“What I know? You ask him.” The half-breed’s bony finger was pointed directly at Erskine.
“Teddy Banes is one of the best scouts the police ever employed,” explained the sergeant. “The coyote hasn’t much on him when it comes to following trails. When he thinks a man has crossed the border line I’m pretty well satisfied he has; and Banes”—Erskine paused impressively—“says he doesn’t see how the evidence could mean anything else.”
“Goodness gracious! It seems to me we’re always running into some sort of a mystery,” sighed the stout boy, whose eyes were now wide open.
“That’s so. When we’re around something is always happening,” said Dick Travers.
“And, from what Tom Clifton says, I should judge the Rambler Club is one of the greatest mystery-solving organizations in America,” gurgled Larry Burnham.
“Oh, but you do make me tired, Larry,” burst out Tom, darting an angry look at the big blond boy. “But I can tell you this”—he stopped an instant to give his words added effect—“we came up in Canada to camp out, and to see the country; but I vote that we get busy on this case, and—and—help to solve it.”
To Tom’s intense indignation, the usually quiet and undemonstrative Larry began to roar with laughter. He slapped his knees, poked Dave Brandon violently in the ribs, and ended up his outburst by slapping Dick Travers on the shoulder.
“I thought so; I thought so!” he cried. “Think of his nerve, fellows—talking that way before an officer of the Royal Mounted Police! If they can’t solve the mystery Tom’ll do it for ’em. Now I sort o’ think the sergeant ought to be pleased.”
“Oh, get out!” scoffed Tom, a trifle disconcerted to find the stern, deep-set eyes of Sergeant Erskine leveled full upon him. “Do you suppose we’re going to sit around and do nothing while Jed is suspected of being a deserter? Well, I guess not!”
“What you do?” demanded Banes, with a guttural laugh.