Men who toil hard
all day do not usually want a long evening. Many of the men were already
inside their tents or shacks, preparing for bed.
At least two hundred, however, were still stirring in the streets of the
camp. Tom led his friends near one of the groups. A warning hiss was
heard, and then a man in a remote group, urged by his comrades, rose and
staggered toward a shack. Tom was at the man's side in an instant. He
proved to be an Italian.
"My man, you appear to be intoxicated," Tom remarked, quietly, as he
gripped the Italian by the arm.
"No spikka da English," hiccoughed the laborer. As he spoke he tried to
free himself from the engineer's grasp. He staggered, and would have
fallen, had not Tom prevented the fall.
"Where's this man's gang-master?" Tom demanded, looking about him sharply,
while he still held the drunken man.
None of the Italians addressed appeared to know. For the most part they
took refuge in the fact or the pretense that they didn't understand
English.
"Get an Italian gang-master, Harry," Tom murmured softly.
Hazelton bolted away, but was soon back, followed by a dark-skinned man who
came with apparent reluctance.
"You're a gang-master?" Tom demanded, looking sharply at the man.
Pages:
73
74
75
76
77
78
79
80
81
82
83
84
85
86
87
88
89
90
91
92
93
94
95
96
97