The Rambler Club's house-boat

“Well, Bob Somers, I certainly am glad you came on to New York with your father. Dad has been talking so much about you Rambler chaps lately that I’ve been simply wild to meet the crowd.”

“And three of us are here for your inspection, Jack Lyons,” laughed Bob. “Dave Brandon”--his hand fell on the shoulder of a stout, good-humored-looking boy standing by his side--“is our poet, artist and historian; and this is Tommy, or, perhaps, I’d better say, Mr. Thomas Clifton.”

A very tall, thin boy flushed as Jack Lyons eyed him quizzically and then heartily shook his extended hand.

“If titles go by the length of people I think you’d better add Esquire, too,” gurgled Jack.

“For a long time Tommy was the smallest member of our crowd,” explained Dave Brandon; “then, suddenly----”

“Nothing could keep him down,” supplemented Bob, with a smile.

“And I don’t wonder, after the way you boys have been living out in the open,” said Jack. “But what’s the use of our standing here in the hallway when there are comfortable chairs in my den up-stairs?”

“And I do feel most uncommonly tired,” confessed Dave, stifling a yawn, “for, honestly, I didn’t sleep a minute more than twelve hours last night.”

Jack laughed heartily as he led the way into the drawing-room.

Mr. John Lyons, his father, a widely-known New York lawyer and promoter, resided in a fine mansion on Fifty-seventh Street. Externally, there was nothing about the house to distinguish it in any way from the rest of a long brown-stone row, but the interior was famed for the wealth and beauty of its appointments.

“Thought you might like to take a look in here, fellows,” remarked Jack. “Dad goes in a lot for painting and statuary. Some of these things he picked up while abroad. Everything free for this day only. Step around and see the animals.”

“It’s simply stunning!” cried Bob.

The furnishings were nearly all of the Louis XV period. A beam of sunlight coming in through a half-opened window caressed in its course original chairs and a couch which had once adorned an old French chateau. Rare tapestries hung on the walls, while carved chests and objects of copper and brass revealed their presence by rich, glowing touches of color.

Many pictures by old and modern masters immediately attracted Dave Brandon’s attention.

“Aren’t they wonderful?” he sighed.

“You’ve painted some pictures just as wonderful,” said Tommy.

“That’s the trouble,” laughed Dave, “wonderful--but in a different way. Your father and Mr. Somers seemed to find a lot to talk about, Jack.”

A hum of steady conversation was coming from an adjoining room which Mr. Lyons used as a study.

“That reminds me,” said Jack; “you chaps will have to unbosom yourselves at once. Gold mines, aeroplanes and all sorts of hunting experiences seem to have been in your line. Come right up to my den.”

The room on the top floor which Jack called his very own was about twelve by sixteen feet, and furnished with several chairs, a desk and table. Gridiron heroes and baseball idols looked at the beholder from their cardboard prisons--Jack had them tacked up all over the walls, while a fishing pole and old-fashioned musket decorated one corner.

The den did not appear extraordinarily neat; several coats, a pile of books, and a box of note-paper with its contents scattered in glorious confusion over the desk might have offended a fastidious taste. But Jack airily explained that a very important matter had prevented him from tidying up.

“And I’ll tell you all about it, fellows,” he said, animatedly, when his visitors had seated themselves. “We--and by that I mean Joe Preston, Aleck Hunt, Fred Winter and myself--have the dandiest scheme. What is it?--Well, I want to hear your story first. Dad has been telling me how you found the ‘Rambler Club’s Gold Mine’--he’s a stockholder in the company, you know.”

“Yes; and just as soon as father said he intended to go East to see Mr. Lyons on business we made up our minds to keep him company,” said Bob, with a smile.

“It means a whole lot of work for me,” sighed Dave.

“It’s this way,” a peculiarly gruff voice broke in--Tommy was speaking--“Dave always writes a history of our trips. He has about two thousand, one hundred and ninety-seven pages finished up to date. So, of course, this New York trip----”

“Say, fellows!” Jack Lyons jumped up and began pacing the floor. An idea which made his eyes sparkle brightly had suddenly entered his head. “Say, why don’t you chaps stay here a couple of weeks?”

“Eh?” said Tommy.

“And then your historian would have something worth while to scribble about.”

“How?” asked Dave.

“Well, honest, I can’t keep still about it a minute longer.” Jack Lyons’ voice indicated a spirit fairly bubbling over with enthusiasm. “Why, we’ve got hold of a house-boat--a real h-o-u-s-e-b-o-a-t, mind you; and----”

“Intend to take a trip somewhere?” asked Tommy, eagerly.

“Do we?--Well, I should rather say so! It’s all arranged, too. Rah--rah! The ‘Gray Gull,’ Jack Lyons, master, is bound from New York to Albany. Now”--Jack paused; his arm swept around in a half-circle--“you chaps ought to, and, by ginger, must go along.”

“I felt it coming,” sighed Dave. “That means another book to write.”

“How about it?” queried Jack, eagerly. “Don’t say no. It’ll be one of the greatest trips you ever had. Joe, Aleck and Fred are dandy chaps. Say, can’t you go out with me this morning to see our house-boat?”

“Well, r-a-t-h-e-r,” cried Tommy--“eh, Bob?”

Bob nodded.

“Sure thing. It will give us a good chance to see a bit of New York. Where is the ‘Gray Gull,’ Jack?”

“Moored on the Harlem River. Hurray! I’ll call up Joe Preston just as soon as you’ve told me a bit about yourselves. Now, somebody, please fire away.”

The “somebody” happened to be Bob Somers, and, as he related modestly the story of their many adventures, Jack Lyons’ eyes opened wider with interest and enthusiasm.

“Great Scott; what corking times! Don’t I wish I’d been along. I must tell Joe you’re here.” And Jack sprang to the side of his desk, where the boys noticed a telephone.