“Cranny, I must again ask you not to use those slang expressions,” broke in his father, reproachfully; “do try to cultivate more elegance of speech.”
“Say, dad, when did the ink foundry get this boost?”
Mr. Beaumont sighed.
“Early this morning I asked Willie to copy some papers, and the result was disastrous. He upset the ink bottle, nearly ruining an important legal paper, smeared his face and hands, and—and—well, Cranny, I’m totally disgusted—that’s all.”
Cranny burst out laughing.
“Honest to goodness, I can’t help it, dad,” he chuckled. “What did Willie say about this inky affair?”
“The same old thing—‘I couldn’t help it’—his usual explanation for whatever happens through his own carelessness.”
“Sorry now you promised his father to look out for him, eh?”
Mr. Beaumont eyed his son for a moment without speaking, then seated himself before his desk, to begin fidgeting with some papers in a pigeonhole.
“I never had a better friend than Bob Sloan, Cranny,” he said, slowly; “he was one of those unfortunate men, who, though intelligent, seem to have, for some reason, a hard time to make their way in the world, so he left this poor lad practically without a penny. Could I have done otherwise than agree to act as his guardian?—Of course not! But, Cranny”—Mr. Beaumont’s voice relapsed into its former querulous tone—“it’s the lad’s future that worries me. What is to become of him? He doesn’t seem interested in anything or anybody, has no thought of the value of time—he’s almost sixteen now, and should begin to realize that those who fritter away their youth generally live to regret such folly.”