CHAPTER V
WANTED—-DAYLIGHT AND DIVERS
In a trice the foreman of the gang on the wall wheeled his men about, running them out seaward toward the scene of the latest explosion. That much was plain from the twinkling of the rapidly-moving lanterns.
"Come on, Renshaw!" Tom shouted. "You, too, Nicolas. You can pull an oar."
Reade was already racing out on to the small dock. He all but threw himself into a rowboat that lay tied alongside.
"Cast off and get in," Tom ordered his companions, as he pushed out a pair of oars. "Nicolas, you're also good with a pair of oars. Mr. Renshaw, you take the tiller. Inform me instantly when you see the first gleam of the 'Morton's' search-light. Evarts ought to have caught the scoundrels this time. Evidently he's been cruising softly without showing a light."
Mr. Renshaw gathered up the tiller ropes as Tom pushed off from the dock. Then the chief engineer addressed himself to the task of rowing. His firm muscles, working at their best, shot the little craft ahead. Nicolas, at the bow oars, did his best to keep up with his chief in the matter of rowing, though the Mexican was neither an oarsman nor an athlete.
"Don't you make out the motor boat's lights yet?" Tom asked impatiently, after the first long spurt of rowing.
"Not yet, sir," replied the superintendent. "I shan't miss the light when it shows."
A few minutes later the superintendent announced in a low voice:
"There's some craft, motionless, just a bit ahead."
Tom, without stopping his work at the oars, turned enough to glance forward.
"Why, it's—-it's the 'Morton'!" he gasped.
"I believe it is," declared the superintendent, staring keenly at the nearly shapeless black mass ahead.
Tom, with his jaws set close, bent harder than ever at the oars.
"Senor!" wailed Nicolas, gaspingly. "If you do not go more easily I shall expire for lack of breath. I cannot keep up with you."
Reade fell into a slower, stronger stroke.
"Drop the oars any time you want to, Nicolas," Reade urged. "There won't be much more rowing to do, anyway."
Presently Tom himself rested on his oars, as the boat, moving under its own headway, approached the motor boat.
"Going to board her on the quarter?" the superintendent asked.
"No; by the bow," Tom answered. "Let go the tiller ropes. I'll pull alongside."
As they started to pass the boat a sound reached them that made Reade grow wild with anger. Snore after snore, from five busy sleepers!
Tom pulled softly up to the bow.
"There's the anchor cable!" snorted Tom, Pointing to a rope that ran from the bow of the "Morton" down into the water. "Did you ever see more wicked neglect of important duty? And not even a lantern out to mark her berth! Get aboard, Mr. Renshaw, and go aft to start the engine. Nicolas, you take this boat astern and make fast. Don't wake the sleepers—-poor, tired shirkers!"
Tom, in utter disgust, leaped aboard the boat at the bow. There, behind the wheel, Evarts lay on the floor of the boat, his rolled-up coat serving as a pillow.
Almost noiselessly Tom hauled up the light anchor. Then he stood by the wheel.
"All ready at the engine, Mr. Reade!" called the superintendent, softly.
"Let her go," Tom returned, "as soon as Nicolas boards."
The Mexican was quickly aboard, after having made the rowboat's painter fast.
"Headway!" announced Renshaw, throwing over the drive-wheel of the engine.
"Put-put-put!" sputtered the motor. Then the "Morton" began really to move. With the first real throb of the engine the electric running lights gleamed out.
Aft Conlon began to stir. Then he opened his eyes.
"What—-" he began.
"Silence!" commanded Mr. Renshaw.
"Tell me who's at the wheel?" Conlon begged.
"Mr. Reade," replied the superintendent, dryly. "Now, keep still!"
"Whew—-ew—-ew!" whistled Conlon, in dire dismay. Then he sank back, watching the engine with moody eyes. The other three men aft still slept.
Presently Tom, in shifting his position, touched one foot lightly against the foreman's head. Evarts half-awoke, then realized that the boat was moving.
"Who started this craft against my orders?" he drowsily demanded, as he sat up.
"I did," Tom retorted witheringly, "though I didn't hear your orders to the contrary."
"You—-Mr. Reade?" gasped the foreman, leaping to his feet.
"Yes—-and a fine fellow you are to trust!" Tom rejoined. "I leave you with very definite orders, and you go to sleep. Then there's another explosion out on the wall and you sleep right along."
"Another explosion?" blurted Evarts, rubbing his eyes with his fists.
"Here, let me have that wheel, sir. I'll have you out there quick!"
"You've nothing more to do here," Tom answered, dryly, without yielding the wheel.
"What do you mean by that?" Evarts cried quickly.
"Can't you guess?" wondered Reade.
"Mr. Reade means," said Conlon, who had come forward, "that we're fired—-discharged."
"Nonsense!" protested Evarts.
"Conlon has guessed rightly, as far as you're concerned," Tom continued. "To-morrow, Evarts, you go to Mr. Renshaw and get your pay. As for you, Conlon, you're not discharged this time. Evarts admitted himself that it was he who gave positive orders to tie the boat up at anchor. You were under his orders, so I can't hold you responsible. Are you wide awake, now?"
"Yes, sir," answered Conlon meekly.
"Then go back and attend to your engine. Look sharp for hail or bell."
"I guess you'll find you can't quite get along without me," argued Evarts moodily. "You'll find that you need me to manage some of the men you've got."
"You're through with this job, as I just did you the honor to inform you," Tom responded quietly. "To-morrow Mr. Renshaw will pay you off up to date."
"If I'm bounced, then you'll pay me for the balance of the month, anyway!" snarled the foreman defiantly. "You can't drop me without notice like that."
"You'll be paid to date only," Tom retorted. "You've been discharged for wilful and serious neglect of duty, and you're not entitled to pay for the balance of the month."
"All right, then," retorted the other hotly. "I'll collect my money through the courts. I'll show you!"
"Just as you please," Reade replied indifferently. "But I imagine any court will consider seven dollars a day pretty large pay for a man who goes to sleep on duty."
"See here, I'll—-"
"You'll keep quiet, Evarts, or you'll go overboard," Reade interrupted significantly. "I happen to know that you can swim, so I won't be bothered with you here if you insist on making a nuisance of yourself."
Mr. Renshaw, having been relieved at the engine, now came forward.
"Mr. Renshaw," directed the young chief engineer, "as soon after daylight as it is convenient for you you'll pay Evarts off in full to date and let him go. He threatens to sue if he is not paid to the end of the month, but if he wants to we'll let the courts do our worrying."
"All right, sir," nodded the superintendent.
Evarts had dropped into a seat just forward of the engine. He sat there, regarding Tom Reade with a baleful look of hate.
"You're a success, all right, at one thing, and that's making enemies," muttered the discharged foreman under his breath.
Besides attending to the wheel Tom now reached out with one hand and switched on the search-light, which he manipulated with one hand. Shortly he found the spot where the portion of the wall had been blown away by the first explosion. A hundred and fifty yards farther out he beheld the work of the second explosion. Some seventy-five yards in length was the new open space, where at least as much of the retaining wall as was visible above the water had been blown out.
"Slow down, Cordon," ordered Tom. "All we want is headway."
"All right, sir."
Tom drifted in within a few feet of the former site of the retaining wall. The "Morton" moved slowly by, Tom, by the aid of the searchlight, noting the extent of the disaster.
"Get back aft, Evarts," ordered the young engineer, turning and beholding the late foreman. "We don't want you here."
For a moment or two it looked as though Evarts would refuse. Then, with a growl, he rose and picked his way aft. By this time the other men who had been in his gang were awake. They regarded their former foreman with no great display of sympathy.
"I'll confess I'm mystified," muttered Tom, watching the scene of the latest explosion for some minutes after the engine had been stopped. "When daylight comes and we can use the divers we ought to know a bit more about how such a big blast is worked in the dead of night when the scoundrels ought to make noise enough to be heard. It must have been a series of connected blasts, all touched off at the same moment, Mr. Renshaw, but even such a series is by no means easy to lay. And then the blasts have to be drilled for, and then tamped."
"As you say, sir," replied the superintendent, "a much clearer idea can be formed when we have daylight and the divers."
Tom held his watch to one side of the searchlight.
"Nearly two hours yet until daylight, Mr. Renshaw," he announced. "And, of course, it will be two or three hours after daylight before we can get the divers at work. A fearful length of time to wait!"
"You'd better go back to the shore, sir," urged the superintendent.
"Not while this boat needs to be run," objected Reade. "For the rest of the night I want a man here whom I can trust."
"Will you trust me with the boat?" proposed the superintendent.
"Why, of course!"
"Then let me run back to the dock and put you ashore, Mr. Reade. After that I'll come out here and patrol along the wall until broad daylight."
That was accordingly done. The "Morton" lay alongside the dock, and Nicolas instantly busied himself with casting off the rowboat and making her fast to the pier instead.
Evarts sullenly remained in the boat.
"Come on, Evarts," spoke Tom quietly.
"Mr. Reade," expostulated the late foreman, "I'm not going to be thrown out of my job like this."
"Which especial way of being thrown out do you prefer then?" Tom queried, dryly.
"I'm not going to be put out of my job until I've had at least one good talk with you," insisted the foreman.
"I'm afraid the time has passed for talking with you," Reade responded, turning toward the shore. "You lost a great chance, to-night, to serve the company with distinction, and your negligence cost the company a lot of money through the second explosion. Are you coming out of that boat—-or shall I come back after you?"
Evarts rose, with a surly air. He stepped slowly ashore, after which one of the crew cast off. The engine began to move, and the "Morton" started back to her post.
"Oh, you feel fine and important, just at this minute!" grumbled the discharged foreman, under his breath, glaring wickedly at the broad back of the young chief engineer. "But I'll do something to take the importance out of you before very long, Tom Reade!"
Truth to tell, Tom, though he was still alert to the interests of his employers, felt anything but important. The thought of Harry Hazelton's unknown fate caused a great, choking lump in his throat as Reade stepped from the pier to land.
CHAPTER VI
MR. BASCOMB IS PEEVISH
At the first blush of dawn Tom despatched the tireless Nicolas to Blixton to notify the police of the explosions and of the disappearance of Harry Hazelton.
Two men in blue, wearing stars on their coats, came over within an hour, walked about and looked wise until noon. They discovered nothing whatever, and their theories did not strike Reade as being worthy of attention.
As soon as possible the divers were sent down at the two wrecked parts of the retaining wall. These men reported that the breaches extended ten feet beneath the surface at some points; only eight feet at other points. The foundations of the walls were reported as being secure. Then Tom, under the directions of two divers, put on a diver's suit and went down himself, for the first time in his life. After some two hours, with frequent ascents to the surface, the young chief engineer had satisfied himself that the foundations were secure. Then he did some rapid figuring.
"The loss will not exceed eight thousand dollars—-the cost of rebuilding the missing parts of the walls," Reade informed Superintendent Renshaw.
"Only eight thousand dollars!" whistled the superintendent.
"Well, that figure isn't anywhere nearly as high as I feared it might be,"
Tom pursued.
"But it will strike the directors of the Melliston Company as being pretty big for an extra bill," muttered Renshaw. "Especially, since—-"
The superintendent paused.
"You were going to say," smiled Tom, wanly, "since the loss wouldn't have happened if I hadn't kicked the gamblers out of camp."
"That's about the size of it, Mr. Reade," nodded Renshaw. "Directors of big companies are less interested in moral reforms than in dividends. They're likely to make a big kick over what your crusade has cost them already, even if it costs them no more."
"We'll see to it that it doesn't cost them any more," Tom retorted. "Every night we'll watch that sea wall the way a mother does a sick baby. There'll be no more explosions. As to the directors kicking over the present expense, they'll have a prompt chance to do it. As soon as the telegraph office in Blixton was open this morning I wired the president of the company. Now, I'm going ashore. I can't do anything out here to help you, can I?"
"Nothing," replied Renshaw. "If I didn't know how foolish the advice would sound, Mr. Reade, I'd urge you to take a nap."
"I'll take a nap when I find it impossible to keep my eyes open any longer," Tom compromised. "For the next few hours—-work and lots of it."
As yet no effort had been made to repair the breaches in the wall. The different gangs were working that day in nearer shore. The divers, gathered on a scow, were now waiting for the "Morton" to convey them back to shore. Reade decided to go with them.
"Twenty minutes to two," murmured Tom to himself, glancing at his watch as the "Morton" went laboriously back over the dancing, glinting waves. "There's a train due at Blixton at 1:30. By the time I get back to the house I ought to find one or more officials of the company impatiently waiting to jump on my devoted neck."
Nor was Tom disappointed in this expectation. Pacing up and down on the porch of the house occupied by the engineers and superintendent was George C. Bascomb, president of the Melliston Company. Behind him stood Nicolas, respectfully eager to do anything he could for the comfort of the great man.
"Ah, there you are, Reade," called President Bascomb in an irritated tone, as he caught sight of the young engineer striding forward. "Now, what's all this row that you wired us about?"
"Will you come down to the water, and go out with me to look at the damage, sir?" asked Tom, as he took the president's reluctantly offered hand.
"No," grunted Mr. Bascomb. "Let me hear the story first. Come inside and tell me about it."
"Our friend is not quite so gracious as he has been on former meetings," thought Tom, as he led the way inside. "I wonder if he is going to get cranky?"
Inside was a little office room, as in the foremen's barracks.
"Any decent cigars here?" questioned Mr. Bascomb, after exploring his own pockets and finding them innocent of tobacco.
"No, sir," Tom answered. "No one here smokes."
"I've got to have a cigar," the president of the company insisted.
"Then, sir, if you'll give Nicolas your orders, he'll run over to Blixton and get you what you want."
The Mexican departed in haste on the errand.
"Now, first of all, Reade," began the president, "I am disgusted at learning of one fool mistake that you've made."
"What is that, sir?" Tom asked, coloring.
"I've just learned that you discharged Evarts—-one of our best and most useful men."
"I did discharge him, sir," Reade admitted.
"Take him back, at once."
"I'm sorry, sir, but I can't do it. He—-"
"I don't think you quite understand," broke in Mr. Bascomb coldly. "I directed you to take Mr. Evarts back on this work."
"I was about to tell you, sir, why I can't do anything of the sort.
I—-"
"Stop right there, Reade," ordered President Bascomb, in his most aggressive, bullying manner. "The first point that we have to settle is that Evarts must come back on the pay-roll and have his old position. Be good enough to let that proposition sink in before we take up the second."
"I am very sorry, sir," Tom murmured respectfully, "but I can't and won't have Evarts back here. I won't have him around the work at all. Now what is the second proposition, sir?"
As Tom spoke he looked straight into Mr. Bascomb's eyes. The other glared at him unbelievingly but angrily.
"Young man, you don't appear to understand that I am president and head of the Melliston Company."
"I quite understand it, sir," Reade answered. "At the same time I am chief engineer here, and I am committed to building the breakwater and dredging out the enclosed bay or harbor, all within a certain fixed appropriation. In order to keep my part of the bargain I must have men with me on whom I can depend to the fullest limit. Evarts isn't such a man and I won't have him on the work again."
"He'll go on the pay-roll, anyway," snorted Mr. Bascomb.
"I can't help what you may see fit to pay him, Mr. Bascomb, provided you pay him somewhere else. But the fellow can't go on the pay-roll here for the simple reason that he wouldn't be allowed to visit this construction camp for the purpose of getting his money. Mr. Bascomb, I am not trying to ride a high horse. I recognize that you are president of the company, and that I must take all reasonable orders from you and carry them out to the letter. Yet I can't take any orders that would simply hinder my work and damage my reputation as an engineer. Evarts can't come back into this camp as long as I am in charge here."
"We'll take that up again presently," returned Mr. Bascomb, with an air of ruffled dignity. "Now, there's another matter that we must discuss. I know what has been done in the way of great damage to the retaining wall. I also know that this damage came through enmity that you stirred up by drumming certain parties out of this camp."
"You refer, sir, I take it, to my act in having Blixton police officers come in here and chase out some gamblers who had come here for the purpose of winning the money of the workmen?"
"That's it," nodded Bascomb. "In that matter you went too far—-altogether too far!"
"I'm afraid I don't understand you, sir."
"You mean, Reade, that you don't want to understand me," snapped the president. "You admit having chased out the gamblers, don't you?"
"Of course, I admit it, sir."
"That was a bad move. In the future, Reade, you will not interfere with any forms of amusement that the men may select for themselves in their evening hours."
Tom stared at the speaker in undisguised amazement.
"But, Mr. Bascomb, the men are shamelessly robbed by the sharpers who come here to gamble with them."
"That's the men's own affair," scoffed the president. "Anyway, they have a right to pitch away their wages if they want to. Reade, when you're as old as I am you will understand that workmen who throw away their money make the best workmen. They never have any savings, hence they must make every effort to keep their jobs. A workman with savings becomes too independent."
"I am certain you have seen more of the world than I have, Mr. Bascomb," Reade replied, respectfully. "At the same time I can't agree with you on the point you have just stated. A workman with a bank account has always a greater amount of self-respect, and a man who has self-respect is bound to make a good citizen and a good workman. But there are still other reasons why I had the gamblers chased out. Gambling here in the camp would always create a great deal of disorder. Disorder destroys discipline, and a camp like this, in order to give the best results in the way of work, must have discipline. Moreover, the men, when gambling, remain up until all hours of the night. A man who has been up most of the night can't give an honest day's work in return for his wages. Unless the men get their sleep and are kept in good condition we can't get the work out of them that we have a right to expect."
"The right man can drive workmen," declared Mr. Bascomb, with emphasis. "You'll have to drive your men. Get all the work out of them, but drop at once this foolish policy of interfering with what they do after the whistle blows. We can't have any more of this nonsense. It costs too much. By the way, how much will it cost to repair the damage to the retaining walls?"
"About eight thousand dollars, sir, if my first figuring was correct," was
Reade's answer.
"Eight thousand dollars!" scowled President Bascomb. "Now, Reade, doesn't that amount of wanton, revengeful mischief teach you the folly of trying to regulate camp life outside of working hours?"
"I'm afraid it doesn't, sir."
"Then you must be a fool, Reade!"
"Thank you, sir. I will add that you're not the first man who has suspected it."
"You will, therefore, Reade," continued Mr. Bascomb, with his grandest air of authority, "cause it to become known throughout the camp that you are not going to interfere any further with any form of amusement that is brought to the camp evenings by outsiders."
"Is that proposition number two, sir?" queried the young chief engineer.
"It is."
"Then please don't misunderstand me, sir," Reade begged, respectfully, "but it is declined, as is proposition number one."
"Do you mean to say that you are going to go on with your fool way of doing things?"
"Yes, sir—-until I am convinced that it is a fool way."
"But I've just told you that it is," snapped Mr. Bascomb.
"Then I say it very respectfully, sir, but pardon me for replying that I don't consider the evidence very convincing. I have shown you why I must have good order in the camp, and I have told you that I do not propose to allow gambling or any other disorderly conduct to go on within camp limits. I can't agree to these things, and then hope to win out by keeping the cost of the work within the appropriation."
"Do you feel that you'll keep within the appropriation by making enemies who deliberately blow up our masonry?" glared Mr. Bascomb.
"I doubt if there will be any more expense in that line, sir. I intend to have such a watch kept over the wall as to prevent any further mischief of the kind."
"Watchmen are an item of expense, aren't they?" snorted the president.
"Yes, sir; but next to nothing at all as compared with the mischief they can prevent."
"I have already told you how to prevent the mischief, Reade. Stop all of your foolish nonsense and let the men have their old-time pastimes."
"I can't do it, sir."
"Have you paper, pen and ink here?" thundered Mr. Bascomb. "If so, bring them."
Tom quietly obeyed.
"Reade," again thundered the president of the Melliston Company, "I have had as much of your nonsense as I intend to stand. You are out of here, from this minute. Take that pen and sign your resignation!"
CHAPTER VII
TOM ISN'T AS EASY AS HE LOOKS
"I don't believe I'll do that, sir," murmured Tom, putting down the pen.
"You don't, eh?"
"No, sir."
"Oh, then you'd rather wait and be forced out?"
"How about the contract, sir, between your company and Reade & Hazelton?
Contracts can't be broken as lightly as your words imply."
"I'll break that contract, if I set out to," declared Mr. Bascomb, purpling with half-suppressed rage. "I've every ground for breaking the contract. You're running things with a high hand here, and disorganizing all our efforts. No contract will stand on presentation of any such evidence as that before a court."
"I am quite willing to leave that to a court, if I have to," Reade rejoined. His tones were decidedly cold. "Mr. Bascomb, even if I were inclined to forfeit the contract I would have no legal right to do so without the approval of my partner, Hazelton."
"Humph! He's dead," snorted the president.
"That yet remains to be proved, sir," Tom answered huskily, his voice breaking slightly at thought of Harry.
"How on earth do you think you could defend a contract against a wealthy company like ours? Why, we could swamp you under our loose change alone. How much money have you in the world? Two or three thousand dollars, perhaps."
"I've a little more than that," Tom Reade smiled. "For one thing, I'm a third owner in the Ambition mine, on Indian Smoke Range, Nevada, and the Ambition has been a dividend payer almost from the start. Hazelton owns another third of the mine."
"Eh?" gasped Mr. Bascomb, plainly taken aback.
"Oh, we're not millionaires," Tom laughed easily. "Yet I fancy Hazelton and I could raise enough money to fight any breach-of-contract case in court. With a steady-paying mine, you know, we could even discount to some extent the earnings of future years."
"Oh, well, we don't want hard feelings," urged Mr. Bascomb, his manner becoming more peaceable. "The plain truth is, Reade, that we're utterly dissatisfied with your way of managing things here. When you know how the Melliston Company feels toward you, you don't want to be impudent enough to insist on hanging on, do you?"
"I am certain that I speak for my partner, sir, when I state that we won't drop the contract until we have fulfilled it," Tom muttered, coolly, but with great firmness.
"What's all this dispute about anyway, Bascomb?" a voice called cheerily from the hallway.
"Oh, it's you, is it, Prenter?" asked Mr. Bascomb, turning and not looking overjoyed at the interruption.
Simon F. Prenter was treasurer of the Melliston Company. Tom had met him at the time of signing the engineers' contract with the company. Now Reade sprang up to place a chair for the new arrival.
"What was all the row about?" Mr. Prenter asked affably. He was a man of about forty-five, rather stout, with light blue eyes that looked at one with engaging candor.
"I have been suggesting to Reade that he might resign," replied Mr.
Bascomb, stiffly.
"Why?" asked Prenter, opening his eyes wider.
"Because he has raised the mischief on this breakwater job. He has all the men by their ears, and the camp in open mutiny."
"So?" asked Mr. Prenter, looking astonished.
"Exactly, and therefore I have called upon the young man to resign."
"And he refuses?" queried the treasurer. "Most astounding obstinacy on the part of so young a man when dealing with his elder."
"I'll try to explain to you, Mr. Prenter," volunteered Reade, "just what
I've been trying to tell Mr. Bascomb."
"I don't know that I need trouble you," replied Mr. Prenter, moving so that he stood more behind the irate president. "I overheard what you were telling him."
Then the treasurer did a most unexpected thing. He winked broadly at the young engineer.
"Yes, Prenter," Mr. Bascomb went on, "this camp is in a state of mutiny.
The men are all at odds with their chief."
"Strange," murmured the treasurer of the Melliston Company. "When I paused on the porch, before entering, I thought I caught sight of unusual activity down at the water front. Did you notice it, too, Bascomb?"
"I noticed nothing of the sort," replied the president stiffly. "Am I to infer, Prenter, that you are going to follow your occasional tactics and try to laugh me out of my decision as president of the company?"
"Oh, nothing of the sort, I assure you," hastily protested the treasurer. But he found chance to drive another wink Tom Reade's way. The young chief engineer could not but feel that an ally had suddenly come his way.
"Now, what is the nature and extent of the mutiny?" asked Mr. Prenter.
"First of all, eight thousand dollars' damage has been done to the retaining wall of the breakwater," replied Mr. Bascomb. "That is, according to Mr. Reade's figures, which very likely may prove to be too low. Also, Mr. Hazelton has been murdered."
"Hazelton—-killed?" gasped Mr. Prenter showing genuine concern. "Of course I know that the telegram to the office said that Hazelton was missing, but I didn't suppose it was anything as tragic as a killing."
"Well, Hazelton can't be found, so I haven't a doubt he was killed as part of a general plan of mutiny and revenge on the part of the mixed crews of men working here," declared Mr. Bascomb.
"Oh, I sincerely hope that Hazelton hasn't lost his life here!" cried Mr. Prenter. "Reade, aren't you going to take us down to the water front and show us the extent of the damage?"
"I shall be only too glad to do so, sir," Tom agreed.
Even Mr. Bascomb consented at last to go. As they gained the porch
Nicolas rushed up with the cigars for which the president had sent him.
While Mr. Bascomb paused to light one, Mr. Prenter thrust an arm through
Tom's and led that youth down the road.
"Now, Mr. Reade," murmured the treasurer, earnestly, "Mr. Bascomb, of course, is our president, and I don't want you to treat him with the slightest disrespect. But Bascomb isn't the majority stockholder nor the whole board of directors, so I'll just drop this hint: When Bascomb talks of resignations don't attach too serious importance to it until you receive a resolution endorsing the same view and passed by the board of directors of the company."
"Thank you. I have no intention of resigning," smiled Tom.
"Now, let's go on," continued Mr. Prenter.
Mr. Bascomb, having his cigar lighted, seemed to prefer strolling in the rear by himself.
"Now, I don't want to give you any wrong impressions, Mr. Reade," went on Mr. Prenter. "Mr. Bascomb is the head of our company, but other directors represent more of the stock of the company than he does. I am one of them. Sometimes Mr. Bascomb gets a bit hard-headed, and he is inclined to give orders that others of us wouldn't approve. I judge that you and he were having some dispute when I happened along."
"I didn't regard it as a dispute, sir," Reade rejoined. "In the first place, I had discharged, for incompetency and faithlessness, a foreman named Evarts.
"And Evarts is a pet of Mr. Bascomb's," smiled Mr. Prenter. "I imagine that Evarts is even some sort of family connection who has to be looked after and kept in a good job."
"Anyway," Tom continued, "I explained that Evarts was worse than useless here and that I couldn't have him in the camp or on the job."
"Quite right, I fancy," nodded Mr. Prenter. "In the second place, Mr. Bascomb ordered me to stop my crusade against the gamblers who had tried to invade the camp and rob the men of their earnings. Hazelton and I had that sort of row once out in Arizona—-and we won out."
"You deserve to win out here, too," remarked Mr. Prenter. "I have no patience with anything but straight, uncompromising right. We can't control the men, if they see fit to leave the camp at night, but you have every right—-and it's your duty—-to see to it that no disorder is allowed within camp limits. I, too, have heard something about your trouble here, Mr. Reade, and I can promise you that the directors generally will sustain you. So Mr. Bascomb demanded your resignation?"
"He did, sir."
"Let it go at that," smiled Mr. Prenter. "You may even, sometime, if it will please Mr. Bascomb, hand him your resignation. I will see to it that it doesn't get past the board of directors. Mr. Bascomb is irritable, and sometimes he is a downright crank, but he is valuable to us just the same. We feel, too, Reade, that you and Hazelton are just the men we need to put this breakwater through in the best fashion."
"Even though at least eight thousand dollars in damage was done last night?" queried Tom.
"Yes, even in the face of that. I am certain that you will know how to forestall any more such spite work."
"Now, I'm not altogether so sure of that, sir," Reade answered, quickly. "Of course we'll be eternally vigilant after this, but the trick was done last night so cleverly and mysteriously that we may be surprised again by the plotters. Speaking of mystery, could anything be stranger, or harder to explain, than what happened to poor Hazelton?"
"There was mystery for you!" nodded Mr. Prenter. "Have you any ideas whatever on the subject of Hazelton's disappearance?"
"Not the slightest," groaned Tom. "I know all the indications are that he has been killed, and I ought to believe that such is the case. But I simply won't believe it. Why, if he were killed, what became of the body?"
"It's a puzzle," sighed Mr. Prenter.
They were now nearing the land end of the breakwater wall. Mr. Bascomb overtook them. Together the three strolled out along the wall, halting frequently, to observe what the men were doing. It was their plan to keep on until they came to the scene of the two explosions of the night before.
"Just what are you doing here?" asked Mr. Bascomb, stopping and pointing to a gang of men at work on a scow moored against the wall.
"I can tell you, after a fashion, sir," Reade answered. "Yet this was a part of Hazelton's performance. He had charge here, and knew ever so much about it. Poor old Harry!"
Behind them, at the beginning of the wall, a long, loud whistle sounded.
In a moment fully a hundred of the workmen stood up, waved their caps and cheered as though they had gone mad.
Coming forward, with long strides, was Harry Hazelton, in the flesh!
CHAPTER VIII
MR. PRENTER INVESTIGATES
Tom suddenly felt dizzy. He wished to race back, to be the first to greet his chum and press his hand. But just then Reade felt strangely bewildered.
"Of course I don't believe in ghosts!" Tom laughed nervously.
"No!" chuckled Mr. Prenter. "This is real flesh and blood that is coming toward us."
Now, for the first time, Tom Reade knew just how fully he had believed, in the inner temple of his soul, that Harry Hazelton had been actually killed.
"Pulling my work to pieces, are you, Tom?" Harry called jovially.
"P—-p—-pardon me for not coming to meet you, old fellow, b—-b——but I'm dumbfounded at seeing you," Tom called back.
Harry, too, looked rather unsteady in his gait by the time he joined them. The last few yards he tried to run along the wall. Tom thrust out an arm and caught him just in time.
"You've been hurt, Harry!" gasped Tom.
"Yes, and I guess I'm a bit weak, even now," Hazelton mumbled. "Hurt?
Look at this."
Hazelton uncovered his head, displaying a court-plaster bandage underneath which clotted blood showed.
"Where in the world have you been?" Tom quivered.
"At sea," Harry answered, with an attempt at banter.
"What happened to you?"
"Tom, you remember the big black man I imagined that I saw last night?"
"Of course I do."
"He was a reality," Harry went on soberly. "After you had gone he appeared again. We had it hot and heavy. I saw your boat coming, and I yelled—-"
"I heard you," Tom interposed. "We got along as speedily as we could."
"And you didn't find me," finished Harry. "That brute hit me over the head with something. We clinched and rolled into the gulf together. That was the last that I remember clearly for some time. For a long time I had a dream that I was bobbing about in water, and that I had my arms around a floating log. By and by I came to sufficiently to discover that the dream was a reality. I was holding to the log in grim earnest. How I came to find the log I can't imagine. I think, while more than half unconscious, I must have been swimming straight out into the gulf. Then I must have touched the log and clung to it instinctively. Anyway, when I recovered more fully I knew that the 'long-shore lights looked thousands of miles away. I was too weak even to dream of trying to swim back, or to push the log before me. So I got a stout piece of cord out of one of my pockets and lashed myself to the log. I was afraid I might become unconscious again. A part of the time I was unconscious.
"Well after daylight I saw a sloop headed my way. It didn't look as though it would go straight by either. So I waved my handkerchief—-my hat was gone. After a while the skipper of the sloop saw me and headed in for me. It was a sloop that carries the mails to Hetherton, a village that has no rail connection.
"The captain hauled me aboard, questioned me, looked as though he more than half doubted my yarn, and then put me to bed in the cabin of the sloop. He attended to me as best he could. When we reached Hetherton, about noon, a doctor patched me up. I had something to eat, bought this new hat, and hired a driver to take me ten miles to the railway. Then I came over here as soon as I could, and—-pardon me, but I'm feeling weak. I'll sit down right here."
Harry sat down heavily on the wall.
"Why didn't you wire me?" asked Tom.
"Why, you didn't doubt but that I'd turn up as surely as any other bad egg, did you?" questioned Harry, looking up.
"Chum, I wouldn't admit it, even to myself, but I feared you were dead.
But we mustn't waste time talking. Describe that black man to me, and—-"
"And the company will hire detectives to start right on the trail of that negro," interjected Mr. Prenter.
"If—-if the expense is really warranted," ended Mr. Bascomb, cautiously.
"Warranted?" retorted the treasurer of the Melliston Company. "Why, it is absolutely necessary to protect our work here! That big negro is the key to the mystery. We must catch him if it costs us a thousand dollars."
"Oh, well," assented President Bascomb, reluctantly.
"I—-I guess I'm all right to start in to work now," Harry suggested, trying to rise.
"Sit down—-you're not!" replied Tom and Treasurer Prenter, in the same breath, as both pressed Harry back to the wall.
"We don't need work so much to-day," Mr. Prenter continued. "What we want to do is to solve this mystery. You stay here, Hazelton. I'll go back alone and find a 'bus or a carriage. Then we'll go back to camp and hold a council of war. Something must be done, and we'll decide how it's to be done."
Mr. Prenter, though no longer a young man, proved that he carried both speed and agility in his feet. While he was gone Tom endeavored to get a few more particulars from Harry, but Hazelton simply didn't know anything that threw any more light on the dread mystery of the breakwater.
"Then a million-dollar undertaking like this is to be constantly imperiled, just because of a senseless moral crusade that you two young men are trying to put through in the camp," declared Mr. Bascomb moodily.
Tom covertly signaled his chum to pay no heed to this remark.
Within a quarter of an hour Treasurer Prenter returned in a stage drawn by two sorry looking horses.
"This will carry us up to the house, if the affair doesn't break down,"
Mr. Prenter called cheerily. "Come along, folks."
Soon afterwards the four were back on the porch. Nicolas came gliding out to see what he could do for their comfort.
"Just circulate around and make sure that no one gets close enough to hear what we're talking about," Mr. Prenter directed. He had already ordered the driver of the stage to withdraw a few rods and await orders.
"Now, then, Hazelton," continued the treasurer, "we're anxious to hear more of your strange story."
"I've told you all there is to it," protested Harry.
"Surely, there must be some more to it."
"There isn't."
"Then, for the tale of an engineer who was all but murdered, and a case enveloped in mystery from end to end," cried Mr. Prenter, "we have a most singular scarcity of details."
"There are only two more details needed, as it appears to me," Tom remarked quietly.
"Good! And what are they?" demanded the treasurer, wheeling around to look keenly at the young chief engineer.
"The two details we now need," Reade continued, "are, first, who was the negro? Second, who was behind the negro in this rascally work?"
"Only two points to be solved," suggested the treasurer mockingly, "but pretty big points. Of course, the first point is—-"
"To find that negro, and get him jailed," Tom declared incisively.
"Good enough!" nodded Mr. Prenter. "The detectives will find the negro."
"Will they?" Tom asked. "Then that will be something new, indeed. I've seen detectives employed a good deal, Mr. Prenter, and generally all they catch are severe colds and items to stick in on the expense account."
"Oh, there are some real detectives in this country," contended Mr.
Prenter. "We'll engage some of them, too."
"The expense of hiring detectives will be very large," murmured Mr.
Bascomb uneasily.
"Yes, it will," agreed the treasurer with a laugh. "But never mind. It's always my task to find funds for the company, you know."
"Harry," Tom broke in, "just what did that negro look like?"
"About six-foot-three," answered Hazelton, slowly and thoughtfully. "He was broad of shoulder and comparatively slim at the waist. He must weigh from two hundred and twenty-five to thirty pounds. As to age, I couldn't tell you whether he was nearer thirty or forty years. From his agility I should place him in the thirty-year class."
"Any beard?"
"Smooth-faced."
"Scars?"
"I couldn't see that much in the dark."
"Color of his clothes?"
"Some darkish stuff—-that's all I can say."
"Could you pick him out of a crowd of negroes?"
"Not if they were all of the same height and weight," Hazelton admitted.
"Do you think you ever saw him before?" Reade pressed.
"I'm sure that I never have," Harry replied.
"Then he wasn't one of our men in this camp at any time?" Mr. Prenter interjected.
"We have never had a man in the camp as large as this negro," Harry rejoined.
"Such a very large black man ought not to be hard for the detectives to locate," Prenter continued.
"Very good, sir. Then you can let the sleuths have a try at the matter,"
Tom suggested.
"Have you any telegraph blanks here?"
Tom went inside, coming out with a pad of blanks. Mr. Prenter addressed a dispatch to the head of a detective agency in Mobile.
"We'll get the 'bus driver to take this over to town," said Mr. Prenter, as he signed the dispatch.
"You had better send your dispatch by Nicolas, who is so faithful that he can't be pumped, and he never talks about things that he shouldn't."
The Mexican was accordingly sent away in the stage. When he returned
Nicolas busied himself with getting supper and setting it on the table.
Superintendent Renshaw returned from the work in time to join the others
at table.
"Mr. Reade, how are you going to protect the works to-night?" inquired the superintendent.
"I'm going to order Foreman Corbett and twenty men to night duty," Tom answered. "The motor boat will also be out to-night. We'll have every bit of the wall watched by men with lanterns."
"What you ought to do," suggested Treasurer Prenter, "is to light the breakwater up with electric lights. You have steam power enough here, and with a dynamo you could supply current to the lights."
"There's the expense to be considered," mildly observed President Bascomb.
"The expense is a good deal less than having the wall damaged by more explosions," said Prenter, rather sharply. "Reade, how long would it take you to get an electric light service going?"
"It ought not to take more than three or four days, sir, if we can pick up a suitable dynamo in Mobile. But there's another point to be considered. We very likely would have to obtain the permission of the Washington authorities before we could run a line of lights out into the Gulf of Mexico. You see, sir, so many uncharted lights might confuse the navigators of passing ships."
"Write Washington, then, and find out where you stand in the matter," directed the treasurer.
"Yes, sir; I'll do that," Reade agreed.
"But don't order any electrical supplies until you've got an estimate of the cost and have it approved by me," hinted President Bascomb. This cautious direction made Mr. Prenter shrug his shoulders.
Dinner finished, all hands went out to sit on the porch. Mr. Bascomb soon began to ask questions about the camp, the housing of the men, and about other details of the camp.
"Although it is dark it's still early. Wouldn't you like to go over through the camp with us?" proposed Tom.
Mr. Bascomb agreeing, the whole party set out, only Nicolas remaining behind to keep an eye over the house.
Though he did not then suspect it Tom was on the threshold of more trouble in the camp.
CHAPTER IX
INVITED TO LEAVE CAMP
Lanterns hung here and there on poles lighted the camp. Men who toil hard all day do not usually want a long evening. Many of the men were already inside their tents or shacks, preparing for bed.
At least two hundred, however, were still stirring in the streets of the camp. Tom led his friends near one of the groups. A warning hiss was heard, and then a man in a remote group, urged by his comrades, rose and staggered toward a shack. Tom was at the man's side in an instant. He proved to be an Italian.
"My man, you appear to be intoxicated," Tom remarked, quietly, as he gripped the Italian by the arm.
"No spikka da English," hiccoughed the laborer. As he spoke he tried to free himself from the engineer's grasp. He staggered, and would have fallen, had not Tom prevented the fall.
"Where's this man's gang-master?" Tom demanded, looking about him sharply, while he still held the drunken man.
None of the Italians addressed appeared to know. For the most part they took refuge in the fact or the pretense that they didn't understand English.
"Get an Italian gang-master, Harry," Tom murmured softly.
Hazelton bolted away, but was soon back, followed by a dark-skinned man who came with apparent reluctance.
"You're a gang-master?" Tom demanded, looking sharply at the man. "This fellow is intoxicated."
"Is he?" asked the gang-master.
"Yes, he is," Tom declared, bluntly. "Now, where did the man get the liquor."
"I do not know," replied the gang-master, shrugging his shoulders.
"Then it's your business to know—-if he got his liquor in camp. We won't allow any of that stuff in camp, and you gang-masters all know that."
"I can't stop a man from going to town to get liquor," argued the gang-master.
"No; you can't," Tom admitted. "Neither can I. But it's your duty, gang-master, to see that no liquor is brought back into camp. This man hasn't been to town for the stuff either. He hasn't had time enough to go away over to Blixton and get enough liquor to make him drunk. Moreover, in his present condition, the fellow couldn't have walked back from town the same evening. This man got his liquor in camp, and it will have to be stopped. Now, put this man in his shack; see that he gets into bed. Then come back to me."
The gang-master obeyed.
"We'll see if we can't put a complete stop to this sort of thing," Reade muttered.
"Now, do you think it's going to be well to interfere so much with the movements of the men?" asked President Bascomb, in an undertone. "I am afraid that you'll only start more dissatisfaction and more treachery among them."
"This having liquor in camp is going to be stopped, sir," Tom insisted. "A keg of liquor will demoralize a whole campful of men like these. They are an excitable lot, and they go crazy when there's any liquor around. If we don't put a stop to it, then there'll be fights, and then a few murders are most likely to follow. I've had plenty of experience with men such as we have here, and the stopping of liquor in camp means our only safety, and our only chance to have our work well done. Come along; let the gang-master follow us."
Tom went directly up to a group of workmen who had been looking curiously on. Most of them were Italians, but there were a few negroes present.
"Now; men, gather around me," Tom requested. "I want to talk to you.
Come close."
As they did so Reade rested a hand on the shoulder of a negro.
"My friend," said Tom, "you've been drinking to-night."
"No, sah, boss! 'Deed I hasn't," replied the negro, earnestly.
"Man, don't you think I have a nose?" Tom demanded, dryly. "Every time you open your mouth I smell the fumes of the stuff. There are other men in this group, too, who have been drinking. I want you all to realize that this sort of thing must stop in this camp. We don't want fights and killings, nor do we want men who wake up so seedy in the morning that they can't do a proper day's work. As I look about me I see at least eight men who have been drinking this evening. That shows me that some one has been bringing liquor into the camp."
Other workmen were now approaching, curious to know what was in the air.
Tom, glancing about him, suddenly, fastened his gaze on one man in particular. This was a lanky, sallow-looking chap of some thirty years.
"See here, just what is your errand in this camp?" Reade demanded, confronting the man.
"Is it any of your particular business?" demanded the fellow, with some insolence in his tone.
"Yes; it is," Reade assured him, promptly. "I'm chief engineer in this camp, and I've asked you what you are doing here!"
"Is it against any law for an outsider to come into camp?" argued the stranger.
"Answer me," Tom insisted, stepping closer. "What are you doing in this camp?"
"I won't tell you," came the surly retort.
"You don't have to," Reade snapped, as he suddenly ran one hand over the sallow man's clothing. Out of the fellow's hip pocket Tom briskly brought a quart-bottle to light. It was about half-filled with some liquid.
"Here, give that back to me!" growled the fellow. "It's mine."
"I'm glad you admit it," rejoined Reade, drawing the cork and taking a sniff as Hazelton slipped in front of him to protect him. "This is liquor. So you're the bootlegger who is bringing this stuff into camp to sell to the men? You won't come here after to-night if I can find any way of keeping you out."
Reade finished his remark by re-corking the bottle and throwing it down hard on the ground. The bottle was smashed to flinders, the liquor running over the ground.
"Here, you! You had no right to do that!" roared the fellow. He made an effort to reach Tom, but Harry gave the fellow a shove that sent him spinning back. "You'll pay me for that stuff, Reade, since you destroyed it."
"How much?" asked Tom, artlessly.
"A dollar and a half," insisted the stranger, coming forward as Reade thrust one hand into trousers pocket.
Tom withdrew the hand, laughing.
"Much obliged, my friend," mocked the young chief engineer. "You've confessed all that I wanted to know. You've tried to charge me the price of a pint of liquor sold in single drinks. That confesses that you've been in camp to sell liquor to the men. I shall pay you nothing, for you're here against the law and against the camp regulations. You're engaged in selling liquor illegally. If I catch you in camp again on that business, my friend, I'll arrest you and hold you until the officers come over from Blixton and take you."
Then, in the next moment, Tom suddenly shot out:
"Harry, see to it that our friend doesn't run away just yet!"
"What are you up to?" demanded the man, as Tom stepped close once more, while Harry rested a hand on his shoulder.
"For a rather warm evening," Reade rejoined, "it strikes me that it's a bit odd for you to be wearing a long top-coat. I'm going to look you over a bit."
"You get out and keep away from me!" blustered the man, raising one of his fists. But Harry caught at that arm and held it. Treasurer Prenter, who had been looking on with keen interest, seized the other arm.
"You let go of me, or you'll run up against the law for assault!" warned the stranger.
His captors, however, held him, while Tom rapidly ran his hands over the stranger's clothing. As a result, within less than a full minute, Tom had removed two full quart bottles and six smaller ones from the fellow's various pockets. All of these the young chief engineer threw on the ground, smashing them.
From the crowd gathered about, which numbered more than sixty men of three different races, a howl went up. President Bascomb began to shiver.
"I'll make you sweat for this!" raved the stranger.
"Let go of the fellow, please," said Tom. Then, as Harry and Mr. Prenter stepped aside, Reade added, "I'll admit, Mr. Bootleg, that I've behaved in a rather high-handed fashion with you. But I'm justified in doing it. You have been breaking the law of the state, moving through this camp and selling liquor. You represent the scum of the otherwise decent population of Alabama. If you think you've any redress in the courts, my name is Reade and you can hire a lawyer and get after me as hard and as fast as you like."
"I'll take personal satisfaction out of you!" stormed the fellow.
"All right," Tom agreed laconically. "You may start now, if you feel like doing it. I'll agree that none of my friends or workmen shall take any part in anything you feel like starting. If you can thrash me then you shall be allowed to depart in peace after you've done it."
Tom did not put up his hands, though he watched keenly to see whether the stranger meant to attack him. The stranger muttered unintelligible threats, then he turned to the laborers pressing about him.
"Men," he demanded, "are you going to be free, or are you going to allow yourselves to be treated like a lot of slaves by this boy?"
"If that's all you've got to say," Tom warned "you may as well start now."
"Start?" scoffed the sallow-faced one. "Where to?"
"Anywhere, outside of this camp," Tom informed him. "You can't stay here any longer, and you can't come here again. If I catch you, again, on this company's property, I'll see to it that you're arrested, and locked up for trespass."
"That's the way to talk!" nodded Treasurer Prenter, approvingly.
"I guess I'll go when I get good and ready," asserted the stranger.
In the front ranks of the crowd pressing around them, Reade now discerned the face of the Italian gang-master with whom he had talked recently.
"What's your name?" Tom demanded, turning about on the gang-master.
"Scipio, sir."
"Then, Scipio, take four men, and escort this fellow out of the camp. Don't use any force unless you have to, but see to it that this fellow leaves camp as quickly as he can walk—-or be dragged. Start him now."
Gang-master Scipio plainly didn't like the job, but he liked it better than he did the idea of being discharged. So he spoke to four Italians about him, and the five surrounded the man.
"Hol' on dar, Boss Reade!" spoke up a negro. "Ef yo' carry dis matter too far, den dere's gwine to be a strike on dis wohk. Jess ez dis gemman sez, we ain't no slaves. Yo' try to stop all our pleasures ebenings, an' dar's gwine be a strike—-shuah!"
"You may strike right now, if you wish to," Tom retorted, facing the last speaker. "Mr. Renshaw will be prepared to pay you off within hour. Any other man in this camp who isn't content to get along without liquor and gambling may as well strike at the same time. Mr. Renshaw, it's half-past eight. At nine o'clock please be at the house ready to pay off any man who isn't satisfied to live and work in a camp where neither drinking nor gambling is allowed. Scipio, why haven't you started that fellow away from here?"
"Too bigga crowd in front of us," replied the Italian gang-master, shrugging his shoulders.
"Come on, Harry," Tom replied. "We'll see if we can't make a way through the crowd." The two young engineers placed themselves at the head of the squad, and succeeded quickly in opening up a passage through a crowd that seemed to be at least half hostile.
Thus Tom found himself soon face to face with an American.
"Evarts!" Reade cried, angrily. "What are you doing here?"
"I'm here by permission," snarled the discharged foreman.
"Whose permission?" Tom insisted, briskly.
"Mr. Bascomb's," replied Evarts, with a leer so full of satisfaction that
Reade didn't doubt the truth of the statement.
"Mr. Bascomb," Tom called, "did you tell Evarts that he might visit this camp?"
"Yes; I did," admitted the president of the company, stiffly.
"Then I'm sorry to say that Evarts has been misinformed," Tom went on.
"He can't visit this camp. He's too much of a trouble-maker here."
"Shut up your talk!" jeered Evarts roughly. "Don't try to give orders to the president of the company that hires and pays you."
"Mr. Bascomb is the head of the company that employs me," Tom assented. "But I am in charge here, and am responsible, with Mr. Hazelton, for the good order of the camp and the success of the work. Therefore, Evarts, you'll leave camp now, and you won't come back again under pain of being punished for trespass."
"Oh, now see here, Reade—-" began Mr. Bascomb angrily, as he started forward. But Treasurer Prenter caught Bascomb by the arm, whispering in his ear.
"Waiting for you, Mr. Bascomb," called Evarts.
"I guess you'd better go," called the president, rather shamefacedly, after his talk with Mr. Prenter. "I guess maybe Reade is right. At all events his contract places him in charge of this camp."
"Humph, Evarts, a lot of good you can do us here, can't you?" sneered the sallow-faced fellow.
Tom looked first at one, and then at the other of the pair.
"So," guessed Reade shrewdly, "Evarts has been at the head of this game of unlawful liquor selling in this camp. There are other vendors here, too, are there?"
"You lie!" yelled the discharged foreman.
"You may prove that, at your convenience," Reade replied, without even a heightening of his color. "For the present, though, you're going to get out of camp and stay out."
"I called you a liar," sneered Evarts, "and you haven't the sand to fight about it."