“Go on, go on!” scoffed Tom.
“I will—to the States,” murmured the big lad under his breath.
“Our job is to hunt up the border patrol who saw him last,” put in Bob. “His name is Phil Hughes. Sergeant Erskine said that by keeping due south from here we could easily find his post near the international boundary line. He ought to be able to give us a lot of information.”
“I never heard of such a bunch,” sniffed Larry.
“Oh, ho,” broke in Dave, with a yawn, “I’m going to lie down. There’s no earthly use for any one standing guard to-night, fellows, so nobody need wake me up.”
“All right—it’s understood,” laughed Bob.
The stout boy, with a blanket tucked under his arm, presently mounted the steps; then, one by one, the others followed.
The fire, piled high with wood, sent a flaring yellow glow through the windows of the room in which they intended to spend the night. The corners, however, were very dark and mysterious; and the shadows flitting about assumed curious, uncanny shapes.
The Ramblers, long accustomed to roughing it, promptly rolled themselves in blankets and lay down. Larry did the same. To his tired, aching body the floor seemed very hard and uncomfortable. He was rather fearful, too, that wandering rats or spiders might make a voyage of discovery over his recumbent form.
“I guess the five husky little travelers will have a surprise in the morning,” he reflected. “The crowd may be smart, all right, but I sort o’ think they’ll have to be a bit smarter to outwit little ‘Fear-not.’”