“I should say not; he’s a hummer, all right; an’ there’s good old Dave Brandon, and little Tommy Clifton, and—and——”
“I think we lived in Kingswood long enough to know Sam Randall and Dick Travers,” interrupted his father, his round face relapsing into a broad smile. “Both good, lively chaps, too.”
“And Dave! Isn’t he a winner, dad?”
“A winner!” echoed Mr. Beaumont, in a puzzled tone.
“Sure! one of those chaps who is wise to all the good things going on. Why——”
“Cranny—Cranny—what extraordinary language you do use.”
“Oh, never mind, dad. Talk about me! Why, you ought to have heard some of the cow-punchers warble at Circle T Ranch.”
“I’m very glad I didn’t.”
“Well, I was talking about Dave Brandon. That chap can write and paint to beat the Dutch; and he knows all those queer little marks you dab into writing—commas and demi-commas.”
“Why, Cranny!”