“Dave Brandon: uncommonly lazy; pampered; needs ginger. A course in live-wire action suggested. Can he write? Paint? No!
“Ha, ha! Isn’t it hot out in the moonlight?
“Mush is soft; and so are—but what’s the use?
“P. S. The mailed fist! It’s coming. If Cran isn’t recalled when Mr. Beaumont gets my letter it will be a wonder. The combination of Mr. Clifton, Lone Pine and longhorns has been too much—I have flown. Do not look for me. Your detective abilities are not equal to unraveling this mystery. Brain fag is bad.
“Yours, before the get-away,
“William Brinton Sloan, P. G. S.”
“Great Scott!” howled Cranny. “My, but wouldn’t I like to punch that little duffer!”
“And just wait till I meet him,” added Tom, his eyes fixed on the dash which came after his name.
“And to think,” mused Cranny, “that we dropped down to the center of the earth to get such a knock as this!”
“An average kid!” groaned Dick, looking around.
“Suspected it yourself, I guess,” observed Cranny. And, while the echoes of boisterous laughter were reverberating, both Dick and Sam could be seen standing silently and solemnly a little apart from the group.