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."