THE CALL OF ONE IN TROUBLE
Once Tom Reade reached the solid land he let his long legs out into a brisk
run.
With his years of practice on the Gridley High School athletic team he was
not one to lose his wind readily.
So he made his way at the same speed all the way up to the camp.
"Who dar?" called a negro watchman, as Tom raced up to the outskirts of
the camp.
"Reade, chief engineer," Tom called, then wheeled and made off to the
right, where the more substantial barracks of the foremen stood.
Superintendent Renshaw lived in a two-story barrack still farther to the
right, as the guest of the young engineers.
"_Quien vive_?" (who's there?) hailed another voice, between the two
barracks buildings.
"So, Nicolas, you rascal, you haven't gone to bed?" demanded Tom, halting.
"What did I tell you about earlier hours?"
Nicolas was the young Mexican servant whom Tom and Harry had brought back
with them from Mexico. Readers of the previous volume know all about this
faithful fellow.
"You and Senor Hazelton, you waire not in bed," replied Nicolas stolidly.
"You're not expected to stay up and watch over us as if we were babies,
Nicolas," spoke Tom, in a gentler voice. "You'd better turn in now."
"Senor Hazelton, where is he?" insisted Nicolas, anxiously.
"Oh, bother! Never mind where he is," Tom rejoined. "We won't either of
us be in for a little while yet. But you turn in now---at
once---instanter!"
Then Tom bounded over to the little porch before the foremen's barracks,
where he pounded lustily on the door.
"Who's there? What's wanted?" demanded a sleepy voice from the inside.
"Is that you, Evarts?" called Reade.
"Yes, sir."
"Get on your duds and turn out as quickly as you can."
"You want me?" yawned Evarts.
"Now, see here, my man, if I didn't want you why on earth would I call you
out in the middle of the night?"
"It's late," complained Evarts.
"I know it. That's why I want you to get behind yourself and push
yourself," retorted the young chief engineer energetically. "Hustle!"
Twice, while he waited impatiently, Tom kicked the toe of one boot against
the door to emphasize the need of haste. Other drowsy voices remonstrated.
"Hang a man who has to sleep _all_ the time!" grunted Tom Reade.
After several minutes the door opened, and a lanky, loose-jointed,
lantern-jawed man of some forty-odd years stepped out.
"Well, what's up, Mr. Reade?" questioned the foreman, hiding a yawn behind
a bony, hairy hand.
"You are, at last, thank goodness!" Tom exclaimed. "Evarts, I want you to
rout out four good men. Lift 'em to their feet and begin to throw the
clothes on 'em!"
"It's pretty late to call men out of their beds, sir," mildly objected the
foreman.
"No---it's early, but it can't be helped," Tom Reade retorted. "Hustle
'em out!"
"Black or white?" sleepily inquired Evarts.
"White, and Americans at that," Tom retorted. "Put none but Americans
on guard tonight, Evarts! What do you suppose has happened?"
"Can't guess."
"No! You're still too sleepy. Evarts, some scoundrels have blown out a
good part of our wall yonder."
"Are you joking, Mr. Reade?"
"No, sir; I am not. Dynamite must have been used. Hazelton and I heard
the noise of the blast, but of course we got out there too late to catch
any miscreant at the job."
Evarts, at first, was inclined to regard the news with mild disbelief, but
he soon realized that something must have happened very nearly as the young
chief engineer had described.
"Well, what are you standing there for?" Tom demanded, impatiently. "Are
you going to wait for daylight? Get the four men out---all Americans, mind
you. _Hustle_, man!"
Evarts started away; toward the camp over to the left of them. As he did
so Tom darted in another direction. Two minutes later Tom was back,
piloting by one arm a man who was still engaged in rubbing the sleep out of
his eyes. This was Conlon, engineer of the motor boat, "Morton."
"Where's Evarts?" Reade queried, impatiently. "Oh, Evarts! Where are you,
and what are you doing?"
"Trying to get four men awake," bawled back the voice of the foreman, from
the distance. "As soon as I get one man on his feet the other three have
sunk back to sleep."
"Wait until I get over there then!" called Tom, striding forward. "Come
along, Conlon! Don't you lag on me."
"There! Do you fellows reckon you want Mr. Reade to bump in here and shake
you out?" sounded the warning voice of Evarts.
As Tom and the motor boat's engine tender reached the little, box-like
shack from which Evarts's tones proceeded, four men, seated on the floor,
were seen to be lacing their shoes by the dim light of a lantern.
"A nice lot you are!" called Tom crisply. "How many hours does it take you
to get awake when you're called in the middle of the night?"
"This overtime warn't in the agreement," sleepily retorted one of the men.
"You're wrong there," Reade informed him, vehemently. "Overtime _is_ in
the agreement for every man in this camp when it's wanted of him---from
the chief engineer all along the line. Now, you men oblige me by hustling.
I don't want to wait more than sixty seconds for the last man of you."
"I've a good mind to crawl back into my bunk," growled another of the men.
"All right," retorted Tom Reade, with suspicious cheerfulness. "Try it and
see what kind of fireworks I carry concealed on my person. Or, just lag a
little bit on me, and you'll see the same thing. Men, do you realize that
there's foul play afoot out on the retaining wall? We've got to go out
there in time to stop anything more happening. Now, you've got your shoes
on; grab the rest of your clothing and hustle it on as we make for the
beach. Come along!"
Tom fairly got behind the men and pushed them outside. They would have
liked to complain, but they didn't. Some of them were larger and heavier
than the chief engineer, but they knew quite well that, at sign of any
trifling mutiny to-night, Reade would thrash them all.
"If any one is trying to blow up the wall, Mr. Reade, it's all your fault,
anyway," ventured Evarts, as the little party started at a brisk walk for
the beach. "When you've got a mixed crowd of men working for you, you
shouldn't interfere too much with their amusements. Yet you would have the
gamblers run out of camp just when our boys were getting ready to have some
pleasant evenings."
"I'll run out any one else who attempts to bring disorderly doings into
this camp," Tom retorted quietly.
"Then there'll be some more of your seawalls blown up," Evarts warned him
gloomily.
"If such a thing happens again there'll be some men hurt, and some others
breaking into prison," Tom answered with spirit. "Any evildoers that try
to set themselves up in business around here will soon wish they had kept
away---that's all."
"It's a bad business," insisted Evarts, wagging his head. "When you have
a mixed crowd of workmen---"
"I think you've said that before," Tom broke in coolly. "To-night we're
in too much of a hurry to listen to the same thing twice. Come on, men.
You can go a little faster than a walk. Jog a bit---I'll show you how."
"This is pretty hard on men in the middle of the night," hinted Evarts,
after the jogging had gone on for a full minute. "It ain't right to-----"
"Stop it, Evarts!" Tom cut in crisply. "I don't mind a little grumbling
at the right time, and I often do a bit myself, but not when I'm as rushed
as I am to-night. There's the dock ahead, men---a little faster spurt
now!"
Tom urged his men along to the dock. With no loss of time they tumbled
aboard the "Morton," a broad, somewhat shallow, forty-foot motor boat of
open construction.
"Get up and take the wheel, Evarts," Tom. directed. "Get at work on your
spark, Conlon, and I'll throw the drive-wheel over for you. Some of you
men cast, off!"
In a very short time the "Morton" was going "put-put-put" away from the
dock.
Tom, after seeing that everything was moving satisfactorily, turned around
to look at the four men huddled astern.
"Don't any of you go to sleep," he urged. "A good part of our success
depends on how well you all keep awake and use your eyes and ears."
That said, Tom Reade hastened forward, stationing himself close to Evarts,
who had the steering wheel.
Some of the men astern began to talk.
"Silence, if you please," Tom called softly. "Don't talk except on matters
of business. We want to be able to use our ears. Conlon, make your engine
a little less noisy if you can."
Now Reade had leisure to wonder how matters had gone with Harry Hazelton.
"Of course that threatening figure Harry saw behind him was an imaginary
one," Tom said to himself, but he felt uneasy nevertheless.
A few moments later Reade clutched at one of Evarts's arms.
"Did you hear that, man?" the young engineer demanded.
"Hear what?" Evarts wanted to know.
"It sounded like a yell out there yonder," Tom rejoined.
"Didn't hear it, Mr. Reade."
"There it goes again!" cried Tom, leaping up. "Some one is calling my
name. It must be Harry Hazelton, and he must want help. Conlon, slam it
to that engine of yours!"