“I’ve eaten fritters an’ lived to regret my folly,” murmured Cranny, sotto voce.
“And no amount of good advice seems to have any effect on him whatever,” went on Mr. Beaumont, despondently.
“Willie has a bad case o’lazyitis, dad—that’s what’s the matter,” remarked Cranny. “I’ve watched the little duffer——”
“Cranny—Cranny,” protested his father, “you know that is just the sort of language I object to.”
“Oh, then I’ll cut it all out, sir, though it comes hard,” grinned Cranny. “But, honest, dad, when you weren’t here, I’ve seen him holding down that chair for an hour without doing a lick of work. Oh, he’s a pippin, all right! But say, dad, let’s give wee Willie the go-by for half a minute—you asked me about this letter. Whom do you think it’s from?”
“I don’t feel in any mood for guessing, Cranny.”
“Well, to relieve your great anxiety, I’ll tell you in two words—Bob Somers.”
“Bob Somers?”
“Sure thing! Bob Somers and the Ramblers are heading this way. Oh, never mind about the slang, dad; I forgot. My, but I’ll never forget the bully time we had at Circle T Ranch.”
“And I’ll never forget how you kept on talking about it, either,” said Mr. Beaumont, dryly. “But Bob Somers is a lad that any father ought to be proud of—manly and self-reliant; not a bit of laziness in his composition, Cranny.”