“He’s in his tent over yonder,” said the cook, pointing through the open doorway.

“Shall we step over there and announce ourselves?” Tom inquired.

“Why, ye could do it,” rejoined the red-faced cook, with a grin.  “If Tim Thurston happens to be very busy he might use plain talk and tell you to git out of camp.”

“Then do you mind telling us just how we should approach the chief engineer?”

“Whatter yer names?”

“Reade and Hazelton.”

“Bob, trot over and tell Thurston there’s two fellows here, named Reade and Hazelnut.  Ask him what he wants done with ’em.”

The cook’s helper, who, so far, had not favored the new arrivals with a glance, now turned and looked them over.  Then, with a nod, the helper stepped across the ground to the largest tent in camp.  In a few moments he came back.

“Mr. Thurston says to stay around and he’ll call you jest as soon as he’s through with what he’s doing,” announced Bob, who, dark, thin and anemic, was a decrepit-looking man of fifty years or thereabouts.

“Ye can stand about in the open,” added the cook, pointing with his ladle.  “There’s better air out there.”

“Thank you,” answered Tom briskly, but politely.  Once outside, and strolling slowly along, Reade confided to his chum: 

“Harry, you can see what big fellows we two youngsters are going to be in a Rocky Mountain railroad camp.  We haven’t a blessed thing to do but play marbles until the chief can see us.”

“I can spare the time, if the chief can,” laughed Harry.  “Hello—–­look who’s here!”

Bad Pete, now on foot, had turned into the camp from the farther side.  Espying the boys he swaggered over toward them.

“How do you do, sir?” nodded Tom.

“Can’t you two tenderfeet mind your own business?” snarled Pete, halting and scowling angrily at them.

“Now, I come to think of it,” admitted Tom, “it was meddlesome on my part to ask after your health.  I beg your pardon.”

“Say, are you two tenderfeet trying to git fresh with me?” demanded Bad Pete, drawing himself up to his full height and gazing at them out of flashing eyes.

Almost unconsciously Tom Reade drew himself up, showing hints of his athletic figure through the folds of his clothing.

“No, Peter,” he said quietly.  “In the first place, my friend hasn’t even opened his mouth.  As for myself, when I do try to get fresh with you, you won’t have to do any guessing.  You’ll be sure of it.”

Bad Pete took a step forward, dropping his right hand, as though unconsciously, to the butt of the revolver in the holster.  He fixed his burning gaze savagely on the boy’s face as he muttered, in a low, ugly voice: 

“Tenderfoot, when I’m around after this you shut your mouth and keep it shut!  You needn’t take the trouble to call me Peter again, either.  My name is Bad Pete, and I am bad.  I’m poison!  Understand?  Poison!”