He and the others went out of the station, and the man, after a glance at the retreating forms, slid up to the ticket window.
“I guess I’ll change my destination, partner,” he said to the man behind the wicket. “I’ll travel on the Great Northern instead of on the Great Falls. Can you swap tickets for me?”
“Oh, I suppose so,” grumbled the agent. “What’s up?”
“Nothing, only some friends of mine are going that way, and I guess I’ll trail along. I’ve been waiting some time for them to show up, and, now that they’re here I don’t like to lose ’em. Just switch tickets for me.”
And so it came about that, as Jerry and his friends boarded their train again, they were unaware of the fact that the suspicious character—the man with the scar—was riding in the smoking car behind them.
“I guess I’m on the right trail,” murmured the man who had changed his tickets. “It’s him all right, from the description, though I don’t know what he’s doing with them boys, and the little man with the bald head, who seems to be after mosquitoes all the while. And that other chap, too. He’s a Westerner, or I miss my guess. Well, we’ll see what happens,” and he settled himself comfortably back in the seat, and looked at his ticket, which read “Kabspell.”