“I can’t talk about it now, Cranny.”
Mr. Beaumont turned away, while his son, with a look of extreme disgust, tossed Bob Somers’ letter into an open drawer of his desk.
Cranny ran a close second to Willie Sloan in his lack of attention to business that afternoon. He found it almost impossible to keep his mind on the dry details of office work, for entrancing pictures of Circle T Ranch and the cow-punchers would persist in passing before his mental vision.
“Think of the great sport that bunch is going to have,” he murmured. “Gee! It’s enough to make a chap——”
A quick step in the corridor, the rattle of the knob as the door flew open, and the appearance of a stout, florid-faced man brought his wandering thoughts back with startling abruptness.
“Mr. Sharswood!” said Mr. Beaumont, rising from his desk.
“Yes; here I am!” exclaimed the other, gruffly. “See here, Beaumont, how about that paper?”
Willie Sloan’s brown eyes were staring straight at Mr. Sharswood, while a scowl on his forehead slowly deepened.
“And do you mean to say, Beaumont, that you actually gave an important paper like that into the care of an irresponsible lad?” demanded Mr. Horatio Sharswood, as he vigorously mopped his face. “Why, it’s simply ridiculous—almost reprehensible. See here, boy, what do you mean by such a piece of stupid carelessness?”
“Wasn’t careless. I couldn’t help it,” mumbled Willie.