When the a.s.sistant had finished, the chief merely remarked: "Blaisdell, I wish you could get rid of that fellow, Bad Pete. I don't like to have him hanging about the camp. He's an undesirable character, and I'm afraid that some of our men will have trouble with him.

Can't you get rid of him?"

"I'll do it if you say so, Mr. Thurston," Blaisdell answered quietly.

"How?" inquired his chief.

"I'll serve out firearms to five or six of the men, and the next time Pete shows his face we'll cover him and march him miles away from camp."

"That wouldn't do any good," replied Mr. Thurston, with a shake of his head. "Pete would only come back, uglier than before, and he'd certainly shoot up some of our men."

"You asked me, a moment ago, Mr. Thurston, what I could do," Tom broke in. "Give me a little time, and I'll agree to rid the camp of Peter."

"How?" asked the chief abruptly. "Not with any gun-play! Pete would be too quick for you at anything of that sort."

"I don't carry a pistol, and don't wish to do so," Tom retorted.

"In my opinion only a coward carries a pistol."

"Then you think Bad Pete is a coward, young man?" returned the chief.

"If driven into a corner I'm pretty sure he'd turn out to be one, sir," Tom went on earnestly. "A coward is a man who's afraid.

If a fellow isn't afraid of anything, then why does he have to carry firearms to protect himself?"

"I don't believe that would quite apply to Pete," Mr. Thurston went on. "Pete doesn't carry a revolver because he's afraid of anything. He knows that many other men are afraid of pistols, and so he carries his firearms about in order that he may enjoy himself in playing bully."

"I can drive him out of camp," Tom insisted. "All I'll wait for will be your permission to go ahead."

"If you can do it without shooting," replied the chief, "try your hand at it. Be careful, however, Reade. There are plenty of good natural lead mines in these mountains."

"Yes---sir?" asked Reade, looking puzzled.

"Much as we'd like to see Pete permanently out of this camp, remember that we don't want you to give the fellow any excuse for turning you into a lead mine."

"If Peter tries anything like that with me," retorted Tom solemnly, "I shall be deeply offended."

"Very good. Take the young men along with you, Blaisdell. I'll hear your report on them tomorrow night."

The a.s.sistant engineer took Tom and Harry over to a seven by nine tent.

"You'll bunk in here," he explained, "and store your dunnage here.

There are two folding cots in the tent, as you see. Don't shake 'em out until it's time to turn in, and then you'll have more room in your house. Now, come on over and I'll show you the mess tent for the engineers."

This Blaisdell also showed them. There was nothing in the tent but a plain, long table, with folding legs, and a lot of camp chairs of the simplest kind.

"What's that tent, Mr. Blaisdell?" inquired Harry, pointing to the next one, as they came out of the engineers' mess.

"Mess tent for the chainmen and rod men laborers, etc.," replied their guide. "Now, the fellows will be in soon, and supper will be on in half an hour. After you get your dunnage over to your tent amuse yourselves in any way that you care to. I'll introduce you to the crowd at table."

Tom and Harry speedily had their scanty dunnage stored in their own tent. Then they sat down on campstools just outside the door.

"Thurston didn't seem extremely cordial, did he?" asked Hazelton solemnly.

"Well, why should he be cordial?" Tom demanded. "What does he know about us? We're trying to break in here and make a living, but how does he know that we're not a pair of merely cheerful idiots?"

"I've an idea that Mr. Thurston is always rather cool with his staff," pursued Harry.

"Do your work, old fellow, in an exceptionally fine way, and I guess you'll find that he can thaw out. Mr. Thurston is probably just like other men who have to employ folks. When he finds that a man can really do the work that he's paid to do I imagine that Thurston is well satisfied and not afraid to show it."

"What's that noise?" demanded Harry, trying to peer around the corner of their tent without rising.

"The field gang coming in, I think," answered Tom.

"Let's get up, then, and have a look at our future mates," suggested Harry Hazelton.

"No; I don't believe it would be a good plan," said Tom. "We might be thought fresh if we betrayed too much curiosity before the crowd shows some curiosity about us."

"Reade!" sounded Blaisdell's voice, five minutes later. "Bring your friend over and inspect this choice lot of criminals."

Tom rose eagerly, followed by Harry. As they left the tent and hurried outside they beheld two rows of men, each before a long bench on which stood agate wash basins. The toilet preceding the evening meal was on.

"Gentlemen," Mr. Blaisdell, as the two chums drew near, "I present two new candidates for fame. One is named Reade, the other Hazelton.

Take them to your hearts, but don't, at first, teach them all the wickedness you know. Reade, this is Jack Rutter, the spotted hyena of the camp. If he ever gets in your way just push him over a cliff."

A pleasant-faced young man in khaki hastily dried his face and hands on a towel, then smilingly held out his right hand.

"Glad to know you, Reade," he laughed. Hope you'll like us and decide to stay."

"Hazelton," continued the announcer, "shake hands with Slim Morris, whether he'll let you or not. And here's Matt Rice. We usually call him 'Mister' Rice, for he's extremely talented. He knows how to play the banjo."

The a.s.sistant engineer then turned away, while one young man, at the farther end of the long wash bench stood unpresented.

"Oh, on second thoughts," continued Blaisdell, "I'll introduce you to Joe Grant."

The last young man came forward.

"Joe used to be a good fellow---once," added the a.s.sistant engineer.

"In these days, however, you want to keep your dunnage boxes locked. Joe's specialty is stealing fancy ties---neckties, I mean."

Joe laughed good-humoredly as he shook hands, adding:

"We'll tell you all about Blaisdell himself, boys, one of these days, but not now. It's too far from pay day, and old Blaze stands in too thickly with the chief."

"If you folks don't come into supper soon," growled the voice of the cook, Jake Wren, from the doorway of the engineer's mess tent, "I'll eat your grub myself."

"He'd do it, too," groaned Slim Morris, a young man who nevertheless weighed more than two hundred pounds. "Blaze, won't you take us inside and put us in our high chairs?"

There was infinite good humor in this small force of field engineers.

As was afterwards learned, all of them were graduates either of colleges or of scientific schools but not one of them affected any superiority over the young newcomers.

Just as the party had seated themselves there was a step outside, and Bad Pete stalked in looking decidedly sulky.