The Young Engineers on the Gulf | Page 6

made tonight,
anyway."

"We'll have the night patrol out every night after this," Tom declared.
"But I'm not so sure either, that another effort won't be made to-night, if
we don't put a watch on to stop this wicked business. Harry, do you
mind remaining out here while I run back and get the boat out?"
"Why should I mind?" Hazelton wanted to know.
"Well, I didn't know whether you would, or not---after seeing that
imaginary something behind you."
"Don't laugh at me! I may have had a start, but you ought to be the first
to know, Tom, that I haven't frozen feet."
"I do know it, Harry. You've been through too many perils to be
suspected of cowardice. Well, then, I'll run back."
Tom Reade had really intended to leave the flash lamp with his chum,
but he forgot to do so, and, as he jogged steadily along over the wall he
threw the light ahead of him. As he got nearer shore Tom increased his
jog to a brisk run.
Once, on the way, he passed the prowling negro without knowing it.
That huge fellow, seeing the ray of light come steadily near him,
hesitated for a few moments, then took to the water, swimming well out.
After Reade had passed, the fellow swam in toward the wall.
Up on the wall climbed the negro. For a few minutes he crouched there,
shaking the water from his garments. Then, cautiously, he began to
crawl forward.
"Boss Reade, he done gone in," muttered the prowler. "Boss Hazelton,
Ah reckon he's mah poultry!"
Harry, keeping his lone vigil away out on the narrow retaining wall,
was growing sleepy. He had nearly forgotten his scare. Indeed, he was
inclined to look upon it as a trick of his own brain.
CHAPTER II

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