"I will, sir; and it might not be a bad idea to have your detectives do
something of the sort, also."
The general manager did not answer, except by a vague nod as his train
pulled out from the outskirts of the railway camp.
Tom went back, called for his horse and rode to the westward for another
look at the Man-killer. He found Harry, also in saddle, beneath the
scanty shade of a struggling tree. Hazelton's quick eyes were taking in
every detail of the work being done by the several large gangs of
workmen.
"Tom, if we're away from here by Christmas, there's one present you
needn't make me," smiled Hazelton wanly, as he caught sight of the
camera hanging in its leather field case at his chum's side.
"What present is that?" Tom inquired.
"Don't make me a present of a photograph of this awful place. It's
photographed on my brain now, and burned in and baked there. If we ever
get through with the Man-killer, and get our money, I never want to see
this spot again."
"I'm not thinking at all of the money," Reade retorted lightly yet
seriously.
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