The half-breed made no answer. All the intensity of his small black eyes was fixed in the direction of the gate, where the body of horsemen were now filing in. On they came, galloping across the grounds with an abandon that showed them to be skilful riders.
An instant later the friendly lights of the barracks plucked forms and faces from the obscurity. And even Sergeant Erskine allowed a slight gasp of surprise to escape him when he noted that the travelers, instead of being the troop of hardy men he had expected to see, were but a healthy-looking lot of lads.
CHAPTER II
“WHERE IS JED WARREN?”
“Is Sergeant Erskine of the Royal Mounted Police here?”
All the boys had swung from the saddle, and one of their number, advancing toward the grinning and astonished members of the police, had asked the question.
“Great Scott!” murmured Cole. “What does this mean?—a lot o’ kids!”
“I am Sergeant Erskine,” answered the officer. His eyes ran over his questioner, taking in every detail of the well-set, sturdy figure which stood before him. “Who are you, and where do you come from?”
A very tall lad, looming up behind the first speaker, took it upon himself to answer.
“We’re the Rambler Club of Wisconsin,” he said, in a tone which seemed to indicate that he felt this announcement ought to create an enormous sensation.
“The Rambler Club of Wisconsin!” exclaimed Sergeant Erskine, while several loud guffaws came from his men. “Who are they?”