Mr. Ryder’s cottage was at the very end of the short street. It was a one-story affair but somewhat more prepossessing in appearance than the rest of the dwellings. The engineer lived there entirely alone save for Tom Why, his aged Chinese cook. In fact, each American at the plant had a separate cottage, which was usually taken care of by some old Indian woman. There were only two white women in the village. One was the wife of Allen Lyman and the other was Mrs. Harriet Clifford, the wife of a young American foreman in the plant-maintenance department.
Mr. Ryder’s cottage was no better furnished than any of the rest. The main room, which was living room, dining room, library and study all in one, was equipped with several heavy wooden chairs, a square table and a flat desk littered with old magazines and papers. The remaining three rooms boasted small iron beds and washstands. Just in the rear of the cottage was a little house in which Tom Why and his American cookstove were quartered. Tom was acknowledged to be the best cook in the village, excepting, of course, the two American women.
Though it was very late, Tom was up and waiting for the engineer. He had prepared a rather substantial midnight luncheon and when Jack caught the odor of steaming coffee he suddenly realized that he was extremely hungry. Neither he nor Mr. Ryder had tasted food since their dinner at the American Hotel in Mexico City, and they were both ready to do justice to Tom’s tempting spread. Between mouthfuls, however, they did find time to talk over the recent trouble at the plant.
“I must get at the bottom of this and find out who the rebel sympathizers are. Of course they are among the peon laborers, at least I think so, for none of the white employees have the slightest interest in Zapata and his gang of cutthroats, as far as I know. Still, the way the trouble makers have tampered with the big switches and other dangerous machinery that most of the peons are afraid of, makes me believe sometimes that the culprits are white men or natives who know a little more about electricity than the peons.”
“I should think then, that you would try and find out whether you are dealing with peons or Mexicans of another variety,” said Jack.
“Find out!” demanded the engineer sharply. “Do you think I have been sitting with my hands folded all this time? I’ve had the place watched. I’ve done everything I could to discover who is up to this crooked work. You see, after two in the morning things slacken down at the plant. There isn’t much of a load to be carried, only the street lighting in Mexico City, and one or two generators are enough to take care of that. At that time most of the men leave the plant. There is only the night operator and two or three watchmen in different parts of the building, and they are not always as alert as they might be. Well, between two o’clock and the time the day force comes on at six o’clock in the morning, the meddlers get in their best work. The day men usually discover the trouble, though in a case like to-night, when one of the big machines have been tampered with, the disturbance isn’t noticed until the operator tries to start up at nightfall.
“We’ve watched everything and everybody, but when we are in one place trouble turns up in an entirely different part of the plant. The thing that worries me the most about the whole business is that some night after the meddlers have been at work the rebels out there in the mountains might take it in their heads to attack. Suppose the searchlight generator was crippled. In that case we’d have a serious time, wouldn’t we? Indeed, I would like to find out whom we are dealing with. But how can I?”
“Well,” said Jack after a moment’s reflection, “at least we can learn whether we are dealing with peons or white men. Here’s a suggestion. Why not sprinkle a little powder or dust around the machines, switchboard and other apparatus likely to be tampered with? Sprinkle it at two o’clock every morning and sweep it up again at six. In the meantime if any one has tampered with these contrivances they are bound to leave footprints. If the prints show naked feet we’ll know it is one of the peons, and if we find the trouble maker wears shoes then we’ll know it is a white man.”
“By Jove, that’s a corking idea,” said Mr. Ryder enthusiastically; “we’ll do it. We’ll sprinkle cement dust on the floor. Let’s try it out to-night and keep it up religiously until we get an imprint of the villain’s feet. We’ll saunter over to the plant after those workmen clear out, which I judge will be about three o’clock; meanwhile, if you care to, you can snatch an hour’s sleep.”
To Jack sleep sounded particularly good and as soon as Mr. Ryder pointed out his room he tumbled into it without even removing his shoes. But it seemed to him however that he had only closed his eyes when he felt the engineer’s hand upon his forehead.