"Then how are you going to meet it?"
"There's only one way," Tom returned. "A declaration of war must be met
with a fight. Unless I'm very greatly in error the gamblers and
bootleggers will try to start up matters again to-night in camp."
"And you'll throw them down harder than before?" queried Mr. Renshaw,
gazing keenly at the young chief.
"If it be possible," Tom declared. "Nicolas, be kind enough to go over
and ask the foremen to report here at 8:20 promptly. At 8:30 we will
enter camp and see what is going on."
"I miss my guess, then," chuckled Mr. Renshaw, quietly, "if our arrival
isn't followed by war in earnest."
"War is never so bad," retorted Tom Reade, his jaws setting, "as a
disgraceful peace!"
CHAPTER XII
AN ENGINEER'S FIGHTING BLOOD
Just at half-past eight that evening Tom, Harry, the superintendent and the
foremen entered camp.
They went, first, to a shack which they knew to be occupied by orderly,
respectable blacks.
"Come, men," said Tom, halting in the doorway. "I've an idea we may need
you."
Six negroes rose and came forward.
"There are gambling and bootlegging going on in this camp to-night, aren't
there?" Reade inquired.
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