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The Young Engineers on the Gulf, a fiction by H. Irving Hancock |
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Chapter 9. Invited To Leave Camp |
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_ 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." "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. _ |
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