CHAPTER V.
THE STRIKE.
The camp was soon plainly in view of all, and the reason for Charley's exclamation apparent. Although it was not nearly noon, groups of negroes were gathered around the various tents, and the big steam shovel lay far ahead, motionless and deserted, with no hint of smoke trailing from its smokestack. The only sign of activity about the camp was the sweaty cook, once more engaged in the seemingly endless process of molding bread on the dirty bench outside the tent.
Walter stopped the car, and Charley jumped out nimbly. None of his anxiety showed in his manner. He strode up to the negro.
"Do you make bread every day?" he inquired lightly.
"Sho', Cap," responded the big negro. "De niggers want hit fresh every day."
"Humph," commented the lad. "If I were you, I'd bake up enough at a time to last two or three days. Then you would have more time to keep things neat and clean, as they should be in a camp of this kind."
"Massa Murphy nebber found no fault wid my way ob doing things," objected the negro.
"Well, we are not Mr. Murphy," Charley said curtly. "We have bought him out. We are the owners of this thing now, and we want our food clean. Remember that. Now, tell me, which are Mr. Murphy's and the engineers' tents?"
"Right ober dar 'mongst dat little clump of pines. De furst one is Mr. Murphy's."