The Rambler Club's aeroplane

“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.