“Not the slightest doubt about it. The Ramblers always manage to get mixed up in some stirring events.”
Guns, suit cases and bundles were seized by their respective owners; and when the cars had given their final lurch, and the last grind of the wheels had echoed sharply through the train shed, the seven stood ready to swing themselves off the platform.
They had scarcely alighted when a young man dressed in regulation cowboy fashion, wearing a blue shirt, leather chaps, a flowing yellow handkerchief about his neck, and a huge, broad-brimmed sombrero, made a dash toward them, at the same time uttering a glad shout of welcome.
“Jed Warren!” cried Bob, his face aglow with pleasure.
“Wal—wal, I reckon you’re sure right, pard,” exclaimed the cowboy, gleefully. And in the attempt of the enthusiastic lads to shake his hand at the same time bundles were dropped and suit cases knocked over.
Several of the loungers who made it a point to meet nearly every train were vastly entertained by this spectacle.
There were so many words and exclamations crowded into the next few seconds that no one knew exactly what any one else had said, and the first distinct sentence came in a shrill voice:
“My! What magazine cover did you escape from, anyway?”
Jed Warren’s grinning face was immediately turned toward the speaker.
“My father’s ward, Willie Sloan, Jed,” said Cranny. “He’s out here to get some ginger into his composition.”