The Rambler Club's aeroplane

“I tell you, 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 spark of 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 who fritter 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.