A gloomy expression came over the special correspondent’s face. He shrugged his shoulders. “I’ll stay, of course,” he replied. “Ah! What wouldn’t I give just now for a perfectly good hand! Why—this is just the kind of stuff I get paid to write about.”
“Wasn’t my work satisfactory?” asked Cranny, almost aggressively.
“Satisfactory? Well, I should say so; son, you’re a bird.”
“Then that settles it.”
“Settles what?”
“I’m goin’ to stay here too.”
Tom Clifton, who had taken no part in this conversation, was the only one among the group who uttered any word of approval at this announcement, which Cranny Beaumont made with all the energy of his positive nature.
“No one has anything on you for grit, Cranny,” he said, admiringly.
All the others, however, shook their heads. They pointed out the dangers, the consequences that might result if the Tacoma lad stuck to his resolution, and none was more earnest in his arguments than Ralph Edmunds. Cranny listened to all with a peculiar smile—the Ramblers knew that smile,—it meant defeat for them from the start.
“Mr. Edmunds is goin’ to supply the words an’ I’ll push the pencil,” he declared emphatically. “I’m gettin’ ’em cheap now—by the dozen.”