“Won’t Bob Somers be surprised?” he chuckled. “My land, but isn’t it the greatest piece of luck! And perhaps, with all those aeroplane stunts going on at Border City, we may get a ride in the air.”
At length coming in sight of the National Realty Building, the meeting place agreed upon, he saw a small group gathered in front of it, and, regardless of the passing crowd, sent a loud whoop of greeting over the air, receiving an immediate response.
Neither Bob nor his chums showed any great surprise at the welcome news; any other outcome would have astonished them greatly, as Cranny was one of those lads who nearly always manage to have their own way.
“Say, Bob, you chaps will have a big job on your hands,” chuckled Cranny—“the job o’ makin’ a man out of Willie Sloan.”
Thereupon he gave them a full account of Willie’s early history, touching not lightly upon his faults, and ending with the observation that the lad was certainly—“some queer.”
“I noticed that he didn’t join much in the conversation last night,” grunted tall Tommy Clifton, “and when he did make some remark it was rude. Looked kind of grouchy to me.”
“In a way, he’s the cheekiest little rooster in all Tacoma,” declared Cranny. “Your work’s cut out for you, Bob.”
“All right,” laughed Bob. “I’m sure the crowd will do their best. Now, Cranny, to-morrow morning——”
“Whoop! Makes me feel so great I can hardly help dancing a jig right here,” cried the big lad. “Come on! I’ll show you the sights of Tacoma.”
And that was the beginning of a strenuous day for the Ramblers. Tireless Cranny led them from one point to another, until stout Dave Brandon declared it to be the hardest eight hours of tramping he had ever put in.