The Boy Chums in the Florida Jungle

  CHAPTER V.

  THE STRIKE.

  THE camp was soon plainly in view of all, and the reason for Charley'sexclamation apparent. Although it was not nearly noon, groups ofnegroes were gathered around the various tents, and the big steamshovel lay far ahead, motionless and deserted, with no hint of smoketrailing from its smokestack. The only sign of activity about the campwas the sweaty cook, once more engaged in the seemingly endless processof molding bread on the dirty bench outside the tent.

  Walter stopped the car, and Charley jumped out nimbly. None of hisanxiety 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 everyday."

  "Humph," commented the lad. "If I were you, I'd bake up enough at atime to last two or three days. Then you would have more time to keepthings 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 himout. 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."

  Charley strolled over to the little tent and entered it. It was smalland dirty, and the dirt floor was littered with whiskey bottles, allempty. Charley viewed them with a grim smile. "No wonder Murphy lostout," he murmured. "A man cannot put up a good fight and entertainJohn Barleycorn at the same time." There was a rude box desk in onecorner of the tent, littered with letters and papers. Charley seatedhimself beside it and overhauled its contents quickly. This done, hewalked out of the tent's squalor into the open air once more. He nextdrew back the flap of the first engineer's tent, and peeped inside,but the tent was deserted, as was also the second, save for disorderedcots and black, greasy clothing, flung here and there. In the thirdtent, however, he found a young man, stretched out on a cot readinga magazine. Unlike the other tents, this was neat and cleanly, andthe dirty working clothes of its occupants were hung up on a linestretching across the tent. "Hello," he greeted Charley boyishly."Back again are you?"

  "Yes," agreed Charley, as he noted the other's self-reliant, boyishface. "I ought to have to apologize for not ringing your bell, orknocking at your front door, but I didn't see either."

  "That's all right," laughed the youth, as he sat up on the end of hiscot. "Take a seat on the other end. That's my seat of honor for myvisitors."

  "What's your name?" Charley inquired.

  "C. P. McCarty," replied the youth, with a grin. "I'm ashamed toconfess that the C. P. stands for Clarence Percy, but don't call meeither, for I see red when I get good and mad."

  "One of the engineers?"

  "Oh, we get called that sometimes by courtesy. Really, we are what youmight term runners. No one of us three is really a licensed engineer.Say, what might your name be?"

  "Charley West, one of the new owners of this business."

  McCarty threw back his head and chuckled. "Whew!" he whistled, "justto think I've been talking flippant to a new boss for the last tenminutes."

  "Never mind that," Charley grinned. "What I want to know is what's thematter here? Why is the steam shovel not running? Where are the othertwo runners?"

  "Answer to question number one and two the same--general strike of allhands," replied McCarty briefly. "Yesterday was pay day. We have hadno pay, any of us, for two months. Strike came when I went on watch. Itried to stop it, but it was no good. Can't say as I blame the niggersmuch. I'm kind of sore myself. It's bad enough living in a crowd likethis, working in mud and water, living on bum, dirty grub, and, whenyou can't get your wages promptly, when you have a family to support,it's pretty tough. As for your third question, the other two runnershave taken the dog and gone quail hunting."

  "I see," said Charley absently. "How long have you been on the job?"

  "Six months," said McCarty briefly. "I'm not an engineer, but I'veworked around machinery ever since I can remember, and I've dug outmore dirt on this job than the other two runners put together, if I dosay it, and I could have done double if I had had a good crew back ofme."

  "I found Mr. Murphy's payroll in his tent," Charley observed. "I noticethat, for the past two months, the men have been working only a littleover half the time. How does that happen?"

  "Accidents to the machine," said McCarty laconically. "I can't explainthem, but they keep happening right along. Strange part of it is, theydon't happen on my watch. Maybe that's just my good luck, but I have afeeling that there's something wrong somewhere. I don't know as thereis anything wrong going on, but I've kinder got a hunch there is."

  "How about the other two engineers? Are they all right?" Charley asked.

  "Now, I'm not going to snitch on my mates," said McCarty decidedly. "Imay like them, or I may not, that has nothing to do with the matter."

  "I think it has," said Charley coolly. "You owe a duty to youremployers far above any ethical or fancied duty to your mates, as youcall them. You are working for us, and we are the ones you look tofor your pay. I'm going to give you a check for your wages due thisafternoon. After to-day your salary will be $100 a month, and you'llbe chief engineer or runner on the job. There are conditions attached,of course. You are to give me fully reports on everything pertainingto your department; and, second, you will have to teach my chum,Walter, how to run the machine. You will have to look after the machinecarefully, and, as soon as a part becomes worn in the least you mustnotify me, so I can have a new part ready as soon as the old one givesout. That's my proposition. Take it, or reject it, as you please."

  McCarty reflected for a moment. "You're right," he said at last, "aman cannot serve two masters, and I have no reason to love either ofthe two engineers. They have bullied and slanged me as much as theydared ever since I've been on the job. It's hard to judge a dredge man,for they are the hardest class in the world. I guess it's the work andthe men they work for that makes them so, and, when it comes down toreal meanness and hardness, Bully Rooney and One-eye McGill stand atthe lowest of the list. I know it sounds like a sneak, knocking hisfriends behind their backs, but I don't mean to be sneakish about it.You can tell them just what I've said. That I believe they have causedmost of the hang-ups on this job--that but for them this job would havepaid expenses, at any rate."

  Charley smiled. "I'm going to have a little talk with them," headmitted, "but I am not going to tell them anything you have said. Iam grateful to you for what you have told me, and I believe we aregoing to make this thing pay. By the way, can you tell me of any goodengineer that a man could depend upon to do the right thing?"

  "There is Bob Bratton, of Miami," said McCarty, brightening, "he isas white as they make them; but," he added despairingly, "the bestengineer in the world can do but little with a poor crew."

  "I'm going to tend to that part of it," Charley said, with a smile."You do your part, and I'll see that the crew does theirs. Well, goahead and finish your story. There will be no work done on the machineto-day. Glad to have had this little chat with you. So-long. I'll makeout your check this afternoon."

  He stepped out of the tent into the clear sunshine again, strangelycheered by the fact that he had found at least one man in the gang uponwhom he could depend.

  At the cook tent he found Chris industriously scraping the dirt off thebench, and vigorously scolding the big negro, who was standing idly by,with a look of dismay on his ebony face.

  "I'ze plum ashamed of you," Chris was saying. "I nebber thought dat aBahama nigger could be so plum nasty and dirty. I'se sho' ashamed of mycountry when I see things like dis going on. Say, what island are youfrom, nigger?"

  "Eluther," said the negro sullenly.

  "Elutheria," echoed Chris, "right next to de Spanish Wells Island, wharyou could hab learned all manner ob things from all dose white peop
lewhat lives there. Nigger, I'se sho' ashamed ob you."

  Charley grinned, as he turned to the Captain, who was facing the restof the negroes, who had been drawn to the spot by the loud talking.They were a rough-looking lot of humanity, pitted by smallpox on theirfaces, and their bared arms and chests marked by old knife cuts andpistol wounds. But they were almost giants in size, broad-shouldered,and muscular-backed men with the narrow hips that mark the true athlete.

  Charley paused to choose his words before addressing them.