“Ah, Willie; here you are,” said Mr. Beaumont.
CHAPTER II
WILLIE CANNOT HELP IT
Willie Sloan, age fifteen and a half, quite small for his years, wasn’t a bad-looking chap; or, rather, wouldn’t have been if his expression had indicated a greater degree of satisfaction with the world. Discontent seemed written all over his youthful face, and even his slouchy gait and untidy appearance told of an unhappy spirit. A mass of tousled hair, of a chestnut color, fell over a moderately high forehead; deep brown eyes, which had a habit of staring straight at one in a rather disconcerting fashion—some called it impudent—a thin nose, and a mouth never quite still completed his facial make-up.
But the light of boyish enthusiasm was woefully lacking in Willie Sloan’s face; and his voice, too, when he presently spoke, did not ring with the spirit of youth.
“Say, Mr. Beaumont, I lost that letter you told me to leave for Mr. Sharswood,” he began, in a dogged manner, staring hard into Cranny’s grinning face.
“Lost it, Willie! Why, how in the world did that happen?”
“I couldn’t help it, sir. I must have dropped the envelope when I pulled some papers out o’ my pocket, just before getting there.”
Mr. Beaumont shot a swift, expressive glance at his son, and shrugged his shoulders.
“Willie, that may put me to no end of trouble.” His tone was as stern as his good-natured disposition would permit him to assume. “I’m more and more astonished at your carelessness.”
“Awfully sorry, sir; I couldn’t help it,” persisted Willie, as he threw his cap sullenly on a chair.