EVERYBODY HAPPY
Yes, it was a riotous and uproarious demonstration. And the noise which
echoed and reëchoed between the hills was probably the greatest those
narrow confines had ever heard.
The boys slapped Jed Warren on the back and wrung his hand, until the
policeman, in sheer self-defense, was obliged to back up against the
porch and hold them at bay.
“Enough, fellows, enough!” he gasped.
“What did I tell you, Larry Burnham?” howled Tom, above the uproar.
“Wasn’t I just sure we could do it? Hurrah for Jed Warren! Hurrah for
everybody!”
“Order, order!” shouted the genial Mr. Duncan, red-faced and happy.
“Order, I say, boys! Let’s get at the bottom of this thing before I
succumb from excitement.”
And now, unable to reach Jed Warren, the lads were repeating their
manifestations of enthusiasm on Bob Somers, until he, too, sought
relief by the side of the grinning policeman.
It was only after exhausted nature came to aid the calmer members of
the group that the hubbub began to cease.
“I sure knew you fellers was a lively lot,” cried Jed Warren, “but it
strikes me you’ve got more ginger than ever.”
Then began a fusillade of questions. No one heard Jerry Duncan’s
invitation to come in the house; no one paid the slightest attention to
anybody but Jed Warren and Bob Somers. Tom, triumphant, could scarcely
refrain from shouting. What a superb surprise they had in store for
Billy Ashe and Teddy Banes. Perhaps they, and all the rest who had had
the temerity to reflect on the ability of the Rambler Club, would now
reverse their opinions.
Yes, it was a glorious occasion, and Larry Burnham enjoyed it as much
as any one; for, he reflected, it was his running away and leading
the others into the territory where the smugglers worked that had
indirectly brought about such a happy result.
It was a long, long time before every one was satisfied. Not a single
question seemed to remain unasked; nor could another response add to
the information already gained. Bob Somers was the hero; every one had
known it before--but now they were doubly certain. They absolutely
refused to listen to the Rambler’s contention that good fortune had
played the star rôle.
“Get out!” scoffed Tom. “It was brains--brains--and nothing else. Were
we worried? Oh, a trifle. But of course the crowd knew you were all
right every minute of the time.”
And at this point Mr. Jerry Duncan managed to make his presence felt.
“You simply have to come inside now,” he exclaimed. “The smugglers
haven’t anything on me, Jed. I’m going to take you prisoner. Inside
with him, boys! The Mounted Police have no terrors for us.”
Instantly the ranchman’s hand fell on Jed Warren’s shoulder, and, ably
assisted by his courageous band, he hustled this particular member
of the Royal Northwest Mounted Police unceremoniously into the big
dining-room of the ranch-house.
“The sentence for your ‘desertion’ is: that you shall be allowed
freedom after eating one of the best meals ever prepared in this place.”
“And we will ably assist!” cried Dave. “These little incidents that
are always occurring to the Rambler Club do give me an uncommonly good
appetite.”
“Shortly, you shall be sentenced to make a speech,” cried Mr. Duncan.
“I’ll make two, if agreeable,” laughed Dave.
The dinner was, naturally, a lively and jolly affair. Every one rose to
the occasion. Jed made the first “oration.” He laughingly expressed the
opinion that the Canadian government could not do better than to employ
the entire Rambler Club to act as an advisory board.
“Never,” cried the jovial Mr. Duncan, at the conclusion of the
“banquet,” “have I enjoyed myself so much.”