“Well, what’s he written on the thing?” demanded Cranny, impatiently.
Much pushing and crowding followed, as Bob Somers turned the light of his lantern full on the scrawling letters.
“Gee whiz, fellows, just absorb this!” he cried.
The crowd listened eagerly.
“What I think of—
“Bob Somers: not a bad sort. But if he can’t shoot any better than he flies an aeroplane, birds and animalculæ are safe.
“Dick Travers: average kid.
“Sam Randall: almost ditto—a little less.
“Cran Beaumont: not enough paper to write my opinion on.
“Mr. Clifton——