“Dave Brandon,” he said, indicating a stout, round-faced lad; “Tom Clifton”—his hand dropped on the tall boy’s wrist; “Sam Randall; Dick Travers, and Larry Burnham.”
“Last and least,” murmured Tom, sotto voce.
“A most promising football player,” went on Bob, “who thought he’d like to take a little jaunt out to the Northwest Territories with us.”
“That’s putting it pretty mild, Bob,” snickered Tom Clifton. “If Larry didn’t coax and plead to come along I’ll——”
“Just listen to the little story-book hero!” growled Larry, in accents of disgust. “It’s a wonder I ever got his permission, I’m sure.”
“See here, fellows,” interposed Bob Somers, “we haven’t found out yet why Jed isn’t here.”
“That’s so,” cried Tom. “Those chaps who met us at the gate didn’t say very much, but what they did say sounded kind of queer.”
“I should sort o’ think it did,” agreed Larry Burnham.
All the boys had reseated themselves except the latter; and, as the sergeant’s eyes rested on his six feet of solid bone and muscle, he thought to himself that, for physique, he had never seen a better specimen than the blond youth before him. But he also noticed a curious droop in Larry’s mouth and a generally dissatisfied expression on his face which seemed to indicate that the “promising football player” might not be a very pleasant companion to have around.
“I say, sergeant, where is Jed Warren?” inquired Tom Clifton, who possessed a remarkably gruff voice.