn in, isn't it?" asked Mr. Bascomb, striking a match and glancing at his watch.
"I'm going to stay up a little longer, and talk with Reade about the dread mystery of our million dollar breakwater, if he'll let me," hinted Mr. Prenter.
Mr. Bascomb rose as though to go into the house.
"While we're talking about the matter, sir," suggested Tom, "wouldn't it be a good idea for us to stroll down to the beach and look out along the wall to see how Foreman Corbett and his gang are guarding the breakwater to-night?"
"Fine idea," nodded the treasurer of the company.
"Then, if you're all going away, and intend to leave the house alone, I think I may as well go with you," grunted Mr. Bascomb. "I don't exactly like the idea of staying here alone in such troublesome times."
Harry walked beside Mr. Bascomb, while Tom led the way with the treasurer.
Mr. Renshaw brought up the rear.
As the party came in sight of the beach and glanced out seaward, they saw many a little, dancing light out on the retaining wall. Each light showed where a workman patrolled under the orders of Foreman Corbett. The latter was aboard the motor boat, "Morton," which ran up and down near the wall, throwing the searchlight over the scene.
"Reade," remarked Mr. Prenter, "I don't see that the enemy have any chance to-night to run in and work harm to our property."
Hardly had the treasurer spoken when Tom, looking out seaward, saw a sudden, bright flash of light upward. There was a brief pause—-then the sullen boom of an explosion reached their ears.
"Mystery of all mysteries!" choked Tom Reade. "There goes another section of the wall—-blown up under our very eyes!"
CHAPTER XI
A MESSAGE FROM A COWARD
"Now Reade," began President Bascomb, in a shaking voice, "what can you say—-"
Tom didn't wait to inform him. The young chief engineer was darting out on the wall as fast as he could go.
Already the "Morton" had turned, and was chugging back to the scene of this latest outrage, the searchlight flashing back and forth, in the vain effort to detect any small craft stealing away from the vicinity.
"I—-I can't race on a narrow runway like that," faltered Mr. Bascomb, halting at the beginning of the narrow wall. "I—-I'll wait here, Mr. Renshaw, will you keep me company?"
"If you so direct, sir," replied the superintendent. "For that matter, what Reade and Hazelton can't find out, out yonder, will probably never be discovered."
"Do you share Mr. Prenter's infatuation for those two young men?" asked the president of the Melliston Company.
"I can't say about that, sir," Renshaw replied, with a puzzled air. "But this much I know—-I never worked with two more capable men of any age. They always know what to do, and they never lose their heads."
Mr. Bascomb compressed his lips tightly.
In the meantime Tom, Harry and Treasurer Prenter covered nearly a quarter of a mile along the retaining wall when the motor boat, putting about, picked them up with the searchlight.
Toot! toot! sounded the boat's pneumatic whistle.
"Foreman Corbett is signaling to us to wait and he'll put in for us," said Tom, coming to a halt. Soon the motor craft chugged in alongside, coming close to the wall. Tom, Harry and Mr. Prenter jumped, landing safely aboard.
"How did the enemy come to catch you napping, Corbett?" Tom inquired good-humoredly.
"They didn't catch me napping, sir," protested Foreman Corbett. "It is the strangest thing, sir—-that explosion. Why, I had had my light turned on that very part of the wall at least a dozen times in the last half-hour before the blow-out came. Our light didn't pick up a soul around there at any time. What do you suppose I did, Mr. Reade, as soon as the explosion sounded?"
"I saw you turn about and use your search light a lot," Reade answered.
"Did you notice, sir, that I turned the light right up at the sky, first-off?"
"I believe I did notice that," Tom assented.
"It seemed to me, sir, that nothing but an airship could plant a charge of high explosive on the wall in that fashion."
"I don't believe the airship theory will explain it either," said Tom, shaking his head.
"Then what theory can explain it?" asked Mr. Prenter, anxiously.
"I'd pay a reward out of my own pocket for the right answer," Reade replied.
"Then you haven't a theory?" asked the treasurer.
"Not even an imitation of a theory," Tom laughed, shortly.
All this time the motor boat was gliding out toward the scene of the wreck.
"Now, you can see the damage that has been done," suggested Mr. Corbett, turning the light fully on the scene of the latest blow-out. "You see, a long strip of the wall has been cleaned out. Not a trace of the damaged part shows above water."
"It wasn't as big an explosion as the other two, though," Reade declared. "Really, it looks as though the folks behind this found themselves running low on explosives."
"There must be a trace or a clue left," urged Mr. Prenter.
"High explosives don't leave many traces of anything with which they come in contact," muttered Harry. "If we do find any traces, I guess it will have to be in broad daylight."
"And I guess that's right," agreed Tom. "Mr. Corbett, did none of your men patrolling on the wall report any signs of strangers?"
"No such report was made, sir."
"At all events, we can be thankful that the explosion didn't blow one or two of our men into the other world," Tom went on.
"Even that is bound to happen if there are many more of these explosions," muttered Corbett, grimly.
"Which is another reason," remarked Tom Reade, "why we're going to solve the mystery of said explosions at the earliest minute that we can."
"One thing is certain," observed Mr. Prenter, with the nearest approach to gloom that he had yet shown. "If you don't soon penetrate this grim mystery, and find a way to stop these outrages, then the wall will be destroyed more rapidly than you can build it."
"The outrages may cease after a while," suggested Harry.
"No," answered Reade. "As long as the unknown enemy feels that he can harass us without much risk of being caught red-handed, just so long will he go on with his outrages—-unless we give in."
"Give in?" asked Mr. Prenter, with a rising inflection in his voice.
"Unless we give in," supplied Tom promptly, "by allowing gambling and rum-selling to go on openly in our camp of workmen."
"Have you any notion of giving in to that extent?" asked Mr. Prenter.
"Not an idea!" retorted Tom Reade promptly. "It wouldn't be my way to surrender to the Devil. I'll fight to the last ditch—-unless your company really prefers to have Hazelton and myself cancel our contract and get out of this work. Do you?"
"I don't want you to quit," replied Mr. Prenter positively. "I admire fighting grit, and I want to see you keep hammering away at the work until you win and the job is finished. The board of directors will stand with me on that, if I can sway them. As for Mr. Bascomb, you mustn't take him too seriously. He's a first rate fellow in a lot of ways, but there's no fight in him, and he's a bit close-fisted, too. As for me, Reade, and as far as I can speak for my fellow directors, go ahead, just the way you've started. If you can find any way to hammer camp vice harder than you've been hammering it, then go ahead and do some harder work with your little hammer."
"I'll do it," promised Tom. "Now, Mr. Prenter, I don't believe anything more will happen here to-night—-perhaps not for two or three nights. So I think the wisest thing for you to do will be to get back to the house and get some sleep. The same for you, Harry!"
"What are you going to do?" Hazelton wanted to know.
"I?" repeated Reade. "For to-night I'm going to remain up, and be out here around this threatened wall."
"Then that ought to be good enough for me, also," Harry suggested.
"Not much, chum. I'm going to take the night trick for the present, and put on you the burden of all the day work. So you'll need your sleep."
"I can swing the day work easily enough," laughed Hazelton. "It will be all the more easy as the next few days will be taken up simply with repairing the breaks that have been made."
"Swing the boat in toward land, Mr. Corbett," Tom directed the foreman.
At the little landing Hazelton and Mr. Prenter joined the waiting president and superintendent.
"Did you really find out anything?" called Mr. Bascomb eagerly.
"It's as big a mystery as ever."
"There's just one thing we'll have to do," sighed Mr. Bascomb, "and that will be to stop running the camp on a basis of old Puritan laws."
"You talk Reade into it, if you can," chuckled Treasurer Prenter. "You won't find him easy to convince, either."
Tom didn't wait to discuss the matter. Instead, he signaled to Foreman
Corbett to run the craft out again.
"If you want to, Corbett," suggested Tom, with a laugh, as the boat moved over the salt waters again, "you might go ashore and go to bed. You can easily claim that you engaged with us as a foreman, and that being captain of a motor boat amounts to breach of contract."
"I'm not fussing," smiled the foreman. "As long as I can sleep daytimes running this motor boat is easier than working."
"It probably will be," nodded Reade, "unless the enemy go in for a new line of tactics."
"Such as what, sir?" asked Corbett.
"If this boat hampers them too much they may decide to send it to the bottom with a torpedo."
"Let 'em try, then," grunted the foreman, giving the steering wheel a turn.
Though Reade remained up until broad daylight no further sign of the unknown enemies was seen. Through the night, had it not been for the patrols walking up and down the line of wall with lanterns, it would have been hard to realize that the big breakwater was haunted by any such desperately practical group of "ghosts."
"I guess we've heard the last of the rascals," suggested Harry Hazelton one night at supper. Messrs. Bascomb and Prenter had returned to Mobile, so that the young engineers and their superintendent were the only men at table.
"My guess is about the same," drawled Mr. Renshaw.
"Yes?" queried Reade. "Guess again!"
"Oh, I believe they've quit," argued Mr. Renshaw. "For one thing, the scoundrels probably have discovered that detectives from Mobile are down here trying to run 'em to earth. That has scared the rascals away."
"What are the detectives doing, anyway?" asked Harry.
"Blessed if I know," Tom yawned. "I believe there are three of them here or over in Blixton, but I wouldn't know one of them, if I fell over him. The detectives came, secured their orders from Mr. Prenter, and went to work—-or pretended to go to work. I'm glad that I'm not responsible for the detectives."
Nicolas entered, an envelope in his hand.
"Par-rdon, Senor Reade," begged the Mexican. "I would not interrupt, but on the porch I found thees letter. It is address to you."
Tom took the envelope and scanned it, saying:
"The address is printed—-probably because the writer didn't want to run the risk of having his writing identified. Probably the letter, also, is printed. Pardon me, gentlemen, while I open this communication . . . Yes; the letter is printed, and unsigned—-a further sign of cowardice on the part of the writer. And now let me see what it says."
Tom spent a few moments in going through the communication. A white line formed around his mouth as he read. Then he passed the letter to Harry, who read it aloud, as follows:
"You have had a week of peace. Is peace better than war? You may have all the peace you wish, and go on working and prospering if you will let others do the same. Stop interfering with the right of your men to amuse themselves and all will be well. Try any of your former tricks in the camp, and then you will have good cause to 'Beware!'"
"Is that a declaration of war?" asked Harry, looking up.
"I think so," nodded Tom.
"Then how are you going to meet it?"
"There's only one way," Tom returned. "A declaration of war must be met with a fight. Unless I'm very greatly in error the gamblers and bootleggers will try to start up matters again to-night in camp."
"And you'll throw them down harder than before?" queried Mr. Renshaw, gazing keenly at the young chief.
"If it be possible," Tom declared. "Nicolas, be kind enough to go over and ask the foremen to report here at 8:20 promptly. At 8:30 we will enter camp and see what is going on."
"I miss my guess, then," chuckled Mr. Renshaw, quietly, "if our arrival isn't followed by war in earnest."
"War is never so bad," retorted Tom Reade, his jaws setting, "as a disgraceful peace!"
CHAPTER XII
AN ENGINEER'S FIGHTING BLOOD
Just at half-past eight that evening Tom, Harry, the superintendent and the foremen entered camp.
They went, first, to a shack which they knew to be occupied by orderly, respectable blacks.
"Come, men," said Tom, halting in the doorway. "I've an idea we may need you."
Six negroes rose and came forward.
"There are gambling and bootlegging going on in this camp to-night, aren't there?" Reade inquired.
"Ah doan' rightly know, boss," replied one of the negroes cautiously.
"But you suspect it, don't you?" Tom pressed.
"Yes; Ah done 'spec so, boss," grinned the negro.
"And I do, too," rejoined Tom. "Come along. We may need a little help."
With this reinforcement—-the negroes were wanted for work rather than for fighting—-Tom now stepped off briskly through the camp.
Nor did he have to guess in which way to go through the darkened streets of this little village of toilers. Shouts of laughter and the click of ivory dice and celluloid chips signaled the direction.
The largest shack in the village was closed tightly as to door and window, though light came out through the chinks. Tom stepped over there boldly, not turning to see whether his following were close behind him.
Stepping up to the closed door the young chief engineer placed his shoulder against it. He gave a sturdy push, and the barrier flew open.
There were about fifty of his men crowded into one large room. A half dozen gambling games were in full blast. At two tables stood bootleggers, each with a bottle of liquor and glasses.
Tom stalked boldly in, still without turning to look at his own following. Reade's face bore such a mild look that the leader of the visiting gamblers was wholly deceived as he glanced up.
"The chief!" called one workman, in dismay, and a dozen men made a break for the door. But Harry and the others prevented their getting out.
"Oh, it's all right," cheerily announced the leader of the gamblers. "Mr. Reade has just come here to look on and make sure that everything is being conducted above board and on the square. Isn't that so, Reade?"
"Yes," Tom assented, pausing near the central table at which gambling was going on.
At that assurance the panic-stricken gamblers breathed more easily.
Several men who had jumped up from their seats went back to their chairs.
"Reade is a good friend of ours," called the leader of the gamblers, mockingly. "He isn't going to interfere with any amusements that are properly carried on—-eh, Reade?"
The fellow stared boldly into Tom's eyes, a look of insolent mockery on his features.
"Certainly I'm not going to interfere with any proper amusements in this camp," Tom nodded, easily.
"What did I tell you, boys?" laughed the leader of the gamblers. "Go on with your play, boys!"
"But gambling isn't a proper amusement for poor men, who have to toil and sweat for every five-cent piece they get," Tom Reade continued calmly. "Neither is the trade of bootlegging a decent one, or one that provides decent amusement. I have already warned you that gambling and liquor selling are things of the past in this camp."
There was another stir in the room. The leader of the gamblers rose, fixing his gaze on Tom's eyes and trying to stare the young engineer out of countenance.
"What do you mean, Reade?" he demanded.
"Isn't my meaning clear enough?" Tom insisted, with a chilly smile.
"Man, haven't you come to your senses yet?" snarled the gambler.
"Do you mean to ask whether I was scared by the cowardly, unsigned letter that I received this evening?" Tom fired back at the fellow, with another taunting smile.
"I don't know anything about any letter," muttered the gambler sullenly, "but I heard that you had come to your senses."
"Whether I have or not," retorted Tom, "you are pretty sure to come to your proper senses to-night. Men—-I mean workmen, not gamblers or bootleggers—-you are at liberty to pass out of this building."
"Don't you go," shouted the gambler, as some two dozen men started toward the doorway where Harry and the rest were on guard.
Some of them halted.
"I must have made a mistake in calling some of you 'men,' since you take orders from such disreputable characters as these gamblers and bootleggers," Tom taunted them mildly. "Now, all I will say is that those of you who wish to do so may pass outside. The rest may remain here, though they'll be sorry, afterwards, that they stayed. All who want to get outside must do so at once."
"Don't you do anything of the sort," shouted the gamblers' leader. "Stay here like men and assert your rights! Come on! I'll lead you, and show you how to throw these meddlers out."
"You'll do it—-just like this, eh?" demanded Tom Reade.
He made a leap for the leader of the gamblers, catching the fellow by the throat and waist. Lifting him, Tom hurled the fellow a dozen feet. The gambler fell on one side, but was up in a moment, his right hand traveling toward a hip pocket.
"Don't draw," mocked Tom, with another smile. "Probably you haven't a pistol there. If you have, you can never make me believe that you have sand enough to draw and shoot before as many witnesses as I have on hand."
"I've a good mind to drill you with lead!" scowled the gambler, still resting his hand behind him.
"But you're a wise man," mocked Reade, "and wise men often change their minds."
However, the very move of the gambler to draw a pistol had had one effect that Tom ardently desired. Most of the workmen present were now in frantic haste to get out before any shooting began. The two bootleggers also sought to make their escape.
"Get back there! You fellows can't get out!" Harry shouted, himself seizing and hurling the bootleggers back into the room. They rose, glaring sullenly at Hazelton. But they didn't know how many more men he might have behind him out there in the dark.
Tom Reade now had the six gamblers and the two bootleggers in the room with him.
"You're a nice crew, aren't you?" he jeered, gazing at them scornfully.
"We're making our living," retorted the leader of the gamblers, with what he meant to be a fine tone of scorn.
"Making your living off of human beings! You're some of the parasites that infest honest workingmen. I've drummed you out of this camp before, and you have the cheek to come back. Now, I'll try to teach you another lesson. Harry, send in our workmen, will you?"
Hazelton stepped aside, to let in the half dozen honest negroes they had brought along with them. These men entered, then stood looking at their young chief.
"Get hold of those cards, chips and dice!" ordered Tom.
"Here, what are you trying to do?" demanded the leader of the gamblers.
"You have the advantage of me," responded Tom. "I don't know your name."
"Hawkins is my name," replied the chief of the gamblers.
"Hawkins is a fine name," admitted Tom. "It will do as well as any other. I won't annoy you, Hawkins, by asking you what your name used to be in prouder and happier days."
"What are these men doing with our outfit?" insisted Hawkins, as the negroes began industriously to clear the surfaces of the tables.
"You can see what they're doing," Tom rejoined.
"You blacks get out and leave our property alone," warned Hawkins, darting among them.
The negroes drew back, in some alarm, for the gambler looked dangerous with one hand at his hip pocket.
"Go get on with your work, men," counseled Tom. "I'm here to back you up."
"As for you, sir—-" snarled Hawkins, facing Tom.
"Don't look at me like that," laughed Reade softly. "Save that face to frighten children with."
The negroes had busied themselves until they had gathered up all the implements of gambling and had stuffed them into their pockets.
Now Tom went up to the bootleggers. Both men he boldly searched, bringing forth from their pockets bottles of liquor. These he threw down hard on the floor of the cabin, smashing them.
"I don't know why we allow you to do all this, Reade," fumed Hawkins, whose face was white with rage.
"It's because you're afraid, and know that you can't help yourselves," Tom smiled.
"I'll show you who's afraid!" yelled Hawkins, again throwing his right hand back to his hip pocket.
This time Reade saw the unmistakable butt of a revolver. Without an instant's hesitation. Reade leaped at the fellow. In a moment Tom had the revolver, springing backwards.
"Well—-shoot!" jeered Hawkins. "You don't dare to."
"You're right," assented Tom coolly. "I don't dare to. Assassination belongs to the lowest orders of human beings. An honest man seldom has any need of concealed deadly weapons."
Tom stepped still farther back, breaking the revolver and dropping the cartridges into one hand. Hawkins made a move as though to spring upon him, but Harry leaped into the room, confronting the gambler.
Thus shielded, Tom drew a combination tool-knife from one of his pockets, then coolly drew out the screw that held the trigger in place.
Dropping the trigger into his own pocket, Tom tossed the weapon back.
"Catch it, Hawkins," he called. "You may want this to frighten some children with over in Blixton. Now, Mr. Renshaw, I believe you know what you're to do."
"Yes, sir," nodded the superintendent, from the doorway, and vanished.
"We'll take our leave, now," sneered Hawkins, "unless you have some further humiliation in store for us."
"Just one," Tom declared, "so you can't go just yet."
"Oh, all right," Hawkins laughed fiercely. "You'll have to pay for this unlawful detention."
"You can tell the officers all about that," Tom suggested tantalizingly.
"Mr. Renshaw has just gone to telephone for them."
"The officers? Police?" snarled Hawkins.
"Yes. Did you imagine that you could keep on defying all the laws? You've just threatened me with a taste of the law. You may try a taste yourself, Professor Hawkins!"
"Let us out of this place!" insisted Hawkins angrily. "Come on, friends!"
He rallied his own force of seven men and started toward the door.
"Of course you can try to get away," Reade warned the fellow. "But the effort will cost you all broken heads, to say the least. I have placed you all under arrest for breaking the laws of Alabama, and, before we'll let you go, we'll break a few bones for each of you."
Outside the workmen of the camp were thronging by this time. Doubtless, had they dared, two or three score of these men would have fought in behalf of the gamblers and bootleggers, but far more than that number would have rallied under Tom Reade's banner, for it is human nature to flock to the banner of the leader who is resolute and unafraid. Besides, there were the foremen, all of them good, hard hitting men.
"Oh, well," sneered Hawkins, "let it go at that, Reade. We'll have our day in court tomorrow, and then. I guess we'll find our innings."
"Yes," chuckled Tom, "and when you get your innings you'll be wild to swap them for outings—-for the innings will be in jail."
"Don't push my temper too far," cautioned Hawkins with a scowl.
"Let it go as far as you like, always being ready to take the consequences," Tom smiled genially.
There followed a period of tense waiting. After nearly a half an hour of this a 'bus arrived, with four police officers from Blixton in it. Tom Reade preferred his charges against the gamblers and bootleggers. The officers had no choice but to take them, so the late troublemakers, now amid jeers and hoots from many of the workmen, were led outside and into the 'bus.
"You'll hear from this!" hissed Hawkins, in the young chief engineer's ear.
"I believe you," nodded Tom thoughtfully.
After the police and their prisoners had gone Tom led his own party back to the house.
"You'd better get to bed now, Harry," Reade advised his chum. "There can be no telling how soon I'll need to call you up, and you ought to have some sleep first."
"You look for trouble to break to-night?" Harry asked.
"Between now and daylight," said Tom simply.
"Whee! I'd like to stay up with you."
"You might find more fun that way, Harry, but the work to-morrow would suffer, and work is more important than mere fun," Tom answered.
Nor was Tom to be disappointed in his expectation that the worst trouble yet experienced would break loose that night.
CHAPTER XIII
WISHING IT ON MR. SAMBO
"Oho!" breathed young Reade, as he crouched low behind the fringe of bushes, peering toward the beach.
It was now somewhat past midnight. For three hours Tom had been scouting stealthily along this shore section, well to the west of the breakwater.
For, in pondering over the explosions, Tom had come to the conclusion that the blow-outs on the retaining wall, however accomplished, were controlled from a point to the westward of the sea wall.
This conclusion had been rather a simple matter to a trained engineer. Tom had witnessed the flash of one explosion, and that, as he remembered, had sprung up at the west side of the wall. Moreover, the appearance and condition of the wall, at the point of each explosion, had shown that the attack in each case must have been made at the west side of the wall.
And now, after nearly three hours of work, Tom Reade had come upon a real clue.
"Another blow-out is arranged for to-night, just as I had expected," Reade muttered, with an angry thrill, as he glanced at a figure down on the beach. "Moreover, my guess that the huge negro is the fellow who touches off the blow-outs has proved to be the correct one."
Down on the beach a big, black man was moving about stealthily. Though the spot was a lonely one, this scoundrel plainly intended to take no unnecessary risks of detection.
Just at the present moment the negro was placing in the water a curious-looking little raft that he had brought on one shoulder from its place of concealment. It was something like a flat-bottomed scow, the sides being just high enough to prevent whatever cargo it carried, from rolling off into the water.
The raft placed and secured to the shore, the negro crouched in his hiding place in a jungle of bushes. He soon reappeared, carrying four metal tubes.
"The explosive is in the tubes," guessed Tom easily. "And at one end of each tube is a sharp metal point that permits of being driven into the crevices in the wall. Four, or more, of these tubes are thrust into the wall, I suppose, and connected in series, so that they can be fired by the same electric spark. These tubes and the wires are water-proofed. The negro is only the dastardly workman in this case. It was never he who invented the trick. But he must be an excellent workman, who ought to be employed in much more honest effort. I wonder if the fellow is going to use more than four tubes?"
All of these thoughts ran through the mind of Tom as he crouched, peering eagerly at the negro.
By this time the negro was taking to the water, towing his miniature scow and its explosive cargo as he swam.
"He must be a good swimmer, and also a good diver," concluded Tom. "With my men patrolling the sea wall he must have to dive, some distance away, swim under water, and remain there until he has secured one of the tubes in place. Then he has to get back, out of range of the lanterns' rays, and get his breath before he goes back to the next job. But maybe I can interfere with his work to-night."
Though he rose and moved away, Reade, despite the darkness of the night, was careful to keep himself concealed behind the bushes, so that he could not be observed from beach or water. Shortly the young engineer was over at the point in the jungle from which he had seen the negro emerge with scow and explosives.
"The fellow must use a magneto, attached to wires running under the water," concluded Tom. "At that rate, the first real job is to find the magneto. My, but Mr. Sambo Ebony may be wondering, to-night, why his blow-out doesn't work as easily as usual!"
Simple as the search ought to have been, Tom Reade was soon on the point of despair.
"If it isn't a magneto, or if I can't find it in time," Tom muttered uneasily, "the mystery may remain nearly as great as ever, and the explosion may be pulled off to-night, after all."
Twenty minutes passed before Reade, with all his senses alert, stumbled on the concealed magneto. It had been so well hidden, under a mass of rocks, that it would not have been astonishing had Tom missed it altogether.
Attached to the magneto was the wire that must connect, in some way, with the series of tubes that would soon be fastened in the retaining wall out yonder. Yet this wire ran into the ground, and then vanished.
"Now, I've simply got to hustle!" sighed Tom Reade nervously. "If I don't succeed in raising the wire, and in a mighty short space of time, I may be to-night's fool yet. I'd really like to wish that on the black man, too!"
By using his eyes and his reasoning powers Reade, after twenty minutes more of search, with some sly digging, unearthed a section of the wire some dozen feet from the magneto.
"Now, it must be really the swiftest sort of work," murmured the young engineer, after a glance seaward. He seated himself with his face turned toward the Gulf, gathered the exposed section of wire up into his lap, then drew a pair of wire nippers from his pocket.
Snip! Tom now had two ends of wire in his hands. That would have been enough, had Reade chosen to bury the ends and conceal all evidence of his work. However, he believed that a more workmanlike way could be found.
From the same pocket Tom drew out a three inch piece of pure rubber cable, wrapped in water-proof tape. This he fastened to the severed ends of the wire, binding the whole as neatly as a lineman could have done.
"Rubber is believed to be a pretty good insulator," chuckled Reade, as he finished. "I don't believe the spark is made that can jump three inches of rubber. Certainly magneto-power can't do it. Now, let me see what sort of a trail-concealer I am."
Tom laid the wire back in the ground, covering it carefully with his hands.
"I wish I dared strike a match, so that I could judge better just how my work looks," he sighed. "However, I don't believe Mr. Sambo Ebony will think it discreet to strike any matches either, so he won't find the place where I've been fooling with his work.
"Now, I'll get back out of sight, where I belong," muttered Tom, rising cautiously. "I hope, though, I can find a place where I can see the look on that darkey's face when he tries his magneto and waits for the bing! from out yonder. Oh, Sambo, you simply can't have any idea of how I've been wishing it on you tonight!"
As the bushes grew thickly hereabouts, and there were many hollows in the surface of the earth, Reade had little trouble in finding what he believed to be a satisfactory hiding place. It enabled him to hide his head within fifteen feet of the handle of the magneto.
A soft, southerly wind blew in from the Gulf. As long as he could Reade fought drowsiness. Again and again he opened his eyes with a start.
"I mustn't do this," Tom told himself angrily. "No gentleman will go to sleep at the switch—-when it's his train that is coming!"
Yet still he found himself nodding. Had he deemed it safe Tom would have sprung up and walked about briskly. But this, he knew, was to invite being discovered by the returning negro.
So, at last, despite himself, Tom fell asleep.
How much time had passed he never knew. At last, however, he awoke with a start. Reproachfully he rubbed his eyes.
"Not a bit too soon!" he muttered, as his ears caught sound of an approaching step, and his eyes showed him the hulking form of the massive foe. "Here comes my black man!"
CHAPTER XIV
THE BLACK MAN'S TURN
Closer to the earth Tom tried to burrow. As to a plan, Tom Reade had none now, save to watch, and, if possible, to learn something that he did not already know.
Soft-footed, despite his great bulk, the negro approached with an air of little concern. Plainly, the wretch did not much fear discovery—-still less interference.
Humming an old plantation melody the negro reached his concealed magneto, then stood up for a brief moment, staring seaward in the direction from which he had just come. His garments dripped water; his whole appearance was bedraggled, yet there was something utterly shaggy, majestic, in this huge specimen of the human race.
"Ah done reckon dem gemmen gwine lose some mo' of deir wall to-night," chuckled the negro softly.
"Go as far as you like, Mr. Sambo Ebony!" grinned Tom Reade, under his breath. "I've wished something else on you this time."
Carelessly the negro bent over his magneto, seized the handle and gave a push.
Then he straightened up, listening. Only the soft sighing of the southern wind came to his ears.
"Yo' shuah done gotta use a mo' greasy elbow dan dat, chile," chuckled this imp of Satan aloud, though in a soft voice that seemed out of all proportion to his bulk.
Then he gave a half dozen indolent though steady strokes to the handle of the magneto.
"Whah am dat 'splosion?" he asked himself in wonderment. "Am mah eardrum done gone busted? Moke, yo' am plumb lazy this night!"
This time the huge negro pumped at the handle of the magneto until he was all but out of breath. Several dozen shoves he had administered before he halted, let go of the magneto and raised himself to his full, majestic height.
"Some black witch hab done gwine wish a big hoodoo on me!" grunted the negro suspiciously. "Dis am do fust time dat de magernetto gwine back on me like dis!"
In his bewilderment the one whom Tom had named Sambo glared around him. His eyes gleamed with a phosphorescence like that which one sees on the water on a lowering night. What Reade did not know was that this black man possessed eyes that were a little keener in the dark than a bat's.
With a sudden "Woof!" Sambo went up in the air, moved sideways, and came down on the startled Tom Reade with the force of a pile driver.
"Wha' yo' doing heah?" demanded the negro, gripping Reade by the coat collar and dragging that hapless engineer to his feet.
Tom did not answer. To save his life he couldn't have answered just then, his breath utterly gone.
"Wha' yo' want heah, anyway?" insisted Sambo, giving the youth a vicious shake.
There was blood before the negro's eyes, or he would sooner have recognized his victim. But at last he did see.
"So, I'se gwine cotch Mistah Reade himself!" snorted Sambo. "An' Ah reckon I'se gwine foun' de differculty wid my magernetto at de same time! Huh?"
Again he shook Tom, with an ease and yet a force that further drove the breath from the young engineer's body.
"Why doan' yo' talk!" glared the negro, holding Tom out at arm's length with one hand.
Tom could only groan. Yet that method of communication carried its own explanation to the big black.
"Reckon yo' gwine talk w'en yo' get gale enough in yo' lungs," grinned the negro. "In dat case Ah gwine lay yo' down on de groun' to fin' yo' breff."
Sambo's idea of laying Tom down was to give him a violent twist that brought the lad flat on the ground at his captor's feet. Then the negro sat on his captive to make sure that the latter did not escape.
"Take yo' time—-ah got plenty," grimaced the black man.
Slowly the beaten-out breath came back to Tom Reade. Sambo, watching, knew finally that his quarry was at last able to talk.
"Wha' yo' do to mah magernetto?" demanded Sambo.
"Guess," breathed Tom.
"Oh, take yo' time, boss. Ah got plenty ob dat accommerdation"
"What magneto are you talking about?" Reade queried innocently.
"Nebber heard ob it befo', eh, boss?"
"I've heard of plenty of magnetos, of course," admitted Tom. "But what have you to do with one?"
For a brief instant Sambo was almost inclined to believe that Reade did not fully know his secret. Finally it dawned on the brain of the big black man that he was being hoaxed.
"Ef yo' doan wanter tell, yo' doan hab to, ob co'se," proposed Sambo. "It ain't mah way to be too persistency wid de w'ite quality gemmen. But Ah done thought maybe yo' know somethin' dat yo's burnin' to tell."
"Who are you, and what are you doing around here?" asked Tom. "I'm certain you don't belong to my force of workmen—-unless you just joined yesterday. Are you working on the breakwater job?"
"Yessah," promptly answered Sambo with momentary gravity. Then his mood changed to a chuckle.
"Dat am all right, Massa Reade," he allowed. "But yo' doan' fool dis nigger as easy as yo' maybe think. Ah know what yo' watchin' me fo', and Ah done know I'se been doin' jess w'at yo' think. So I guess we doan' need no mo' conversationin', unless yo' willing to talk right out and tell me w'at's w'at."
"Sambo," said Reade solemnly, "I imagine I'm not very intelligent, after all. I listened to you attentively, but, for the life of me, I couldn't make out what you were talking about."
"Kain't yo'?" the negro demanded, mockingly. "Den Ah done reckon Ah must be a good deal of a scholar, ef Ah can talk so dat er w'ite quality gemmen kain't undahstan' me."
Mr. Sambo Ebony chuckled gleefully in appreciation of his own joke.
"There's one thing I guess you can tell me, Sambo," Reade suggested hopefully.
"W'at am dat, massa?"
"When are you going to change your seat and stop making me feel like a very thin pancake?"
"W'en Ah done get mah mind made up."
"When you have your mind made up about—-what?"
"About w'at I'se gwine do wid yo', Massa Reade."
"Well, what do you think you're going to do with me?" insisted Tom. "I'll admit, Sambo, that I'm about losing my patience. Unless you get up off of me soon, and move away to a respectful distance, I shall be obliged to do something on my own account."
"Go as far as yo' like, massa," returned the negro, unmoved. "I'se boun' ter admit dat yo' done got me fo' curiosity. W'at yo' done think yo' can do?"
Plainly the negro meant to go on having sport with him. Tom decided that it would be of no use to try to deceive this great mountain of black flesh. So Reade, who had been doing some brisk thinking during the last few moments, gave a sudden heave—-a trick that he retained from the old football days.
Much to Sambo's surprise he found himself going. Yet the black man was as agile as he was big. He leaped to his feet, bounding one step sideways, while Tom, who had been watching for this very chance, sprang to his own feet.
"Not so fas', massa!" mocked the big black, reaching out and taking a strong clutch on. Tom's coat collar.
Reade would have squirmed out of his coat and placed more distance between them, but Mr. Ebony, with a stout twist, gathered the two ends of the coat collar, holding the young engineer as though in the noose of a halter.
Quick as a flash Reade struck out with his right fist for the black man's belt-line. Had the blow landed even the huge Sambo would have gone down to earth. But the negro parried with his own disengaged fist, then gave a twist to the coat collar noose that made Reade turn black in the face from choking.
"Ah might as well tell yo'," Sambo observed dryly, "dat yo' ain't done got no new fight tricks dat yo' can wish on me. Ah done seen all de tricks of fightin' dat any man done know, an' Ah nebber yet seen no man dat could put any kind oh a blow ober on me to hurt!"
The negro spoke boastfully, yet there could be no doubt that he believed all he said.
Tom Reade next schemed to land a hard kick against the negro's shins. Ere he had his foot well lifted, however, the watchful Sambo seemed to divine the intent. He gave a quick twist at the coat collar that made Reade's head swim. It was some time before the young engineer's head recovered from that sudden confusion and blackness.
"Am' yo' gwine beliebe dat yo' kain't wish no kind oh a trick ober on me?" demanded the black man in an injured tone. "Ah nebber seen no odder w'ite man dat had such a ha'd time beliebing w'at Ah done tole him!"
"I've got to land this wicked brute, some way, or I may as well conclude that the jig is danced through, as far as I am concerned," Reade thought ruefully.
Panting, quivering, in dread of being choked again, and much harder, Tom tried to think fast in the effort to devise some new plan for worsting this terrible opponent.
"I've been fooling myself all along," Tom told himself, with a sinking heart. "I've been up against several men who were too weak or too cowardly to fight, and I've somehow gained the opinion that I could fight. But this black fellow has taken all the conceit out of me. I was a fool ever to think that I could fight! I'm nothing but a piece of jelly—-or putty!"
Of a sudden Reade tried to wrench himself free at the collar, at the same time raising his right knee with a forceful jerk. He wanted to drive that knee into the black man's wind.
But Sambo seemed to guess the plan without trouble. He gave a twist that choked Tom, once more, until all went black before him. Then the negro slammed his victim down hard on the ground, well-nigh stunning the young engineer.
"Ah done see w'at Ah gotta do wid yo'," Sambo announced. "Ah gotta tie yo' up, load yo' pockets wid rocks, and den take yo' out in de Gulf ah' lose yo'! Dat's w'at Ah gotta do, an' Ah ain' gwine lose no time about it either."
Sambo was in earnest, too. He had mapped out that very course!