Remember that. Now, tell me, which are Mr. Murphy's and the engineers' tents?"

"Right ober dar 'mongst dat little clump of pines. De furst one is Mr. Murphy's."

Charley strolled over to the little tent and entered it. It was small and dirty, and the dirt floor was littered with whiskey bottles, all empty. Charley viewed them with a grim smile. "No wonder Murphy lost out," he murmured. "A man cannot put up a good fight and entertain John Barleycorn at the same time." There was a rude box desk in one corner of the tent, littered with letters and papers. Charley seated himself beside it and overhauled its contents quickly. This done, he walked out of the tent's squalor into the open air once more. He next drew back the flap of the first engineer's tent, and peeped inside, but the tent was deserted, as was also the second, save for disordered cots and black, greasy clothing, flung here and there. In the third tent, however, he found a young man, stretched out on a cot reading a magazine. Unlike the other tents, this was neat and cleanly, and the dirty working clothes of its occupants were hung up on a line stretching across the tent. "Hello," he greeted Charley boyishly. "Back again are you?"

"Yes," agreed Charley, as he noted the other's self-reliant, boyish face. "I ought to have to apologize for not ringing your bell, or knocking at your front door, but I didn't see either."

"That's all right," laughed the youth, as he sat up on the end of his cot. "Take a seat on the other end. That's my seat of honor for my visitors."

"What's your name?" Charley inquired.

"C. P. McCarty," replied the youth, with a grin. "I'm ashamed to confess that the C. P. stands for Clarence Percy, but don't call me either, for I see red when I get good and mad."

"One of the engineers?"

"Oh, we get called that sometimes by courtesy. Really, we are what you might term runners. No one of us three is really a licensed engineer. Say, what might your name be?"

"Charley West, one of the new owners of this business."

McCarty threw back his head and chuckled. "Whew!" he whistled, "just to think I've been talking flippant to a new boss for the last ten minutes."

"Never mind that," Charley grinned. "What I want to know is what's the matter here? Why is the steam shovel not running? Where are the other two runners?"

"Answer to question number one and two the same—general strike of all hands," replied McCarty briefly. "Yesterday was pay day. We have had no pay, any of us, for two months. Strike came when I went on watch. I tried to stop it, but it was no good. Can't say as I blame the niggers much. I'm kind of sore myself. It's bad enough living in a crowd like this, working in mud and water, living on bum, dirty grub, and, when you can't get your wages promptly, when you have a family to support, it's pretty tough. As for your third question, the other two runners have taken the dog and gone quail hunting."

"I see," said Charley absently. "How long have you been on the job?"

"Six months," said McCarty briefly. "I'm not an engineer, but I've worked around machinery ever since I can remember, and I've dug out more dirt on this job than the other two runners put together, if I do say it, and I could have done double if I had had a good crew back of me."

"I found Mr. Murphy's payroll in his tent," Charley observed. "I notice that, for the past two months, the men have been working only a little over half the time. How does that happen?"

"Accidents to the machine," said McCarty laconically. "I can't explain them, but they keep happening right along. Strange part of it is, they don't happen on my watch. Maybe that's just my good luck, but I have a feeling that there's something wrong somewhere. I don't know as there is anything wrong going on, but I've kinder got a hunch there is."

"How about the other two engineers? Are they all right?" Charley asked.

"Now, I'm not going to snitch on my mates," said McCarty decidedly. "I may like them, or I may not, that has nothing to do with the matter."

"I think it has," said Charley coolly. "You owe a duty to your employers far above any ethical or fancied duty to your mates, as you call them. You are working for us, and we are the ones you look to for your pay. I'm going to give you a check for your wages due this afternoon. After to-day your salary will be $100 a month, and you'll be chief engineer or runner on the job. There are conditions attached, of course. You are to give me fully reports on everything pertaining to your department; and, second, you will have to teach my chum, Walter, how to run the machine. You will have to look after the machine carefully, and, as soon as a part becomes worn in the least you must notify me, so I can have a new part ready as soon as the old one gives out. That's my proposition. Take it, or reject it, as you please."

McCarty reflected for a moment. "You're right," he said at last, "a man cannot serve two masters, and I have no reason to love either of the two engineers. They have bullied and slanged me as much as they dared ever since I've been on the job. It's hard to judge a dredge man, for they are the hardest class in the world. I guess it's the work and the men they work for that makes them so, and, when it comes down to real meanness and hardness, Bully Rooney and One-eye McGill stand at the lowest of the list. I know it sounds like a sneak, knocking his friends behind their backs, but I don't mean to be sneakish about it. You can tell them just what I've said. That I believe they have caused most of the hang-ups on this job—that but for them this job would have paid expenses, at any rate."

Charley smiled. "I'm going to have a little talk with them," he admitted, "but I am not going to tell them anything you have said. I am grateful to you for what you have told me, and I believe we are going to make this thing pay. By the way, can you tell me of any good engineer that a man could depend upon to do the right thing?"

"There is Bob Bratton, of Miami," said McCarty, brightening, "he is as white as they make them; but," he added despairingly, "the best engineer in the world can do but little with a poor crew."

"I'm going to tend to that part of it," Charley said, with a smile. "You do your part, and I'll see that the crew does theirs. Well, go ahead and finish your story. There will be no work done on the machine to-day. Glad to have had this little chat with you. So-long. I'll make out your check this afternoon."

He stepped out of the tent into the clear sunshine again, strangely cheered by the fact that he had found at least one man in the gang upon whom he could depend.

At the cook tent he found Chris industriously scraping the dirt off the bench, and vigorously scolding the big negro, who was standing idly by, with a look of dismay on his ebony face.

"I'ze plum ashamed of you," Chris was saying. "I nebber thought dat a Bahama nigger could be so plum nasty and dirty. I'se sho' ashamed of my country when I see things like dis going on. Say, what island are you from, nigger?"

"Eluther," said the negro sullenly.

"Elutheria," echoed Chris, "right next to de Spanish Wells Island, whar you could hab learned all manner ob things from all dose white people what lives there. Nigger, I'se sho' ashamed ob you."

Charley grinned, as he turned to the Captain, who was facing the rest of the negroes, who had been drawn to the spot by the loud talking. They were a rough-looking lot of humanity, pitted by smallpox on their faces, and their bared arms and chests marked by old knife cuts and pistol wounds. But they were almost giants in size, broad-shouldered, and