CHAPTER IIWILLIE CANNOT HELP IT

CHAPTER IIWILLIE CANNOT HELP IT

Willie Sloan, age fifteen and a half, quite small for his years, wasn’t a bad-looking chap; or, rather, wouldn’t have been if his expression had indicated a greater degree of satisfaction with the world. Discontent seemed written all over his youthful face, and even his slouchy gait and untidy appearance told of an unhappy spirit. A mass of tousled hair, of a chestnut color, fell over a moderately high forehead; deep brown eyes, which had a habit of staring straight at one in a rather disconcerting fashion—some called it impudent—a thin nose, and a mouth never quite still completed his facial make-up.

But the light of boyish enthusiasm was woefully lacking in Willie Sloan’s face; and his voice, too, when he presently spoke, did not ring with the spirit of youth.

“Say, Mr. Beaumont, I lost that letter you told me to leave for Mr. Sharswood,” hebegan, in a dogged manner, staring hard into Cranny’s grinning face.

“Lost it, Willie! Why, how in the world did that happen?”

“I couldn’t help it, sir. I must have dropped the envelope when I pulled some papers out o’ my pocket, just before getting there.”

Mr. Beaumont shot a swift, expressive glance at his son, and shrugged his shoulders.

“Willie, that may put me to no end of trouble.” His tone was as stern as his good-natured disposition would permit him to assume. “I’m more and more astonished at your carelessness.”

“Awfully sorry, sir; I couldn’t help it,” persisted Willie, as he threw his cap sullenly on a chair.

“Couldn’t help it!” sneered Cranny. “My land, but you do make me tired.”

“Then go take a rest,” said Willie, staring at him still harder. “Never lost anything yourself, I suppose?”

“Come, come!” interrupted Mr. Beaumont. “Don’t have any words about it, boys. Cranny, call up Mr. Sharswood; I’llhave to explain this matter to him at once; and, Willie, you may keep on writing those letters I dictated this morning.”

The small lad, with a defiant look toward Cranny, seated himself before a typewriter which stood near Mr. Beaumont’s desk, and, in a half-hearted manner, began to pound the keys.

“I’m very sorry, Mr. Sharswood,” Mr. Beaumont was presently saying over the ’phone. “How did it happen? Well, Willie lost it—that’s all. Too bad you feel that way about it. Yes, I’ll be in the office all afternoon. Good-bye.”

“Is he comin’ over, dad?” asked Cranny, with a grin.

“Yes. Mr. Sharswood seems to be very much annoyed indeed,” answered his father. “The paper contained an opinion from my lawyer concerning an important transfer of property over which he has had some litigation. I shouldn’t have entrusted Willie with it,” he added, in a tone so low that it did not reach the lad’s ears. “He is becoming worse and worse.”

“Old Sharswood’ll call him down goodan’ hard; he’s a slam-back chap,” chirped Cranny.

“Please do not use such disrespectful terms, my son,” remonstrated the other. “What’s that—am I going to give you a vacation?—I’m afraid not.”

“Why?” grumbled Cranny. “I don’t want to be cooped up in this office all summer like a chicken in a wicker-work basket. Come, dad!”

“I can’t talk about it now, Cranny.”

Mr. Beaumont turned away, while his son, with a look of extreme disgust, tossed Bob Somers’ letter into an open drawer of his desk.

Cranny ran a close second to Willie Sloan in his lack of attention to business that afternoon. He found it almost impossible to keep his mind on the dry details of office work, for entrancing pictures of Circle T Ranch and the cow-punchers would persist in passing before his mental vision.

“Think of the great sport that bunch is going to have,” he murmured. “Gee! It’s enough to make a chap——”

A quick step in the corridor, the rattle of the knob as the door flew open, and the appearanceof a stout, florid-faced man brought his wandering thoughts back with startling abruptness.

“Mr. Sharswood!” said Mr. Beaumont, rising from his desk.

“Yes; here I am!” exclaimed the other, gruffly. “See here, Beaumont, how about that paper?”

Willie Sloan’s brown eyes were staring straight at Mr. Sharswood, while a scowl on his forehead slowly deepened.

“And do you mean to say, Beaumont, that you actually gave an important paper like that into the care of an irresponsible lad?” demanded Mr. Horatio Sharswood, as he vigorously mopped his face. “Why, it’s simply ridiculous—almost reprehensible. See here, boy, what do you mean by such a piece of stupid carelessness?”

“Wasn’t careless. I couldn’t help it,” mumbled Willie.

“Couldn’t help it! Fiddlesticks! And don’t you stare at me like that, either. It’s a mighty good thing you’re not in my office; I’d bundle you out in short order.”

“I’d be glad to leave it,” snapped Willie.

Mr. Horatio Sharswood’s florid face turned a shade redder.

“Did you ever hear of such impudence?” he stormed. “Beaumont, do you allow your clients to be spoken to in that manner by a little whiffet of an office boy? Does he express any regret for his action?—oh, no—just brazens it out. Why—why——”

“I’m not a whiffet!”

Mr. Sharswood stared in amazement.

“Never lost anything yourself, I s’pose?” piped Willie.

“Be quiet!” commanded Mr. Beaumont, sternly. “Mr. Sharswood,” he added, “this is my ward, Willie Sloan. I regret exceedingly the loss of the paper, and will do all in my power to——”

“Oh, gee—oh, my! If that ain’t the queerest yet!”

This exclamation, in Willie Sloan’s squeaky voice, interrupted him. The boy was clutching an envelope which he had just drawn from some deep recess of a capacious pocket, and stood staring at it with a comical look of bewilderment.

“Oh—ginger—I—I didn’t lose it, after all.Well, wouldn’t that stagger a mule? I—I——”

Cranny clapped his hands together and burst into a roar of laughter, while the two gentlemen gazed at the diminutive form of Mr. Beaumont’s ward in astonishment.

“And do you actually mean to say that you’ve put me to all this trouble for nothing?” roared Mr. Sharswood.

“Why—why, you ought to be mighty glad to get it back, sir,” said Willie, reproachfully. “I couldn’t help thinking I lost it—felt sure I’d looked through that pocket carefully; honest, I did.”

“Well, well, Beaumont, this is about the limit!” cried the visitor, as he seized the envelope from Willie’s outstretched hand. “All the afternoon wasted—for it put me into such a state of mind that I couldn’t do a stroke of work. What do you think of yourself, young man?”

Willie’s eyes were still staring hard into the stout man’s face. He gulped once or twice, then mumbled:

“I’m not wasting any time thinking about myself.”

“Don’t feel a bit sorry, eh?”

“Why, I didn’t mean to do it. You see——”

Mr. Sharswood waved his hand.

“I don’t want to speak harshly of your ward, Beaumont,” he said, “but, really, I fear you are too easy with him. Keep a tight rein on the lad. And, as a special favor, my dear sir, send some one else to my office whenever important papers have to be delivered.”

“Well, I’m not asking to come, am I?” growled Willie, in a sepulchral whisper.

Mr. Horatio Sharswood glared sternly at the office boy, while Willie glared back.

“What a cheeky little lad!” exclaimed Mr. Sharswood, breaking an awkward silence. “He sits there just as calm as you please, staring a man out of countenance. It’s extraordinary. No, I can’t stay another instant—not even the tenth of a second. Good-bye.”

The door opened with a jerk, Mr. Horatio Sharswood’s stout form remained silhouetted against the clear light outside for scarcely a moment—then he was gone.

Mr. Beaumont was too considerate a man to say very much to his ward before Cranny;he didn’t care to hurt the feelings of any one. Willie would, perhaps, respond to kindness; but any attempt to drive him might only result in his becoming more unruly and stubborn.

But a little later, when Cranny had left the office, Mr. Beaumont talked earnestly to his ward. Willie listened respectfully, and promised to do better, even brightening up as Mr. Beaumont pictured the reward which almost invariably follows hard and conscientious work. Then, when the gentleman went into another room, he worked hard for at least five minutes.

Cranny and his father’s ward were allowed to leave the office at an early hour that afternoon, much to the former’s relief. Cranny couldn’t get Bob Somers’ letter or the Rambler Club out of his mind; he pictured to himself all the good times they were going to have at Circle T Ranch, and the fate which he feared was going to keep him tied down to office work seemed hard indeed.

As the two walked along, he took Bob’s letter from his pocket and waved it before Willie’s face.

“See that, kid?” he demanded.

“I won’t, if you jab my eyes out with the corner,” growled his companion.

“Oh, get over that grouch. What’s the matter with you, anyway?”

“Lots.”

“Forget it.”

“I can’t. Wouldn’t the way old Sharswood talked make anybody hopping?”

“It’s a wonder he didn’t make you go hopping, son. Awful nervy—that chirp you got off, too. He’s a big man in town. I’ll bet dad was mad.”

“Why? What did I say?” asked Willie, with an innocent stare.

“Lots! But never mind—it’s all right. Look here, lad: in a few days, Bob Somers an’ his crowd’ll strike this town.”

His companion made no reply.

“Did you hear what I said about Bob Somers an’ his Rambler Club?” Cranny’s demand was loud and emphatic.

“Sure I did! Do they ramble in their talk?”

“Oh, get out! The whole bunch is on their way to Circle T Ranch.”

“Well, there isn’t anything to hinder them that I know of.”

Cranny glanced at him curiously. He had frankly confessed to his father that he couldn’t understand the lad. Willie didn’t resemble any of the boys he had known. Jollity and life were certainly missing from his composition, and without any compensating qualities of earnestness or ambition.

The big lad thought of these things as Willie, taking two steps to his one, trudged by his side up a hilly street. An idea which seemed to please him immensely entered his head. The good-natured curve of his lips became more pronounced.

“Just the thing,” he reflected. “Bully idea—great! It ought to cinch it. Whoop!”

“Are you talking in your sleep?” demanded Willie.

“If I did, don’t mind it,” grinned the other, indulgently.

“As long as you don’t call me a cheeky little lad, I’ll forgive you. Say, I couldn’t help thinking I lost that——”

Cranny clapped his hand over Willie’s mouth.

“Don’t overwork that ‘couldn’t help it’ idea, boy,” he laughed. “I’ve thought of something good.”

“A joke on me?” asked Willie, suspiciously.

“No; I’ll let you grow some before I play any more. I won’t tell you what it is.”

“And much I care,” sniffed Willie.

The street rose higher and higher. It was a neighborhood of attractive residences, many of which stood on elevations, with roads winding their way toward them through greenswards dotted with rich evergreens or flowering shrubs. Here and there, the two caught glimpses of a stretch of water, its broad surface faintly reflecting the varied hues of purple and golden clouds which lazily floated above. Commencement Bay is one of the arms of Puget Sound, the city of Tacoma being situated at its head. They could see, too, Mount Tacoma, sixty miles distant, looming majestically against the sky.

The boys soon turned into a broad path leading toward a handsome dwelling. The white columns of its broad portico were entwined with clinging vines, while pottedplants stood about, their flowers adding pleasant touches of color to the surroundings.

“Dad didn’t make any mistake when he bought this place, eh, Willie?” asked Cranny.

And Willie’s face relaxed sufficiently to grin a faint acknowledgment.

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