“Off the subject again, Cranny,” Bob reminded him, severely.
“Ob, pardon me, your Honor. I told dad I simply must see the crowd. Say, but didn’t he look—er—er——”
“Flabbergasted?” said Dick, helpfully.
“You’ve struck it. Anyway, to boil three days’ conversation down into three minutes’ talk,—what do you think he did?” Before the others had had a chance to put in even a single word Cranny resumed speaking. “Why, good old dad actually consented to lend me three hundred plunks.
“Yes, sir. An’ he said”—the big lad fairly bubbled over with glee—“‘I consent. Join Bob Somers an’ his club in Texas; but remember, Cranny, henceforth’”—a suggestion of the sober look returned,—“‘you must carve out your own future.’”
“Help!” grinned Dick.
“And when is the carving to begin?” asked Don.
“That’s just it,” confessed Cranny. “I—I—don’t know.”
“One thing’s sure,” pronounced Don: “your pater must be very kind and indulgent.”
“You’re right,” agreed Cranny. “An’ you can just believe he did a whole lot o’ thinkin’. Oh, I know.” He jumped from his perch, to begin striding up and down. “Dad thinks I need a jolly good lesson. I reckon he figures it out this way: In about a month or two the money’ll be all gone—and then! But, by Jove, I won’t, no sir—I’ll—I’ll—— Say, fellows—honest, I don’t know what I’m good for. Speak up, philosopher.”