"Not much!" retorted the superintendent. "Handling as mixed a crew as we have on this work I wouldn't think of going about unarmed. And you ought to go armed, too, Mr. Reade." "Bosh!" uttered Tom. He had a well-known objection to carrying a pistol. Reade always maintained that a pistol-carrying man was a coward. A coward is one who is afraid, and the man who is not afraid has no reason to carry a weapon. "Renshaw," added Tom, "there's just one circumstance in which I would carry a pistol---and that is, if I were carrying large sums of other people's money. If I were a pay-master, or a bank messenger, I'd carry a pistol, but under no other circumstances, outside of military service, would I carry a weapon. But---are you thoroughly awake, now?" "Yes, sir." "Then, Mr. Renshaw, get up and hide that pistol somewhere. While you're about it, listen to me. Some scoundrel has blown out a large portion of our retaining wall to-night. I left Hazelton on guard at the point and came ashore to get out the motor boat, 'Morton.' Before I could return I heard Hazelton's call for help, and---he has disappeared! There's wicked work on hand to-night. You'll have to get up and help me. Be quick with your dressing. We've work to do to-night, and all of it is man's work." Tom hastily added such other particulars as were needed. Renshaw, while he dressed hurriedly, listened with a horror that he took no pains to conceal. "Evarts claims that it's revenge work, on the part of some of our men, because Hazelton and I stopped gambling in the camp," Tom continued. "It might be," Renshaw admitted thoughtfully. "But to me it seems that there must be a lot more behind the whole terrible matter." "That's the way it strikes me, too," Tom nodded. "However, you're dressed, so now we can hurry out and get busy." "What shall we do first?" Superintendent Renshaw inquired. "That's what I've been thinking over while you were dressing," Tom replied. "Of course the one thing of real importance is to find Hazelton." "Killed, beyond a doubt," replied the older man. "I refuse to believe it," Tom retorted. "There's a mystery in his fate, but I simply won't believe that Harry has been killed." "Then why didn't you hear from him further?" "That's the mystery." Tom had shaped their course for the barracks occupied by the foremen. He bounded upon the little porch and began to hammer on the door with both fists. "Turn out, everybody!" Tom bellowed. "Every foreman is on duty to-night. Show a light, and let us in as soon as you can." Some one was heard stirring. Then Dill, one of the foremen, admitted the callers. "Are all the others up?" Reade asked, sharply. "Yes, sir." "Good! Tell your associates to finish dressing as quickly as possible and to meet me in the office." "The office" was a little room just inside the entrance to the building. It was a room where the foremen sat and chatted in the evenings.