FOUR CURIOUSLY SPOTTED BRONCHOS

The Rambler Club’s
Aeroplane

BY W. CRISPIN SHEPPARD

AUTHOR OF

“THE RAMBLER CLUB AFLOAT”

“THE RAMBLER CLUB’S WINTER CAMP”

“THE RAMBLER CLUB IN THE MOUNTAINS”

“THE RAMBLER CLUB ON CIRCLE T RANCH”

“THE RAMBLER CLUB AMONG THE LUMBERJACKS”

“THE RAMBLER CLUB’S GOLD MINE”

“THE RAMBLER CLUB’S HOUSE-BOAT”

Illustrated by the Author

THE PENN PUBLISHING COMPANY
PHILADELPHIA
MCMXII

COPYRIGHT
1912 BY
THE PENN
PUBLISHING
COMPANY

Introduction

The five boys belonging to the “Rambler Club,” together with Cranny Beaumont and his father’s ward, Willie Sloan, have made a trip to Wyoming.

They find that since their last visit to Border City the town has undergone a great change, and is still in the midst of a true Western boom. To add to the interest, a New York financier is carrying on experiments with a dirigible balloon.

At Circle T Ranch the lads meet some of their old friends among the cowboys.

This story tells how the Ramblers came into possession of an aeroplane. Willie Sloan is an odd little chap, rather difficult to understand, and is not altogether pleased with life on the plains. His presence among the crowd is largely responsible for their unexpected and startling adventures, in several of which the Border City aeronaut and his dirigible balloon figure prominently. As an aviator, Bob Somers finds that all his coolness and skill are needed.

The stay in Wyoming brings about quite an unexpected result for Willie Sloan.

Other experiences of the same boys are told in “The Rambler Club Afloat,” “The Rambler Club’s Winter Camp,” “The Rambler Club in the Mountains,” “The Rambler Club on Circle T Ranch,” “The Rambler Club Among the Lumberjacks,” “The Rambler Club’s Gold Mine,” “The Rambler Club’s House-boat.”

Contents

Illustrations

The Rambler Club’s Aeroplane

CHAPTER I
A LETTER FROM BOB

“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.

“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 that stunt, 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 parents of 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?” repeated Cranny, 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.

CHAPTER II
WILLIE 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,” he began, 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’ll have 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 good an’ 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 appearance of 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 potted plants 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.

CHAPTER III
CRANNY’S PLAN

“Well, what are you going to do about it, dad?” remarked Cranny, two days later.

Father and son were seated in wicker chairs on the portico, enjoying a pleasant breeze which gently rustled the leaves, as it sighed its way out toward the bay. The distorted shadow of the house cut across a freshly-mown lawn; cool, silvery moonlight lay beyond, its pale rays detaching from obscurity houses and clumps of trees. Patches of mysterious gloom stretched here and there, while the placid bay, far beneath, blended insensibly outward into the soft, grayish blue of a cloudless sky.

Mr. Beaumont pondered a moment before replying.

“I don’t know, Cranny,” he answered. “Willie is a curious lad. He certainly does not realize the importance of being in earnest. I can’t arouse him; nothing I do or say has the slightest effect.”

“Loafing just as much as ever?” asked Cranny.

“Whenever I come into the office unexpectedly I find him either idly drumming his heels against the chair, or lying back, gazing listlessly into space.”

“Maybe he’s a genius,” said Cranny, with a smile.

“If he is, I haven’t discovered any signs of it yet.”

“Come, dad, tell me what you are going to do about it?” repeated Cranny, a curious, eager expression flitting over his face.

“Frankly, I don’t know. Willie is more of a hindrance than a help in the business. Sharswood is offended—he’s a touchy, excitable chap. What the boy will do next——”

“Perhaps I can tell you what he ought to do,” interrupted Cranny.

“What do you mean?”

“Just this.”

Cranny leaned over, and, with a degree of earnestness unusual to him, spoke in a low tone, while his father listened in silence.

“Well,” queried the lad, as he presently resumed his former position, “doesn’t that strike you as a scheme?”

Mr. Beaumont still made no answer, but continued to gaze in an abstracted sort of way at the moonlit distance, while Cranny, eager and impatient, eyed him sharply.

“Well, sir?” his son once more pleaded.

“There is a great deal in what you say,” admitted Mr. Beaumont. “Association with a lot of lively, energetic young chaps, such as Bob Somers and his friends, ought to do a world of good. But——” He paused.

“But what?” demanded Cranny.

“Circle T Ranch is a long way from here. I should feel uneasy about him. Life among the cowboys, and out on the range is full of danger at times; you know that, son.”

“Oh, I’d look after him, all right.”

“You?”

“Why, of course. It wouldn’t do to let him go unless I went, too,” said Cranny, glibly. “No siree. But think what it might do for him, dad. Willie needs to be waked up; he isn’t any use to you now—never will be if he doesn’t take a mighty big brace. And those boys ought to do him more good in a couple of weeks than everybody else put together could do in a couple of years.”

Mr. Beaumont’s face was wreathed in a broad smile.

“Your argument is very ingenious, Cranny; I see your point—you are entirely willing to assume all the worries and restrictions of guardianship for the time being, eh?”

Cranny grinned at the gentle sarcasm.

“Take my advice, sir. I’m not saying that I don’t want to go to Circle T Ranch the worst way myself; but you’ve got to do something about Willie. I’ll bet the little chap won’t talk the way he does after he’s been out with those Rambler chaps a few weeks. Now don’t say no. He’s just about the same size as Tommy Clifton, and they ought to get chummy together.”

“Clifton is a good little chap,” said Mr. Beaumont, reflectively.

“You bet he is. Gets mighty hot, though, if you say anything about his size,” chuckled Cranny.

“Say, it’s nice and warm back there in the moonlight,” came in a piping voice.

Willie Sloan suddenly appeared from behind the portico.

“Ha, ha!” roared Cranny. “Why, you silly little duffer, the moon doesn’t give out any heat.”

“Listen to the professor,” jeered Willie, ambling slowly up the steps. “Like the mischief it doesn’t. Go back there and feel it.” He seated himself on the rail. “Isn’t it a white-hot ball, Mr. Beaumont?”

“Oh, Willie, you’ll be the death of me!” laughed Cranston.

“The moon is illuminated by the sun’s rays,” explained Mr. Beaumont, “and astronomers tell us that it has no atmosphere, and is so cold that not a vestige of life could exist upon its surface.”

“Oh, goodness! Now isn’t that odd?” murmured Willie, with a peculiar little gasp. “Isn’t hot, after all, eh? But how do those old codgers know?—They weren’t ever up there.”

“Willie,” spoke up his guardian, suddenly, “how would you like to take a vacation?”

“Eh?” demanded Willie, apparently somewhat startled.

“Cranny expects some of his young friends here in a few days—they are on their way to Circle T Ranch, in Wyoming. Do you care to go along?”

“I?”

“Yes, you!” cried Cranny, impatiently.

“Oh, I don’t know. Maybe.”

Cranny snorted with disgust.

“Why, you’d have the grandest time you ever had in your life,” he said, “and——”

“I mightn’t like the crowd,” declared Willie, calmly. “And say: don’t those chaps sleep out on the grass; and cook by moonlight?—I mean by the light of the moon. And ride bronchos? And shoot grizzlies? and all that sort of thing? You told me they did, Cran. Well, that’s not my style. A nice little room and three square meals a day is good enough for me.”

“Then you don’t care to go?” asked Mr. Beaumont.

“Oh, I’m not sure,” answered Willie, indifferently. “Say, Cranny, did you ever see a shooting star?”

“No! Nor you, either,” returned Cranny, highly disgusted.

“Like fun I haven’t. Wouldn’t it be great if the moon should shoot? Why do stars shoot, Mr. Beaumont?”

His guardian smiled.

“What you saw were simply meteors,” he replied, “and——”

Willie gave another of his peculiar little gasps.

“Not stars, after all?” he said. “That’s queer. What are you so mad about, Cranny?”

But Cranny made no answer. He began to see his bright dream slowly fade away; and all on account of Willie’s utter foolishness and stupidity. He resolved that the little office boy should be enlightened regarding the error of his ways, and that immediately.

With his forehead knit into a tremendous frown, the boy presently rose to his feet.

“Want to take a walk, Willie?” he inquired.

“Say, did you ever hear of a chap gettin’ moonstruck?” asked Willie. “It’s shining something awful to-night.”

“That’s more’n you are,” retorted Cranny. “Coming? Good-bye, dad! We won’t be long.”

Once safely outside of hearing distance the big lad began to talk earnestly. He painted the most alluring pictures of life at Circle T Ranch; and poured into Willie’s ears a most glowing account of the Ramblers and their exploits.

“And now don’t tell me you’d miss a dandy chance like this!” he concluded. “Just think of the time we’ll have! Talk it up strong, and the pater’ll stand for our going.”

“Say, Cran, you’re awfully good to me!” said Willie, with suspicious sweetness. “Thanks! But I don’t know that I’m so keen on it. That sounds to me like a pretty rough bunch, anyway.”

Whereupon Cranny, so highly disgusted that he forgot diplomacy and the gentle art of persuasion, promptly upset Willie, and, seated on his wriggling form, tickled his neck with a blade of grass, at the same time expressing some very forcible views of his conduct, past and present.

“And I’ll see that you make a change, all right,” he announced, as he got up and walked away.

CHAPTER IV
THE RAMBLERS ARRIVE

“No use coming to the station to meet us, Cranny,” Bob Somers had written, “for I don’t really know the exact time we’ll land in Tacoma. Only this much is certain: it will be on Thursday.”

And Thursday had arrived.

Cranny worked all day in a fever of impatience. Every footstep in the corridor set his heart to thumping; every hand laid upon the door-knob made him start with eager expectation.

But the day wore on, and still the Ramblers did not appear.

“I never knew Bob Somers to fail in his word yet,” grumbled Cranny, at the dinner table.

“One of those word-as-good-as-his-bond chaps, I suppose,” grinned Willie, surreptitiously wiping up with a corner of his napkin some soup he had spilled. “He must be a crackerjack.”

“I do declare, Willie is falling more and more into the way of using those outlandish expressions,” sighed Mr. Beaumont to his wife, a pleasant-looking lady whose hair was just beginning to show faint traces of gray.

“Willie is young”—she smiled—“and perhaps Cranston does not always set him a good example.”

“I can’t talk as if the words came out of a grammar,” mumbled the big lad, whose eyes had been continually drifting toward a partly-open window which commanded a view of the lawn and roadway.

“I certainly have never heard you do so yet,” said his father, dryly. “You must remember that men are judged not only by——”

“Whoop! By Jupiter, I really believe the crowd has come at last!” yelled Cranny, jumping excitedly to his feet. “Whoop! Hooray! See ’em, dad? One—two—three—four—five—yes; they are actually coming in. I’ll bet that’s Bob Somers opening the gate—yes, I’m sure it is.”

Then Cranny, with another wild “Hooray!” slammed his chair aside, and would have dashed toward the door had not a word from his mother stopped him.

“Wait, Cranny,” she pleaded; “don’t act so like a wild Indian. The boys will be here in a moment.” She gazed with interest toward the figures rapidly moving across the field of view. “My, what a strong, sturdy-looking lot,” she murmured. “Perhaps, if they would be willing to let Willie join them——”

The crisp ringing of the electric bell interrupted her, and Cranny, unable to restrain himself longer, rushed out of the room. He nearly knocked down the domestic, who was hurrying to answer the summons; then threw open the screen door with a violence that seriously threatened its hinges.

“Bob Somers and Dave; and—and——”

The hubbub of voices at the door increased to such proportions that the interested Mr. and Mrs. Beaumont could only catch an occasional word. And it lasted for a wonderfully long time, too.

“Dad—mother—here they are! Come right in, fellows—no ceremony—mind now.” Cranny, happy and excited, burst into the room. “Whoop! Say, Bob, remember that time at Circle T Ranch when Spud Ward told us about the mystery o’ Lone Pine? This is Willie Sloan, the pater’s ward. Here, Dave, if you can’t get in the door we’ll have it widened.”

At last the newcomers crowded in one by one, shaking hands, hearing pleasant words of greeting, and responding in kind, until the babel of voices was only slightly less than before.

The members of the Rambler Club were certainly a healthy-looking crowd of lads. Their sun-tanned faces told of outdoor life; and contact with the world had imparted to each a sturdy, self-reliant air. Bob Somers, square-shouldered, with frank blue eyes and brown hair, seemed to be a fitting leader. And there was Dave Brandon, the club’s historian and artist, stouter and more round-faced than ever. Dick Travers and Sam Randall seemed never to have been in a happier mood.

Standing in the doorway, as if rather hesitating to come forward, was the fifth member—Tommy Clifton; and it was upon him that Cranny’s eyes were fixed with strange intensity. Cranny’s face began to wear an expression of the greatest wonderment. He nudged Bob sharply in the ribs, exclaiming in a loud whisper:

“I thought you had brought Tommy Clifton along?”

“That’s Tom, all right,” laughed Bob.

“Tom-my—Tom-my?—T-h-a-t isn’t the little Tommy Clifton I knew,” he gurgled. “Why—why——”

“Oh, for goodness’ sake!” came a petulant voice. “There it goes again!”

An extremely tall, attenuated lad, just lacking a half inch of being six feet, with a painfully apparent air of self-consciousness, came slowly up to shake hands with Mr. and Mrs. Beaumont.

“Say, the ceiling’s just been painted,” observed Willie Sloan. “Don’t get your hair in it.”

“Ha, ha—ho, ho!” Cranny went off into another paroxysm of mirth. “That, Tommy Clifton? Why, honest, I can’t believe it. Remember what I said the other night, dad, about his being just the same size as Willie? Oh, my, oh, my, but isn’t it rich? Tommy, is that really you?” He walked toward the tall lad, poked him playfully in the ribs, and began to laugh again, while Tom, reddening furiously at being the center of attraction, tried to draw away.

Dave, who had taken possession of the most comfortable chair in the room, and was making himself perfectly at home, kindly came to his relief.

“Little Cliff started off all at once, like a sky-rocket,” he explained. “Never saw anything like the way he sprouted up, eh, Bob? Could almost see him growing. What! I’m fatter than ever, you say, Cranny? Oh, how can you be so cruel?—No. I don’t weigh three hundred pounds, either.”

“Not yet, you mean,” chuckled Cranny, taking his eyes reluctantly from Tom’s blushing face to survey the ample proportions of the historian and writer. “My goodness, I shouldn’t want you to fall on me.”

“It’s true that I’m not a featherweight any more,” sighed Dave. “What’s that, Cranny?—is my history of the Rambler Club finished yet? Oh, my, no—only about twelve hundred pages of it. But, Mr. and Mrs. Beaumont, I fear our arrival is most inopportune; we are delaying your dinner.”

“Oh, just listen to him!” cried Cranny, gleefully. “If you chaps don’t grub with us there’ll be the biggest scrap this part of Tacoma has ever seen.”

The Beaumonts would not listen to any excuses. There was a vast amount of flurry and excitement—of everybody getting in everybody else’s way. The distracted serving maid saved herself from mental collapse only by calling in the chauffeur as assistant. And then the cook, by some extraordinary process known only to cooks, managed to provide bountifully for everybody.

The table was pretty well crowded; but no one cared for that. There was too much to talk about. As Willie Sloan, with an impish grin, stared from one Rambler to another, Cranny judged that he was favorably impressed.

“And so your next stop is at Border City, in Wyoming?” asked Mr. Beaumont of Bob.

“Yes, sir. And they say it’s a very different Border City from the one we knew. Remember those aviators, Cranny,—father and two sons?”

“At Lone Pine Ranch?”

“Yes.”

“Well, ra-ther. Dad, did I ever tell you about——”

“I’m quite sure you never missed a single detail,” answered Mr. Beaumont, smilingly. “Go on, Bob.”

“Well, a short time ago I got a letter from our old friend Tim Lovell, whose father owns a sheep ranch not so many miles from Circle T. Tim says Border City has experienced a big boom—lots of building operations are under way, and a gas works is already completed.”

Mr. Beaumont’s business instincts were immediately aroused.

“What has brought this change about, Bob?” he asked, alertly.

“Well, for one thing, the railroad was recently extended to the town, so that many of the cattle-ranchers who formerly drove their stock to Creelton now ship from Border City. The aviators had something to do with it, too.”

“How, I’d like to know?” asked Cranny.

“Oh, in a lot of ways,” answered Bob. “You see, a wealthy New York man interested in dirigible balloons and aeroplanes financed their experiments at Lone Pine Ranch. Then, when the Aero Club of Wyoming decided to hold a meet and give big prizes for the speediest machine built in the state, he came West.”

“So as to find some soft place for them to fall on, I s’pose,” mumbled Willie.

“Where will this meet be held?” asked Mr. Beaumont.

“At Border City.”

“At Border City?” echoed Cranny.

“Yes; this New York man, Major Warfield Carroll, I think Tim called him, got busy with the committee in charge. He offered to stand a part of the expense if they’d hold it at Border City.”

“Why?” asked Cranny.

“Well, Major Carroll’s aviator friends had interested him in the place, first of all. Then he discovered that Border City had possibilities—and got the town’s people all worked up over it; and some of the ranchers, too. Anyway, the scheme has had the biggest kind of a boost.”

“Well, that’s going some!” cried Cranny.

“And Tim Lovell says we’d never know the place,” broke in Sam Randall. “There’s a big flour mill and grain elevator there now; and——”

“A couple more hotels,” interrupted Dick Travers, in his turn.

“So the ‘Black Bear’ and ‘Cattlemen’s Retreat’ have rivals, eh?” grinned Cranny. “Remember how each one tried to get ahead of the other? I’ll bet, dad, I never told you about——”