!" grunted Tom Reade.

After several minutes the door opened, and a lanky, loose-jointed,
lantern-jawed man of some forty-odd years stepped out.

"Well, what's up, Mr. Reade?" questioned the foreman, hiding a yawn behind
a bony, hairy hand.

"You are, at last, thank goodness!" Tom exclaimed. "Evarts, I want you to
rout out four good men. Lift 'em to their feet and begin to throw the
clothes on 'em!"

"It's pretty late to call men out of their beds, sir," mildly objected the
foreman.

"No---it's early, but it can't be helped," Tom Reade retorted. "Hustle
'em out!"

"Black or white?" sleepily inquired Evarts.

"White, and Americans at that," Tom retorted. "Put none but Americans
on guard tonight, Evarts! What do you suppose has happened?"

"Can't guess."

"No! You're still too sleepy. Evarts, some scoundrels have blown out a
good part of our wall yonder."

"Are you joking, Mr. Reade?"

"No, sir; I am not. Dynamite must have been used. Hazelton and I heard
the noise of the blast, but of course we got out there too late to catch
any miscreant at the job."

Evarts, at first, was inclined to regard the news with mild disbelief, but
he soon realized that something must have happened very nearly as the young
chief engineer had described.

"Well, what are you standing there for?" Tom demanded, impatiently. "Are
you going to wait for daylight? Get the four men out---all Americans, mind
you. _Hustle_, man!"

Evarts started away; toward the camp over to the left of them. As he did
so Tom darted in another direction. Two minutes later Tom was back,
piloting by one arm a man who was still engaged in rubbing the sleep out of
his eyes. This was Conlon, engineer of the motor boat, "Morton."

"Where's Evarts?" Reade queried, impatiently. "Oh, Evarts! Where are you,
and what are you doing?"

"Trying to get four men awake," bawled back the voice of the foreman, from
the distance. "As soon as I get one man on his feet the other three have
sunk back to sleep."

"Wait until I get over there then!" called Tom, striding forward. "Come
along, Conlon! Don't you lag on me."

"There! Do you fellows reckon you want Mr. Reade to bump in here and shake
you out?" sounded the warning voice of Evarts.

As Tom and the motor boat's engine tender reached the little, box-like
shack from which Evarts's tones proceeded, four men, seated on the floor,
were seen to be lacing their shoes by the dim light of a lantern.