"You don't know Gridley boys," laughed Harry, "if you don't understand that Dick Prescott and Tom Reade, together, are a hard team to beat."
In the meantime Tom led the way down to the camp of workmen. Reade stopped to speak with one of his reliable negroes, whom he found softly strumming a banjo under a tree.
"Are there any visitors in camp to-night who shouldn't be here?" asked Tom.
"I doan' beliebe so, boss," replied the colored man. "Dem gamblers an' bootleggers ain' done got bail yet, has they, sah?"
"I don't believe they have," replied Tom. "There are no others of their kind here, then?"
"I doan' beliebe so, sah."
Tom and Dick strolled through the camp, but all was quiet there. Many of the men were outside their shacks or tents, smoking and waiting for turning-in time to come.
"Looks as orderly as a camp-meeting," declared Lieutenant Prescott. "I'm glad to see, Tom, that you're for the decent camp every time."
"The decent camp is the only kind that contains efficient workmen for engineering jobs," Reade answered dryly.
Presently they strolled out of camp, on the farther side. This was what the young engineer really wanted to do—-to vanish suddenly, in a fashion that would not be likely to be noted by hostile eyes. Now Reade and his army chum proceeded softly, and without words. Through the deep woods Tom was heading for the spot where he had found the magneto.