Tom went directly up to a group of workmen who had been looking curiously on.  Most of them were Italians, but there were a few negroes present.

“Now; men, gather around me,” Tom requested.  “I want to talk to you.  Come close.”

As they did so Reade rested a hand on the shoulder of a negro.

“My friend,” said Tom, “you’ve been drinking to-night.”

“No, sah, boss!  ’Deed I hasn’t,” replied the negro, earnestly.

“Man, don’t you think I have a nose?” Tom demanded, dryly.  “Every time you open your mouth I smell the fumes of the stuff.  There are other men in this group, too, who have been drinking.  I want you all to realize that this sort of thing must stop in this camp.  We don’t want fights and killings, nor do we want men who wake up so seedy in the morning that they can’t do a proper day’s work.  As I look about me I see at least eight men who have been drinking this evening.  That shows me that some one has been bringing liquor into the camp.”

Other workmen were now approaching, curious to know what was in the air.

Tom, glancing about him, suddenly, fastened his gaze on one man in particular.  This was a lanky, sallow-looking chap of some thirty years.

“See here, just what is your errand in this camp?” Reade demanded, confronting the man.

“Is it any of your particular business?” demanded the fellow, with some insolence in his tone.

“Yes; it is,” Reade assured him, promptly.  “I’m chief engineer in this camp, and I’ve asked you what you are doing here!”

“Is it against any law for an outsider to come into camp?” argued the stranger.

“Answer me,” Tom insisted, stepping closer.  “What are you doing in this camp?”

“I won’t tell you,” came the surly retort.

“You don’t have to,” Reade snapped, as he suddenly ran one hand over the sallow man’s clothing.  Out of the fellow’s hip pocket Tom briskly brought a quart-bottle to light.  It was about half-filled with some liquid.

“Here, give that back to me!” growled the fellow.  “It’s mine.”

“I’m glad you admit it,” rejoined Reade, drawing the cork and taking a sniff as Hazelton slipped in front of him to protect him.  “This is liquor.  So you’re the bootlegger who is bringing this stuff into camp to sell to the men?  You won’t come here after to-night if I can find any way of keeping you out.”

Reade finished his remark by re-corking the bottle and throwing it down hard on the ground.  The bottle was smashed to flinders, the liquor running over the ground.

“Here, you!  You had no right to do that!” roared the fellow.  He made an effort to reach Tom, but Harry gave the fellow a shove that sent him spinning back.  “You’ll pay me for that stuff, Reade, since you destroyed it.”

“How much?” asked Tom, artlessly.

“A dollar and a half,” insisted the stranger, coming forward as Reade thrust one hand into trousers pocket.