"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.