“Read it,” said Tim Lovell, eagerly.
“Dear Cran:—” began the big lad:
“I have been thinking an awful lot about you and the old farmhouse. With all your broncho riding, and sky-planing, and mixing in the society of longhorns, it does seem to me, sometimes, that old Doctor Clifton will get a chance at you yet.
“Walters said that you and a couple of chaps came over to the hangar one day, and that you looked and talked just the nerviest ever—honest fact, Cran.
“I explained that nerve cultivation is your specialty; and Walters said: ‘His success is something wonderful.’ It’s true, Cran.
“I’m having lots of fun here. Major Carroll isn’t like the Ogdens; he’s one of the finest men in the world, and has the greatest collection of tools you ever saw.”
“Lots of fun!” broke in Dick, with a puzzled look. “Perhaps, by this time, the Major thinks we have escaped from somewhere.”
“Willie Sloan is evidently beginning to find himself,” remarked Dave, quietly.
“And I wish to thunder we could find Willie Sloan,” said Cranny. He began to read again.
“He doesn’t put up an awful holler just because I touch a bit of scrap iron, and, once in a while, bust something. Say, Cran, did you know that they put gas in balloons?—It’s a fact.