The Rambler Club’s AeroplaneCHAPTER IA LETTER FROM BOB
The Rambler Club’s Aeroplane
“I tellyou, Cranny, it’s simply impossible to do anything with that boy; he hasn’t a bit of energy. Whenever my back is turned, he’s idling away his time. I do wish to goodness I could wash my hands of him.”
Mr. Bolton Beaumont, real estate agent of Tacoma, Washington, paced the floor of the office, his round, good-natured face wearing a most gloomy and disturbed expression. Mr. Beaumont was a large man—large in all dimensions—height, breadth and rotundity. The light, too, which, in spite of his present displeasure, shone from a pair of keen gray eyes, indicated a kindly, sympathetic disposition.
Cranston Beaumont, generally known as Cranny, bore but little resemblance to his father. Cranny was long of limb, wide of shoulder, his loose frame suggesting great strength and agility. The lurking smile at the corners of a generous mouth appeared to be somewhat offset by the aggressive appearance of a prominent chin; but, altogether, Cranny was a wholesome, clean-cut chap, full of life, and brimming over with courage.
Cranny’s expression gave no indication that his father’s words struck a responsive chord; instead, he seemed to be in the happiest frame of mind, his eyes occasionally turning toward a letter which lay open on a desk before him.
“I believe that Willie is positively hopeless,” went on Mr. Beaumont, in a louder tone. “But it doesn’t appear to bother you in the least. Whom is that letter from? It seems to interest you hugely.”
Cranny sank against the back of his chair and began to whistle softly, while the joyful look on his face deepened. Mr. Beaumont’s thoughts, however, were too full of another subject to pursue his inquiries further.
“I often wonder if that boy has a sparkof ambition in his whole make-up,” he continued. “He’s careless to an exasperating degree. Cranny, have you noticed my desk?”
His son rose to his feet and walked across to the opposite side of the office, where he stopped to gaze at several long irregular black smears on the otherwise clean top of Mr. Beaumont’s desk.
“Great Scott! now isn’t that a peach of a decoration,” he gurgled. “Ha, ha! How in the world——”
“Cranny, I must again ask you not to use those slang expressions,” broke in his father, reproachfully; “do try to cultivate more elegance of speech.”
“Say, dad, when did the ink foundry get this boost?”
Mr. Beaumont sighed.
“Early this morning I asked Willie to copy some papers, and the result was disastrous. He upset the ink bottle, nearly ruining an important legal paper, smeared his face and hands, and—and—well, Cranny, I’m totally disgusted—that’s all.”
Cranny burst out laughing.
“Honest to goodness, I can’t help it, dad,”he chuckled. “What did Willie say about this inky affair?”
“The same old thing—‘I couldn’t help it’—his usual explanation for whatever happens through his own carelessness.”
“Sorry now you promised his father to look out for him, eh?”
Mr. Beaumont eyed his son for a moment without speaking, then seated himself before his desk, to begin fidgeting with some papers in a pigeonhole.
“I never had a better friend than Bob Sloan, Cranny,” he said, slowly; “he was one of those unfortunate men, who, though intelligent, seem to have, for some reason, a hard time to make their way in the world, so he left this poor lad practically without a penny. Could I have done otherwise than agree to act as his guardian?—Of course not! But, Cranny”—Mr. Beaumont’s voice relapsed into its former querulous tone—“it’s the lad’s future that worries me. What is to become of him? He doesn’t seem interested in anything or anybody, has no thought of the value of time—he’s almost sixteen now, and should begin to realize that those whofritter away their youth generally live to regret such folly.”
“I’ve eaten fritters an’ lived to regret my folly,” murmured Cranny, sotto voce.
“And no amount of good advice seems to have any effect on him whatever,” went on Mr. Beaumont, despondently.
“Willie has a bad case o’lazyitis, dad—that’s what’s the matter,” remarked Cranny. “I’ve watched the little duffer——”
“Cranny—Cranny,” protested his father, “you know that is just the sort of language I object to.”
“Oh, then I’ll cut it all out, sir, though it comes hard,” grinned Cranny. “But, honest, dad, when you weren’t here, I’ve seen him holding down that chair for an hour without doing a lick of work. Oh, he’s a pippin, all right! But say, dad, let’s give wee Willie the go-by for half a minute—you asked me about this letter. Whom do you think it’s from?”
“I don’t feel in any mood for guessing, Cranny.”
“Well, to relieve your great anxiety, I’ll tell you in two words—Bob Somers.”
“Bob Somers?”
“Sure thing! Bob Somers and the Ramblers are heading this way. Oh, never mind about the slang, dad; I forgot. My, but I’ll never forget the bully time we had at Circle T Ranch.”
“And I’ll never forget how you kept on talking about it, either,” said Mr. Beaumont, dryly. “But Bob Somers is a lad that any father ought to be proud of—manly and self-reliant; not a bit of laziness in his composition, Cranny.”
“I should say not; he’s a hummer, all right; an’ there’s good old Dave Brandon, and little Tommy Clifton, and—and——”
“I think we lived in Kingswood long enough to know Sam Randall and Dick Travers,” interrupted his father, his round face relapsing into a broad smile. “Both good, lively chaps, too.”
“And Dave! Isn’t he a winner, dad?”
“A winner!” echoed Mr. Beaumont, in a puzzled tone.
“Sure! one of those chaps who is wise to all the good things going on. Why——”
“Cranny—Cranny—what extraordinary language you do use.”
“Oh, never mind, dad. Talk about me! Why, you ought to have heard some of the cow-punchers warble at Circle T Ranch.”
“I’m very glad I didn’t.”
“Well, I was talking about Dave Brandon. That chap can write and paint to beat the Dutch; and he knows all those queer little marks you dab into writing—commas and demi-commas.”
“Why, Cranny!”
The tall lad chuckled softly.
“Yes, I know that isn’t just the right name,” he laughed. “I’ve seen him paint some dandy pictures; one of ’em had more’n fifteen colors in it—honest, I counted.”
“Dave is certainly a bright lad,” said Mr. Beaumont. “But you haven’t yet told me what Bob Somers has written you.”
Cranny plumped himself down into the nearest chair and waved the letter aloft, while his eyes began to sparkle with excitement.
“Well, you heard about that great mine they found, eh, dad?”
“The Rambler Club’s Gold Mine?”
“Yes; exactly! Well, after doing thatstunt, they all brake-beamed-it back to Kingswood, and——”
“Brake-beamed-it! Why, what do you mean?”
“Oh, it’s just a little of the language you object to, dad,” laughed Cranny. “Brake-beamers are chaps who stow themselves away under freight-cars when the trainmen aren’t looking. But the Ramblers were able to dig down in their jeans for the coin.”
“The purity of the English language will eventually be destroyed if the coming generation keeps up this dreadful slang,” murmured Mr. Beaumont. Then, aloud, he added: “And where is Bob Somers now?”
“That’s just what I was coming to, dad. He and the other boys spent the winter at school in Kingswood, while a couple of mining engineers hiked out to Washington to see the mine.”
“Yes, I know all about that, Cranny,” interrupted Mr. Beaumont. “When the news was received it started a gold rush to that section. Many men staked out claims, and the mining recorder and gold commissioner were kept pretty busy for a while. The parentsof the Ramblers formed a company to operate the mine.”
“And Bob Somers writes that a regular little town has sprung up out there,” added Cranny, “and that some one has even opened a general store.”
“Do you mean to say Bob has traveled all that distance again?” queried Mr. Beaumont.
“Well, I should smile. The whole crowd, too. Just as soon as school was over they chucked their books to the scrap heap and beat it out to the mine.”
“Cranny, how many times must I entreat you not to use such language?”
“Honest, dad, I keep on forgetting. But my, hasn’t that Rambler Club been going some? They’re in Portland now, and headin’ right this way. Hooray—listen!” Cranny held Bob’s letter up to the light. “‘We expect to reach Tacoma in a few days,’” he read, “‘and, of course, we’ll hunt you up. And I can promise that there’ll be lots to talk about. And, Cranny, our crowd has decided to visit Circle T Ranch again. What do you think of that?’
“What do I think of that?” repeatedCranny, in a loud tone, as he brought the palm of his right hand down on his knee with a resounding slap. “Why, I think it’s the bulliest scheme out. Dad, you’ll have to give me a couple o’ weeks’ vacation—honest to goodness you must. I couldn’t stand not going along. Why, say, did I ever tell you about——”
“If you have missed the smallest detail of your momentous visit to the cattle country it would surprise me greatly,” said Mr. Beaumont. “I expected something like this just as soon as you mentioned Bob Somers’ name. Still”—the frown departed from his face—“I don’t know that I can blame you; but, Cranny, your services can’t be spared just now. If——”
His sentence was interrupted by the sudden opening of the door, which admitted to the room, first, a shaft of light from the corridor, and, second, a slight boyish form.
“Ah, Willie; here you are,” said Mr. Beaumont.