Out of the fellow's hip pocket Tom briskly brought
a quart-bottle to light. It was about half-filled with some liquid.
"Here, give that back to me!" growled the fellow. "It's mine."
"I'm glad you admit it," rejoined Reade, drawing the cork and taking a
sniff as Hazelton slipped in front of him to protect him. "This is liquor.
So you're the bootlegger who is bringing this stuff into camp to sell to
the men? You won't come here after to-night if I can find any way of
keeping you out."
Reade finished his remark by re-corking the bottle and throwing it down
hard on the ground. The bottle was smashed to flinders, the liquor running
over the ground.
"Here, you! You had no right to do that!" roared the fellow. He made an
effort to reach Tom, but Harry gave the fellow a shove that sent him
spinning back. "You'll pay me for that stuff, Reade, since you destroyed
it."
"How much?" asked Tom, artlessly.
"A dollar and a half," insisted the stranger, coming forward as Reade
thrust one hand into trousers pocket.
Tom withdrew the hand, laughing.
"Much obliged, my friend," mocked the young chief engineer. "You've
confessed all that I wanted to know. You've tried to charge me the price
of a pint of liquor sold in single drinks.
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