"Do you mean that the men won't work any more?" asked his brother of the native foreman.
"Sure, no more work—um much 'fraid big devil in tunnel carry um off an' eat um."
"Well, I don't know that I blame 'em for being a bit frightened," commented Job. "It is a queer proceeding how twenty-five men can disappear like that. Where have the men gone, Serato?"
"Gone home. No more work. Go on hit—strike—same like white men."
"They waited until pay day to go on strike," commented the bookkeeper, a youth about Tom's age.
This was true. The men had been paid off the day before, and usually on such occasions many of them remained away, celebrating in the nearest village. But this time all had left, and evidently did not intend to come back.
"We'll have to get a new gang," said Job. "And it's going to delay us just at the wrong time. Well, there's no help for it. Get busy, Serato. You and Tim go and see how many men you can gather. Tell them we'll give them a sol a week more if they do good work. (A sol is the standard silver coin of Peru, and is worth in United States gold about fifty cents.)
"Half a dollar a day more will look mighty big to them," went on the contractor. "Get the men, Serato, and we'll raise your wages two sols a week."
The eyes of the Indian gleamed, and he went off, saying.
"Um try, but men much 'fraid."