"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."

"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!



CHAPTER XV

A DAVID FOR A GOLIATH

From his pockets the big fellow brought out a coil of stout cord. Without much trouble he slipped a noose over one of Tom's wrists. Then began an active fight, the object of which, on the black man's part, was to make the other wrist secure.

But here Tom developed an amount of agility and a skill in fighting that angered Sambo.

"Doggone yo', ef yo' won't take it peaceable-like, den yo'll get it do odder way."

With that, Sambo delivered a blow that made young Reade see stars. His head swam dizzily. Now, the black man secured the other wrist, making a turn and a knot that would have done credit to an expert.

But about that time something else happened. Whack! A blow from a club landed across the negro's head.

"Who doin' dat?" demanded the negro, blinking and half turning.

"I did eet, you miser-r-r-rable black smoke, and I do eet again!" rang the voice of Nicolas, as that valiant Mexican circled around the negro.

"Yo' blow away, yaller baby!" jeered Sambo, whose head had been not at all hurt by the blow.

"I show you eel I run away!" bridled up Nicolas.

Tom now began to recover enough to know that his faithful servant was on the scene.

"Scoot, Nicolas!" urged Tom, in a gasping Voice. "Run for all you're worth. This fellow will eat you up. Run and bring help."

"Senor, I can wheep him with one hand!" vaunted the little Mexican.

"Run, I tell you, and get help. Be like a flash, man!"

"As you say, Senor, but—-"

Nicolas turned, speeding away.

His escape, however, would interfere, possibly, with the plans of Sambo. The big black leaped up, racing after Nicolas.

As the Mexican was a little fellow, and short of leg, it was not long before the pursuer caught up with him.

"Hol' on, yo' yaller rascal!" laughed Sambo, reaching out for the Mexican. Nicolas wheeled about, dancing out of reach of the negro's massive hands.

"Stand still, yo' li'l' Greaser!" laughed Sambo.

"Now you have insult me, and I show you what I do to you!" snarled Nicolas, his brown face aflame at the taunting word, "Greaser."

"Come heah!" jeered Sambo, making a bound and reaching for the small man.

Nicolas dodged, but he did not run away. Instead, he bobbed up inside of the negro's reach. The Mexican thrust out his slim, sinewy right-hand forefinger. A vicious poke he gave with it, landing sharply on a spot just about an inch and a quarter below the base of the negro's breast bone.

"Woof!" panted Sambo, half doubling, for Nicolas had touched a tender spot.

"You have insult me! You call me mean name!" raged Nicolas. "Stand steel, you big black smoke!"

Again Nicolas ducked and rushed in. Once more he employed his forefinger tip in the same fashion, and with more power.

"O-o-o-o-o-h! Wow!" gasped Sambo, this time doubling nearly to the ground. "Get away, chile! I doan' wan' no mo' ob yo'!"

"You have insult," insisted Nicolas angrily, "and I do much more yet to you."

This time the negro appeared almost helpless. Nicolas danced about, looking for an opening. In desperation Sambo struck out with his powerful left. It gave the Mexican the chance he wanted. Darting in, he repeated his trick for the third time.

The bulky negro lay down, groaning. He had too little breath left to be dangerous.

While this was going on Tom Reade had rolled over on his face. From this position he succeeded in getting to his knees. Then he rose and hastened toward the Mexican.

"Nicolas, you're surely a little terror!" Reade admitted, admiringly. "Now, untie my hands and we'll take care of Sambo."

"Wait—-jus' one leetle moment, Senor," begged the Mexican. He turned back to Sambo, that forefinger ready for another jab.

"Fo' de lub ob goodness—-" gasped Sambo. But Nicolas was determined. He made the jab, and Sambo all but lost the little breath that was in him.

"Now, Senor, we do it all in one second," proclaimed the Mexican. From his pocket he drew a knife, springing the blade open. Snip! snip! and the young engineer was free of his lashings.

"There's plenty of this cord left," declared Tom. "We'll fix up our black friend."

"Do not use that word, Senor," implored Nicolas. "He is no good! He is scoundrel! He call me Greaser, an' I will keeck off his head for eet!"

"Wait until we get him tied," Tom proposed.

Sambo, by this time, had gained strength enough to sit up. He was wondering whether he could rise to his feet and sprint away from this dangerous little fury of a Mexican.

"Wait, you black cloud!" cried Nicolas. "I will put you down again!"

"Yo' get away from me—-please do!" begged Sambo, recoiling in terror.

"Sambo," laughed Tom, "Africa shouldn't have stirred up Mexico as you did. Now, lie down on your face, place your hands behind you, and I will persuade him to let you alone."

Sambo hesitated.

"Let me at him, Senor!" begged Nicolas, maneuvering forward, his right hand ready. "He is no good, I tell you! But I feex him!"

With a yell Sambo Ebony flopped over on his face, placing his hands behind his back.

"Let him alone, Nicolas, as long as he minds," ordered Reade, catching the excited Mexican by the collar. "Only, if he shows signs of making trouble then sail into him fast."

No sign of trouble, however, was there in Sambo. He lay as meek as a lamb while Tom used a lot of the spare cord in taking sundry hitches around the negro's wrists.

"I don't believe he'll get out of that," said Reade grimly, "Now, we'll fix his feet."

This, too, was done, and Sambo lay helpless on the ground.

"You'll make a fine-looking jailbird, my friend," mocked Tom, looking down at the prisoner. "Nor did any man ever better deserve the striped suit that the State of Alabama will present you. Now, Nicolas, I'll stay and watch this black treasure while you run and find help."

"Senor, you go yourself," begged the Mexican. "The men will obey you more queeckly than they would me."

"Oh, you find some of the men and tell 'em to come here to get the fellow who has been blowing up the wall, and they'll come fast enough," smiled Tom.

"But, Senor, suppose thees scoundrel free himself?"

"I won't let him, Nicolas."

"But eef he do?" persisted the Mexican. "Then, as I have shown you, Senor, I can take fine care of heem!"

"There's something in that, too," laughed Tom. "Nicolas, I don't believe it will be risking you any if I leave you here. Besides, I won't have to be gone very long."

"If this black scoundrel he get restless, Senor, I will amuse heem with my forefinger."

Sambo groaned; Nicolas grinned.

"All right," Tom Reade laughed. "I'll be back as soon as I can."

Away he raced at a dog-trot, chuckling. The contrast between bulky Sambo and little Nicolas and the big negro's comic fear of the slim little fellow kept Reade laughing.

"But where on earth did Nicolas learn that trick?" Tom wondered. "I shall have to get him to show it to me. Plainly that trick is worth more than all the muscle that I spent so many years in piling on."

Tom headed his course for the shore end of the wall. Here he would find men in abundance. Moreover, now that the big black was a prisoner the men would hardly be needed on the wall.

"I think I know just how Sambo worked it, too," the engineer reflected, as he ran. "He swam out into the Gulf, towing that little scow behind him. Neither his black head nor the little scow would be seen far on the water on a dark night. Sambo, when he got near enough, could take one of the metal tubes, swim in under water to some point where no watchman was near, and stick the tube fast into the wall. Then another tube, and another—-all under water where they would not show to a passing watchman.

"Then, when he had all in place, and while no patrolling watchman was too near, Sambo could begin to attach the wires. That would take but a few minutes. Whenever any one came too near Sambo had but to swim out a little way and tread water until he could return to his job. When, at last, all was complete, Sambo would attach a wire from the bombs to a wire moored at a stated point under water, and then swim in, work his magneto, and touch the whole thing off from a safe hiding place on shore. The explosion itself would shatter the last length of wire. Oh, but it was all slick and easy!"

Not increasing his speed, but keeping steadily at the jog-trot, Tom was at last near enough to the wall to raise his voice and shout.

"Hullo!" came back the answer.

"This is Reade, the chief engineer," Tom answered, through the night. "We've caught the fellow that has been blowing up the wall. A half a dozen of you men hurry over here with your lanterns. Come on the run."

The man who had answered summoned several of his comrades as quickly as he could. As the men had to come in from the wall, however, it took a little time. Then six men reported, almost breathless, to Reade. Still behind them came Corbett on the run, summoned from the boat.

"What's this I hear, Mr. Reade?" puffed the foreman. "You've solved the mystery and caught the fellow who has been dynamiting the wall?"

"Got him and he's tied up, waiting for his ride to jail," Tom chuckled.

"How did it happen, sir?" asked Corbett, staring with his eyes very wide open.

"I caught the fellow—-a huge giant of a negro, the same fellow who got Hazelton the other night," replied Tom. "But before the fight was over the black 'got' me, instead, and had me tied up. Then Nicolas came along and put the negro out of the fight, and—-"

"Nicolas?" demanded Foreman Corbett incredulously.

"Yes. Nicolas proved himself to be the most fiery little bunch of fighting material that I have ever seen," laughed Reade, as they walked rapidly along.

"How could that Mexican wallop a giant?"

"I'll ask Nicolas to show you, to-morrow," Tom laughed mischievously. "But, Corbett, I believe that four bombs are even now attached to some part of the retaining wall, ready to be set off.

"Great Scott!"

"They won't be set off, though," continued Reade. "I found the firing magneto, and had a chance to cut the wires."

The foreman wanted to ask more questions, while the half dozen workmen trudged along close at their heels, eager to hear every word. Tom, however, suggested that they save their breath in the interest of speed, until they had Mr. Sambo Ebony in safe custody.

"Here we come, Nicolas!" Tom called, as the party neared the spot where captor and captive had been left.

There was no response.

"Nicolas!" Tom called again, with a start.

Still no answer.

"I don't like the look of that," Reade uttered. "Let's get there on the sprint!"

Tom himself caught at one of the lanterns, leading the way. Neither the negro nor the Mexican was where the young chief engineer had left them.

Feverishly, Tom began to search the ground, holding his lantern close.

"Hang the luck!" he quivered, pointing to fragments of cord on the sand. "That negro simply burst his bonds—-and now where is he? Where is Nicolas, for that matter? I thought the little fellow, with his trick, could easily take care of the big black."

But, though they spread out and searched, there was no sign of either the negro or the little brown man.

"I can't understand what has happened," quivered Tom Reade, thinking more of the staunch little Mexican than of the loss of the prisoner.



CHAPTER XVI

A TEST OF REAL NERVE

"What an idiot I was not to stop to consider that Sambo Ebony could snap those cords!" groaned Tom, staring disconcertedly about him. "Yet, if Nicolas were safe I wouldn't so much mind the escape of the black. I shall see him again, and I shall know him wherever I see him."

"Let's look for the trail," proposed Foreman Corbett, holding one of the lanterns close to the ground.

The trail, however, was easy neither to distinguish nor to follow.

"We may as well leave here and search farther," concluded the young engineer. "Before we go, though, we'll get the magneto and take it with us."

Then the procession turned toward the land end of the retaining wall.

"If Nicolas doesn't show up soon," Tom murmured to the foreman, "I shall notify the Blixton police and offer a reward for news of him. That little fellow is too faithful to be left to his fate."

"What would the negro want of Nicolas?" queried the foreman.

"Revenge," Tom replied. "It makes a big bully like him furious to be handled the way Nicolas treated him. But I can't understand how Nicolas failed to repeat his clever trick with the black."

Arrived at the water front the magneto was dumped into the motor boat.

"Seems to me I would smash that thing all to pieces," Suggested Foreman Corbett. "It has done harm enough around this wall."

"I don't believe in destroying anything that is useful," Reade answered, shaking his head. "Besides, we are going to capture Sambo yet, and then we shall want that magneto for evidence."

"What are you going to do to find Nicolas?" Corbett wanted to know.

"I wish I had even an idea," Tom sighed. "Corbett, I wish you would hurry over to Blixton and rout out the police. I've an idea that Sambo may have a hiding place in the town. Nicolas, too, may have been taken that way. I'll sit down and write out a good description of the rascal."

This Reade did, handing the paper to the foreman.

"Who'll take charge here? Corbett asked.

"I will, until you get back, but hurry."

As soon as the foreman had gone Tom stepped into the motor boat, taking the wheel.

"Tune up the engine, Conlon," Reade directed the engine tender. "I'm going to take a run around to the west side of the wall. I'm going to try to find the tubes of high explosive that I'm satisfied were planted in the wall."

"That's a fine job for a dark night, sir," grumbled Conlon. "Suppose we run into the bombs, and they prove to be contact exploders, too?"

"That's one of the risks of the business," Tom retorted grimly.

Before the motor boat had gone far Tom called one of the men aboard to take the wheel. Then the young chief engineer began to experiment with the searchlight.

"What's the idea, sir?" asked Conlon, looking on.

"I want to depress the light, so that we can use it to look down into the water."

"And try to find the bombs?"

"Exactly," Reade nodded.

"Lucky if we don't find the bombs with the keel of the boat," observed Conlon.

Tom succeeded in rigging the light so that he could use it. By the time that the boat was around at the west side of the retaining wall Tom ordered the boat in close alongside. Then, with the depressed searchlight he discovered that he could see the sides of the wall to a depth of some eight feet under the surface.

"That may be enough for our needs," Reade murmured. "Now, run the boat along, slowly and close. I want to scan every bit of the wall."

Less than five minutes later Tom Reade, one hand controlling the searchlight and peering steadily into the water, sang out:

"Stop! Back her—-slowly. There, come back five feet. So! Hold her steady!"

As the engine stopped Conlon stepped forward, kneeling by Reade's side.

"There are the bombs, man!" cried Tom exultantly. "See them—-the two upper ones?"

"I see something that gleams," admitted Conlon.

"Well, we'll have them up and aboard in a hurry. Then you'll see just what they are."

"You're not going to try to raise the things with the boathook, are you?" queried the engine tender, a look of alarm in his eyes.

"That might be risky," admitted Reade. "I'll go over the side after them and bring them up.

"Don't, Mr. Reade!" urged Conlon with a shiver. "That'll be worse still. You're likely to blow yourself into the next world!"

"I think not—-hope not, anyway," answered Tom steadily. "Have you a pair of pliers in your tool box that'll cut small wires?"

"Yes," replied Conlon.

"Get them for me."

Reade removed his coat, shoes and socks, then took the pliers.

"Let one of the men jump ashore with the boathook and hold the boat steady," was Reade's next direction.

This being done, Reade deflected the searchlight for one more look into the water. Then, the pliers in his right hand, he mounted to the rail of the boat.

"Be careful, sir—-do," begged Conlon. "What I'm afraid of is that the bombs are contact exploders."

"It's likely," nodded Reade. "I'll be as careful as I can."

Tom did not dive; the distance was too short. Instead, he let himself down into the water slowly. Then his head vanished beneath the surface of the water.

"Whew! The nerve of that young fellow!", thought Conlon with shuddering admiration.

"Ob co'se Massa Reade done got nerve," nodded the negro at the wheel. "Dat's one reason why, Misto Conlon, Massa Reade is boss."

"There are other reasons why he's boss," grunted the engine tender. "Mr. Reade has nerve, but he also has brains in his head. Any man with brains and the sense to use 'em goes to the top, while I stay down a good deal lower, and you, Rastus, are still lower."

"Ah reckon Ah got a two-bit hat on top o' only two cents' wo'th o' brains, Misto Conlon," grinned the darkey.

Conlon was an Irishman, and naturally, therefore, no coward. Yet with the possibility that Tom would run afoul of a contact-exploding bomb and send them all skyward, the engine tender waited at the rail with drawn breath.

Finally, there was a ripple on the water. Then Tom's head appeared; next his shoulders.

"Conlon!"

"Here, sir."

"Here is one of the bombs. Handle it carefully."

"Trust me, sir."

Conlon drew the metal tube, with a piece of wire pendant from it, as carefully as though it had been a royal baby and heir to a throne. Into the boat the engine tender lifted the thing, and laid it carefully in a locker. By the time that Conlon was back at the rail Reade had gone below again.

"Down dere, aftah mo' death!" grinned the darkey. A colored man can usually be brave when serving under a white leader in whom he has full confidence.

Presently Tom came up with another metal tube, like the first.

"I'll hang on and get my breath," Tom informed the men in the boat, as he rested one hand on the rail. "The other two bombs are about three feet lower, and it's going to be hard to work at the lower depth."

"Be careful, won't you, sir?" urged Conlon, in a somewhat awed voice. "Mr. Reade, we can't afford to lose you until this job is completed. Men with all the nerve you show are scarce in the world."

"I know where there are forty thousand men with at least as much nerve, many of them having several times as much as I," laughed Tom.

"Where on earth are they?" demanded the Irishman.

"In the United States Navy. If there were a battleship here the jackies would be fighting for the honor of going down after these bombs."

Then Reade dropped out of sight, once more. Nor was it long before he had the third and the fourth bombs aboard the boat. Then he climbed in himself, dripping like a shaggy Newfoundland dog.

"Put in at the dock now," the young chief ordered, and the boat started on its way.

"Some one signaling from the wall lower down," Tom soon informed the negro pilot. "Put in where you see the signaling."

"It is I, Corbett," called the foreman of that name. "Mr. Reade, these two men with me belong to the Blixton police."

"Perhaps you had rather walk down to the dock, then, instead of getting into the boat," laughed Reade. "We have four bombs aboard, just taken out of the wall above here."

Accordingly the three turned and walked. At the landing the policemen gazed curiously at the bombs.

"Do you want to take charge of these?" Reade queried.

"Not particular about it," replied the policeman, with a shrug. "We'd be scorched for endangering the town if we took those things into Blixton. Your foreman, Mr. Reade, called us out here to see if we could get trail of your missing Mexican servant."

"That's a vastly more important thing to do," Tom replied with enthusiasm. "I want to find Nicolas before I do another thing."

"Come here, Bill," called one of the officers.

Out of the shadows near the shore came a youth leading a dog on a leash.

"This dog is a bloodhound," announced one of the policemen with visible pride. "Take him to where the scent of the Mexican starts, and the dog will follow as long as there's any scent left. But, first, we'll have to have something that the Mexican has worn, so that the hound will know the true scent."

"That will take but a few minutes," declared Reade energetically. "Come up to the house, and I'll find something that Nicolas has worn."

Corbett remained behind to take care of the bombs. Tom led the officers and the youth with the hound on a brisk walk up to the house.

"Wait out here," murmured Tom, "and I'll bring something out. If we all go into the house we'll wake my partner, Hazelton, and he has enough work to do in the daytime, without being kept up at night."

While the others remained outside Tom stole into the house. There was a room in the rear, off the kitchen, where Nicolas slept. Into that room Reade stepped noiselessly.

It was not necessary to strike a match, for, in the very faint light there, Tom espied an object on the foot of the bed that he recognized—-one of the Mexican's white canvas shoes.

Tom snatched it up quickly. Then, despite his steady nerves, he staggered back.



CHAPTER XVII

TOM MAKES AN UNEXPECTED CAPTURE

For an unearthly scream pierced the air. There was a wrench, a bounding figure—-and then Tom Reade felt a jolt near his solar plexus that made him gasp.

"Stop that!" gasped the young chief engineer.

"You, Senor?" demanded an incredible, drowsy voice.

"Yes; it's I—-Reade."

"A thousand pardons, Senor!"

"So this is you, Nicolas?"

"Yes, Senor."

"What are you doing here?"

"The negro got away from me."

"I know that, but—-"

"I could not help it, Senor. I assure you I was not careless."

"I never knew you to be careless, Nicolas."

"Thank you, Senor. But I stood over that black scoundrel, watching for the slightest move on his part. I had my forefinger ready, and he did not dare move."

"I can quite believe that," agreed Tom, dryly, "after the poke you just gave me."

"Again a thousand pardons, Senor, but in the dark, and awaking so suddenly, I did not see you or know you."

"I can quite believe that, Nicolas."

"As I was saying, Senor, I was watching over the black man when some one came up behind me—-so softly that I did not hear. But I felt. Ah! What I felt! It was a fist that seemed to break in the top of my head. Down I went, and I heard a voice. I knew that voice, too. So would you have known it, Senor!"

"Whose voice was it?" asked Tom, curiously.

"The voice of Evarts."

"The discharged foreman?"

"Yes, Senor. But I am delaying my story. While Evarts was speaking I heard another sound. At one effort the negro snapped the cords that held him. Ah, he is a powerful brute."

"He is," Tom affirmed solemnly.

"I knew it was my task to keep the negro from getting away," continued the little Mexican excitedly. "So I leaped up, extended my forefinger and rushed at him. But thees Evarts—-hees feest catch me between the eyes. I do not have to guess the spot where he struck me, Senor, for I can feel it yet. Down I went, and knew no more. When next I opened my eyes I found myself lying in the middle of a theecket of bushes. I theenk, perhaps, the scoundrels believed they had killed me, and so they hid my body. But I have fool' them. I am still alive—-much alive!"

"What did you do when you came to, Nicolas?"

"Senor," protested the Mexican, "there was no more need of me. You had gone after men. Eef you came back, you have many men with you, so you do not need me. For that reason I come home."

Even in the dark the young engineer could "feel" Nicolas's shudder. Tom could not repress a smile that threatened to become a chuckle.