“There it is, old man!” cried Frank, enthusiastically—“the most beautiful lake in all the wide world!”
“That is stutting it rather peep—I mean putting it rather steep,” said Harry, with a remonstrating grin.
“But none too steep,” asserted Frank. “People raved about the beauties of Maggiore and Como, and thousands of fool Americans rush over to the old world and go into raptures over those lakes, but Tahoe knocks the eye out of them both.”
“I think you are stuck on anything American, Frank.”
“I am, and I am proud of it, too. Rattleton, we have a right to be proud of our country, and we would be blooming chumps if we weren’t. It is the greatest and grandest country the sun ever shone upon, and a fellow fully realizes it after he has been abroad and traveled around over Europe, Asia and Africa. I’ve been sight-seeing in those lands, my boy, and I know whereof I speak.”
“You are thoroughly American, anyway, Frank.”
“That’s right. I love my native land and its beautiful flag—Old Glory! I never knew what it was to feel a thrill of joy that was absolutely painful till I saw the Stars and Stripes in a foreign land. The sight blinded me with tears and made me feel it would be a privilege to lay down my life in defense of that starry banner.”
“Well, you’re a queer duck, anyway!” exclaimed Harry. “I never saw a chap before who seemed cool as an iceberg outside and had a heart of fire in his bosom.”
Frank laughed.
“Every man is peculiar in his own way,” he said “I never try to be anything different than I am. I am disgusted by affectation.”