“Couldn’t help it!” sneered Cranny. “My land, but you do make me tired.”
“Then go take a rest,” said Willie, staring at him still harder. “Never lost anything yourself, I suppose?”
“Come, come!” interrupted Mr. Beaumont. “Don’t have any words about it, boys. Cranny, call up Mr. Sharswood; I’ll have to explain this matter to him at once; and, Willie, you may keep on writing those letters I dictated this morning.”
The small lad, with a defiant look toward Cranny, seated himself before a typewriter which stood near Mr. Beaumont’s desk, and, in a half-hearted manner, began to pound the keys.
“I’m very sorry, Mr. Sharswood,” Mr. Beaumont was presently saying over the ’phone. “How did it happen? Well, Willie lost it—that’s all. Too bad you feel that way about it. Yes, I’ll be in the office all afternoon. Good-bye.”
“Is he comin’ over, dad?” asked Cranny, with a grin.
“Yes. Mr. Sharswood seems to be very much annoyed indeed,” answered his father. “The paper contained an opinion from my lawyer concerning an important transfer of property over which he has had some litigation. I shouldn’t have entrusted Willie with it,” he added, in a tone so low that it did not reach the lad’s ears. “He is becoming worse and worse.”
“Old Sharswood’ll call him down good an’ hard; he’s a slam-back chap,” chirped Cranny.
“Please do not use such disrespectful terms, my son,” remonstrated the other. “What’s that—am I going to give you a vacation?—I’m afraid not.”
“Why?” grumbled Cranny. “I don’t want to be cooped up in this office all summer like a chicken in a wicker-work basket. Come, dad!”