“My name is Bob Somers,” began the lad who had spoken first, “and——”
“Bob Somers!” interrupted Sergeant Erskine. “Well—a light breaks in upon me, as the fellow in the only play I ever saw remarked. If I haven’t heard Jed Warren mention your name about fifty times I won’t take the next furlough that’s coming to me.”
“What’s this we hear about Jed Warren having disappeared?” demanded the tall lad, abruptly.
“Yes, I know all about you chaps now,” said Erskine, without heeding this remark. “You boys exchanged a lot of letters with Jed. He told me he’d asked you to come out.”
“And we’re here,” said the tall member of the group.
“Said you could have lots of fun in the Northwest Territories camping out, hobnobbing with an occasional policeman or ranch owner.”
“And perhaps incidentally rounding up a bunch of smugglers or cattle rustlers,” snickered Farr.
“Hey?” said the big boy, quite fiercely.
“Well, Ramblers,” continued the sergeant, “I’m sorry you came all this way to meet with disappointment. Your friend is not here, and we don’t know when he will be.”
A chorus of remarks and questions which immediately began to flow from the lads was cut short by a wave of Sergeant Erskine’s big hand.