"At daylight, of course, we can make a far better search, especially
over the water. But in the hours that must elapse---! It's going to be a
tough period of waiting!"
Arrived at camp, Tom made straight for his own barracks, letting himself
in with a latch-key as soon as he could control his shaking hand
sufficiently to use the key.
Tom bounded straight for the bed-room of the superintendent, at the rear
of the little building.
"Mr. Renshaw!" shouted the young chief, throwing open the bed-room door.
The barrack was lighted by electricity. Tom threw on the light, then
wheeled toward the bed, to find the superintendent sitting up, revolver
in hand.
"Oh, it's you, is it?" gasped the superintendent. "Mr. Reade, in my
stupor from being aroused I was just on the point of shooting you for a
burglar. It's awful!"
"You ought to throw that revolver to the bottom of the gulf," Tom rasped
out.
"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.
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