"What's that noise up in the street?" suddenly demanded Ashby, in a tone
of sudden fear.

"Run up and find out, if you want to know," proposed Tom, who stood
poised, ready for another assailant to come within reach of his fists.

Stealthily, on tip-toe, the bully who had first engaged Reade in the
street fight, was now trying to get up behind the young engineer. The
bully held the shotgun ready to bring down on the lad's head.

"There's some row up there," continued Ashby. "There, I heard shots!"

"Brave, aren't you?" jeered Tom.

Three or four of the masked cowards started for the steep stairway.

Even the bully with the clubbed shotgun must have been seized with fear;
for, though in position to strike, he quickly lowered the weapon and
listened.

Bump! smash! sounded, though not directly overhead.

Then from the hallway above came the noise of the treading of many feet,
while a voice roared hoarsely:

"Spread through the house, boys! If they've done anything to Mr. Reade,
then break the necks of every white-livered rascal you can find!"

"Fine!" chuckled Tom, while the masked faces in the cellar turned even
whiter than the cloths covering them. "That voice sounds familiar to me,
too."

Over the hubbub of voices above sounded some remonstrating tones, as
though others were urging a less violent course.

"It's the workmen from the camp!" guessed Hotelman Ashby, in a voice
that shook as though from ague.

"Sounds like it," chuckled Tom. "Cheer up, Ashby. If it's our railroad
crew I'll try to see to it that they don't do more than half kill you!"

Then, raising his voice, Tom called gleefully:

"Hello, there! You'll find us in the cellar."

"Why don't you kill that fool!" muttered Jim Duff, who, still dazed,
struggled to sit up.

"Hush, man, for goodness sake!" implored the badly frightened Ashby.

Duff, with rapidly returning consciousness, now leaped to his feet,
drawing his pistol and springing at Reade.

"Hold on!" Tom proposed coolly. "You're too late!"

The sudden flooding of light into the place and the rush of hobnailed
shoes on the stairs recalled even the gambler's scattered senses.

"There they are!" yelled a voice. "Grab 'em! Be careful you don't hit
Mr. Reade."

In another instant the cellar was the center of a wild scene. Railway
laborers flooded the little place. While some held dark lanterns that
threw a bright glow over the scene, others leaped upon the masked ones,
tearing the