None of the Italians addressed appeared to know. For the most part they took refuge in the fact or the pretense that they didn't understand English.
"Get an Italian gang-master, Harry," Tom murmured softly.
Hazelton bolted away, but was soon back, followed by a dark-skinned man who came with apparent reluctance.
"You're a gang-master?" Tom demanded, looking sharply at the man. "This fellow is intoxicated."
"Is he?" asked the gang-master.
"Yes, he is," Tom declared, bluntly. "Now, where did the man get the liquor."
"I do not know," replied the gang-master, shrugging his shoulders.
"Then it's your business to know—-if he got his liquor in camp. We won't allow any of that stuff in camp, and you gang-masters all know that."
"I can't stop a man from going to town to get liquor," argued the gang-master.
"No; you can't," Tom admitted. "Neither can I. But it's your duty, gang-master, to see that no liquor is brought back into camp. This man hasn't been to town for the stuff either. He hasn't had time enough to go away over to Blixton and get enough liquor to make him drunk. Moreover, in his present condition, the fellow couldn't have walked back from town the same evening. This man got his liquor in camp, and it will have to be stopped. Now, put this man in his shack; see that he gets into bed. Then come back to me."