The big Tacoma lad seated himself on the veranda railing, where with one foot swinging forth and back like a pendulum, he began to grin almost sheepishly.
“Say, fellows, the fact is I’m a—a—oh, hang it all, you might as well know—a—a—failure.”
“For goodness’ sake!” cried Tom—“a failure?”
“Terrible indeed to hear such a confession from one so old!” mused Dave.
“Yes, sir—or sirs—a flat failure; even a steam roller couldn’t make it flatter.”
“Hist—hist! Another case of life’s young dream forever shattered!” gurgled Don Stratton.
“Oh, it may sound very funny to you chaps,” said Cranny, “but honest to goodness, I feel pretty serious—or at least I do sometimes.”
“Go ahead, Cranny,” laughed Bob. “We’re listening now.”
“I’ve been intending to tell you ever since the train dropped me, about an hour ago, at that station back yonder and your nag, Bob, carried us over here—a hefty weight for one little horse-power, eh?”
“Stick to the point at issue,” said the Rambler, in judicial tones.