CONCLUSION
"Now Ah reckon Ah'se done got yo'," laughed the big negro, insolently. "It
am a question ob w'ich one Ah wantah pick off fust!"
In his wicked joy over having both the young engineer and the army officer
wholly at his mercy Sambo, his mouth open and his massive teeth showing
white in his grin, advanced nearer.
Yet he did not fail to keep each of his enemies covered. He was watching
most alertly for any sign of rebellion on the part of his victims.
Nor was there any doubt in the mind of either young man that the black,
after playing with them, meant to dispose of them as his possession of
pistols indicated.
He would torment them first, then ruthlessly "shoot them up."
"How long are we to keep our hands up?" asked Tom banteringly.
It would be foolish to say that Reade was not afraid, but he was determined
to keep Ebony from discovering the fact.
"Yo's to keep yo' hands up longer dan yo' can keep yo' moufs shut!" scowled
the black man, his ugly streak showing once more.
"It makes me think of the way we used to play football," laughed Reade,
though there was not much mirth in his chuckle.
"Shut yo' mouf, or Ah done gib yo' plenty to think erbout!" ordered Sambo
angrily.
That word "football" set Dick Prescott to tingling. He knew there was some
hidden meaning in what Tom had said.
"Are you trying to signal us, Sambo?" queried the army officer.
That word "signal" was intended only for Tom's ear, for Lieutenant Prescott
was beginning to guess at the truth.
"On the gridiron, on the gridiron!" hummed Tom, audibly, as he tried
clumsily to fit the words to the refrain of a popular song.
Dick Prescott was "getting warm" on the scent of the hidden meaning.
"Shut yo' mouf!" gruffly commanded the lack. "Ah doan' wantah tell yo' dat
again, neider."
"Right foot---high foot!" chanted Tom.
Mentally Dick Prescott jumped as though he had been shot. "Right
foot---high foot" had been one of their old kicking signals on the Gridley
High School eleven!
Lieutenant Dick Prescott fairly throbbed as he now understood the covered
signal.
"Now!" left Reade's lips with explosive energy, though the word was
low-spoken.
At "right foot---high foot" and "now" each youth suddenly shot his right
foot up into the air.
Tom's landed against Sambo's right wrist, kicking the automatic revolver
completely out of the negro's hands.
Dick's kick landed against the black man's left wrist. The pistol held
in Sambo's left hand was discharged, though the muzzle had been driven up
at such an angle that the bullet passed harmlessly over Prescott's head.
In a twinkling Ebony had been disarmed.
Darting low, Tom grappled with the negro's legs. Then Reade rose swiftly,
toppling Sambo over backward.
Dick Prescott bounded upon the prostrate foe, beating him with both fists.
Tom also threw himself into the melee.
While the black might have thrashed either youth alone he was not equal to
handling both at the same time.
"I've got him, now, and he'll behave, I guess," panted Tom Reade, at last.
"Slip off, Dick, and gather in the pistols."
As Prescott did so Sambo made the last few efforts of which he was capable.
He had been hammered so hard, however, that Tom did not have extreme
difficulty in holding him down.
"Now, lie still and take orders," warned Dick, pressing one of the pistols
against the black man's temple, "or I'll get excited and send you out of
this world for keeps!"
Sambo Ebony thereupon dropped into sullen muttering, but did not offer to
resist. Prescott, as a soldier, had a businesslike way of handling weapons
that cowed the black man.
Tom got up leisurely from the prostrate foe.
"Now, you can stand a little farther off, Dick," he suggested, "and then
the fellow won't get a chance to tip you over with any trick. If he tries
to get up before he's told you can easily bring him to earth again, for
you've been taught the exact use of firearms."
"Good idea," nodded Lieutenant Prescott, backing away a few feet. "Are you
going to run for assistance now, Tom?"
"No," retorted Reade. "You're going to shoot for it."
"Eh?"
"Fire a shot into the air from each revolver. That, with the accidental
discharge of a moment go, will show any listener that there's trouble going
on over here. I miss my guess if the shots don't bring help very shortly."
Bang! Bang!
Nor was Reade's guess a wrong one. Not much time passed before steps were
heard hurrying in their direction.
"Here! This way!" summoned Tom.
"Are you hurt?" sounded Mr. Prenter's voice.
"No; but we have Sambo Ebony here, and he's going to be hurt if he tries
to stir."
President and treasurer of the Melliston Company raced to the spot. Barely
sixty seconds afterward Foreman Corbett, with four negroes and one Italian
laborer, also came up.
"Corbett, you have the handcuffs I gave you the other night, haven't you?"
Tom asked.
"Yes, sir. Here they are."
Tom took the steel bracelets, ordering Mr. Sambo Ebony to turn over and
lie face downward, with his hands behind his back. Then the handcuffs were
slipped over the black wrists.
"Now, Sambo," called Tom laughingly, "we'll set you on your feet and
whistle the rogues' march for you all the way."
"Yah, yah, yah!" jeered one of the negroes who had come up with Foreman
Corbett, as he gazed contemptuously up and down the bulky figure of Mr.
Ebony. "Yo' done been tellin' us 'spectable cullud fo'ks dat de great way
to injye life was to be tough an' smaht, lak yo'se'f. How ye' feel erbout
it now? Doan' yo' wish yo' been mo' 'spectable yo'se'f? Doan' ye' done
wish dat ye' had been to camp-meeting a few times in yo' life? Doan' yo'
wish ye' been honest most er de time, an' been a hahd-wo'kin',
pay-ye'-bills niggah lak some ob de rest oh us? Yo' fool lump er tar,
yo' boun' ter go de way ob all de wicked---down to ye' grave in misery an'
sorrow. It's de way oh all ob yo' lazy, ugly, wuthless kind!"
"I've heard philosophers talk," laughed Dick, in an aside to Tom Reade,
"but I can't say that I ever yet listened to a trained philosopher who had
the truth of life down any more pat than the negro workman who just now
gave his views."
"On all matters of good behavior wise men of all degrees hold about the
same views," nodded Reade, "even though they may express their thoughts in
differing grades of speech. This good negro knows just where the bad negro
has failed in life."
Mr. Sambo Ebony was marched off to jail. Even up to the minute when he
was sentenced to twenty years' imprisonment the big black stubbornly
refused to give his real name. He was therefore taken away to prison
under the name "Sambo Ebony."
Evarts got off with eight years and four months in prison. He is still
serving that sentence.
Hawkins and his crew of gamblers and bootleggers were sentenced to two
years apiece, as only misdemeanor charges could be preferred against them.
From the foregoing it will be inferred that the proposed jail delivery by
other members of the gang from elsewhere did not come off according to
plan. The truth was that the citizens of Blixton, when appealed to,
organized a strong guard which was thrown around the jail. Doubtless the
gang-members were warned in time, and so did not attempt to commit
wholesale suicide by running against a citizens' posse.
Mr. Bascomb is still president of the Melliston Company, and he is holding
up his head. No further fear of blackmailers oppresses him.
Dick Prescott was able to remain several days longer---long enough, in
fact, to see the more substantial structure of the million-dollar
breakwater begin to go up just inside the completed retaining wall.
Then Lieutenant Dick was obliged to resume his journey on to Fort Clowdry,
Colorado. What happened to Prescott, after joining the army as an officer,
is told in "_Uncle Sam's Boys on Field Duty_," the second volume in the
"_Boys of the Army Series_."
Though Harry Hazelton was disappointed in missing some of the excitement at
Blixton, he had no occasion to complain in that respect when he and Tom
entered upon the next great undertaking of the young engineer pair.
After the disappearance of the big black from the scene there was no
further trouble at the breakwater.
Blixton is now an important though artificial harbor. With the completion
of the breakwater, and the building of a lighthouse, the next work
undertaken was the building of stone docks at which the steamships of the
Melliston Line now dock.
The next adventures that befell Tom and Harry were destined to be the most
wonderful and exciting of all. These adventures must be reserved for
complete telling in the next volume in this series, which is published
under the title, "_The Young Engineers In The Lead; Or, The stroke That
Made Them Masters of Their Field_."
It is a story of almost incredible efforts, backed by strong ambition, of
two American youths who had both the desire and the will to toil
unceasingly and at last reach their goal.
THE END