“I do—and so will the sergeant.”
“Get out! This is a free country, isn’t it?”
“It’s not free for any one to interfere with the business of the Northwest Mounted.”
“What’s in that old chuck wagon?” demanded Tom, impatiently.
Witmar had pulled open the flap, and, by the aid of a pocket search-light, was examining some of the contents.
“We are not supposed to answer questions put to us by strangers,” interposed Ashe, who was in such a disappointed frame of mind that he found it hard to speak with civility. “Come—get out. What do you want to do—take charge of the wagon—and us besides?”
“Aye, aye! I reckon he’d like to,” said Witmar.
“Is this a private park?” demanded Tom. “Where are the ‘keep off the grass’ signs? Have you any authority over me?”
“I have authority to arrest any one who interferes with us,” returned Ashe, threateningly. “There’s many an old stager on the force who might run you over to the barracks if you didn’t light out the moment he said the word.”
“Aye, aye! I’ve seen it done,” said Witmar.