"You, too!" growled Foreman Johnson, giving the bootlegger a kick that sent
him staggering along in his efforts to keep on his feet.
It was rough treatment, but Tom's course, all through, had been of the only
sort that could break down the threatened riot.
"Now, see if that Italian can be found who fired the shot in my face," Tom
called. "I'll know him if I lay eyes on him."
There was a prompt search, but the Italian could not be found.
"If he has left camp, and keeps away, perhaps he'll be safe," Tom
announced. "But, if I run across him again I'll seize him, hold him for
the officers of the law, and see to it that he's sent to prison for
attempted murder."
"Here are two men we want!" called Hazelton.
Tom ran to his chum, who was holding an American by the arm. Mr. Prenter
had hold of another.
"Two more of Evarts's bootleggers, eh?" muttered Reade. "Let me see."
On one of the men he found a bottle of liquor. On the other no liquor was
discovered.
"Did Evarts pay you fellows a salary, or commission?" Tom demanded.
"Commiss---" began one of the bootleggers, then stopped himself with a
vocal jerk. "Evarts? I don't even know who he is."
"Yes, you do," chuckled Tom Reade.
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