“Yes, it is,” he answered, grimly. “And, by Jove, if we leave the Northwest Territories without doing it I’ll be ashamed of the crowd.”
CHAPTER IX
LARRY HAS A PLAN
Larry Burnham didn’t get any more sleep that night. And, as he lay with eyes half closed, gazing at one “sentinel” after another, he often reflected that a country in which such startling things could happen was no place for him.
“These adventures are all right in books, or when some chap tells about ’em,” he murmured; “but when it comes to the real thing—excuse me!”
The boys were up with the twittering birds, and after breakfast a thorough investigation was made.
Daylight, however, did not aid them.
“I suppose,” drawled Dave, “that in my history of the Rambler Club this particular incident must be told with the explanation that no explanation could ever be found.”
“Saddle up, fellows,” laughed Bob. “En route to Fool’s Castle!”
Larry Burnham listened with a grim smile. This was the day he intended to carry out a certain resolution. With a perseverance quite extraordinary for him, the “promising football player,” by the aid of a small compass, had kept a pretty accurate record of their travels. Directly to the south, on the line of the railroad, was a settlement.
“No one could possibly miss it,” he reflected. And to keep going in a straight line would require no great skill. “If it wasn’t for Tom Clifton’s tongue, an’ that look he can put on his face, I’d come right out an’ tell ’em what I intend to do.”