Cranny gazed fixedly at the diminutive figure. “All right for you!” he snapped. Then, fearful that Willie might say something which would set the crowd to laughing at him, he stalked away in disgust.
All too soon came the time for the Rambler boys to go.
As Bob turned toward the door, Willie’s voice rose above the others.
“I say, Ramblers,” he remarked, “don’t you want to stay in the hay-loft? Nice place up there.” He jerked his finger in the direction of the stable and garage. “Ought to seem natural. I guess your bunch sleeps on the grass most of the time, doesn’t it?”
“Many a night, with only the canopy of heaven and the twinkling stars as a roof,” answered Dave, with a smile.
“Well, that would never keep off the rain,” piped Willie. “Say, Mr. Clifton!”
“What?” demanded Tom, whose feelings had been considerably ruffled by Willie’s impish glances.
“When a parade comes along, you’re right in it, aren’t you? How does it feel——”
He stopped as a hand suddenly grasped his collar, and he found himself being dragged unceremoniously away.
“Get out of here, you pocket edition,” sniffed Cranny. “What time to-morrow, Bob? Sure the pater’ll let me off—eh, dad?—I told you so! Yes, we’ll have a grand day. Say, Bob”—Cranny leaned over, and, putting his head close to the other’s ear, whispered in earnest tones—“now, don’t forget to talk it up for me.”