“From your description, I think I know the chap, Bob,” he exclaimed. “I can’t understand those yells and pistol shots you tell me about, though.”
“We may find out yet,” grinned the lad.
“I’m proud o’ you, Bob,” declared the policeman, emphatically, when all was told, “I sartinly am. You’ve done some wonderfully slick work, but this is about the slickest yet.”
Then, to the Rambler’s embarrassment, he abruptly started on a new tack.
“Bob,” he demanded, “was my horse ever found?”
“Yes, Jed,” answered Bob.
“Where?”
“On the other side of the international boundary line.”
Warren shook his fist savagely in the air.
“I think I see through their game!” he cried, springing to his feet. “Now see here”—he planted himself squarely before the lad—“did Sergeant Erskine think—think I was—I was”—he seemed to utter the words with difficulty—“a deserter?”