“Oh, I don’t know. Maybe.”
Cranny snorted with disgust.
“Why, you’d have the grandest time you ever had in your life,” he said, “and——”
“I mightn’t like the crowd,” declared Willie, calmly. “And say: don’t those chaps sleep out on the grass; and cook by moonlight?—I mean by the light of the moon. And ride bronchos? And shoot grizzlies? and all that sort of thing? You told me they did, Cran. Well, that’s not my style. A nice little room and three square meals a day is good enough for me.”
“Then you don’t care to go?” asked Mr. Beaumont.
“Oh, I’m not sure,” answered Willie, indifferently. “Say, Cranny, did you ever see a shooting star?”
“No! Nor you, either,” returned Cranny, highly disgusted.
“Like fun I haven’t. Wouldn’t it be great if the moon should shoot? Why do stars shoot, Mr. Beaumont?”
His guardian smiled.
“What you saw were simply meteors,” he replied, “and——”