At last the newcomers crowded in one by one, shaking hands, hearing pleasant words of greeting, and responding in kind, until the babel of voices was only slightly less than before.
The members of the Rambler Club were certainly a healthy-looking crowd of lads. Their sun-tanned faces told of outdoor life; and contact with the world had imparted to each a sturdy, self-reliant air. Bob Somers, square-shouldered, with frank blue eyes and brown hair, seemed to be a fitting leader. And there was Dave Brandon, the club’s historian and artist, stouter and more round-faced than ever. Dick Travers and Sam Randall seemed never to have been in a happier mood.
Standing in the doorway, as if rather hesitating to come forward, was the fifth member—Tommy Clifton; and it was upon him that Cranny’s eyes were fixed with strange intensity. Cranny’s face began to wear an expression of the greatest wonderment. He nudged Bob sharply in the ribs, exclaiming in a loud whisper:
“I thought you had brought Tommy Clifton along?”
“That’s Tom, all right,” laughed Bob.
“Tom-my—Tom-my?—T-h-a-t isn’t the little Tommy Clifton I knew,” he gurgled. “Why—why——”
“Oh, for goodness’ sake!” came a petulant voice. “There it goes again!”
An extremely tall, attenuated lad, just lacking a half inch of being six feet, with a painfully apparent air of self-consciousness, came slowly up to shake hands with Mr. and Mrs. Beaumont.
“Say, the ceiling’s just been painted,” observed Willie Sloan. “Don’t get your hair in it.”
“Ha, ha—ho, ho!” Cranny went off into another paroxysm of mirth. “That, Tommy Clifton? Why, honest, I can’t believe it. Remember what I said the other night, dad, about his being just the same size as Willie? Oh, my, oh, my, but isn’t it rich? Tommy, is that really you?” He walked toward the tall lad, poked him playfully in the ribs, and began to laugh again, while Tom, reddening furiously at being the center of attraction, tried to draw away.