"Help me to run Evarts and this other trouble-hunter out of the camp!" The menacing yells grew fewer and fainter as the cheers of loyal laborers rose.
The foremen seized both trouble makers and began to run them along with more skill than gentleness.
Tom ran along, keeping his glance on the enraged men of the camp, many of whom followed on the outskirts of the crowd.

Harry Hazelton occupied himself in similar fashion.
"Now, you get out of this---and stay out!" ordered Foreman Dill, giving Evarts a shove that sent him spinning across the boundary line of the company's property.
"You, too!" growled Foreman Johnson, giving the bootlegger a kick that sent him staggering along in his efforts to keep on his feet.
It was rough treatment, but Tom's course, all through, had been of the only sort that could break down the threatened riot.
"Now, see if that Italian can be found who fired the shot in my face," Tom called.

"I'll know him if I lay eyes on him." There was a prompt search, but the Italian could not be found.
"If he has left camp, and keeps away, perhaps he'll be safe," Tom announced.

"But, if I run across him again I'll seize him, hold him for the officers of the law, and see to it that he's sent to prison for attempted murder." "Here are two men we want!" called Hazelton.
Tom ran to his chum, who was holding an American by the arm.

Mr.Prenter had hold of another.
"Two more of Evarts's bootleggers, eh ?" muttered Reade.