Twice, while he waited impatiently, Tom kicked the toe of one boot against
the door to emphasize the need of haste. Other drowsy voices remonstrated.

"Hang a man who has to sleep _all_ the time!" 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."