"Neither is the trade of bootlegging a decent one, or one that provides
decent amusement. I have already warned you that gambling and liquor
selling are things of the past in this camp."
There was another stir in the room. The leader of the gamblers rose,
fixing his gaze on Tom's eyes and trying to stare the young engineer out
of countenance.
"What do you mean, Reade?" he demanded.
"Isn't my meaning clear enough?" Tom insisted, with a chilly smile.
"Man, haven't you come to your senses yet?" snarled the gambler.
"Do you mean to ask whether I was scared by the cowardly, unsigned letter
that I received this evening?" Tom fired back at the fellow, with another
taunting smile.
"I don't know anything about any letter," muttered the gambler sullenly,
"but I heard that you had come to your senses."
"Whether I have or not," retorted Tom, "you are pretty sure to come to your
proper senses to-night. Men---I mean workmen, not gamblers or
bootleggers---you are at liberty to pass out of this building."
"Don't you go," shouted the gambler, as some two dozen men started toward
the doorway where Harry and the rest were on guard.
Some of them halted.
"I must have made a mistake in calling some of you 'men,' since you take
orders from such disreputable characters as these gamblers and
bootleggers," Tom taunted them mildly.
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