Thus Tom found himself soon face to face with an American.
"Evarts!" Reade cried, angrily. "What are you doing here?"
"I'm here by permission," snarled the discharged foreman.
"Whose permission?" Tom insisted, briskly.
"Mr. Bascomb's," replied Evarts, with a leer so full of satisfaction that
Reade didn't doubt the truth of the statement.
"Mr. Bascomb," Tom called, "did you tell Evarts that he might visit this
camp?"
"Yes; I did," admitted the president of the company, stiffly.
"Then I'm sorry to say that Evarts has been misinformed," Tom went on.
"He _can't_ visit this camp. He's too much of a trouble-maker here."
"Shut up your talk!" jeered Evarts roughly. "Don't try to give orders to
the president of the company that hires and pays you."
"Mr. Bascomb is the head of the company that employs me," Tom assented.
"But I am in charge here, and am responsible, with Mr. Hazelton, for the
good order of the camp and the success of the work. Therefore, Evarts,
you'll leave camp now, and you won't come back again under pain of being
punished for trespass."
"Oh, now see here, Reade---" began Mr. Bascomb angrily, as he started
forward. But Treasurer Prenter caught Bascomb by the arm, whispering in
his ear.
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