The tall lad chuckled softly.
“Yes, I know that isn’t just the right name,” he laughed. “I’ve seen him paint some dandy pictures; one of ’em had more’n fifteen colors in it—honest, I counted.”
“Dave is certainly a bright lad,” said Mr. Beaumont. “But you haven’t yet told me what Bob Somers has written you.”
Cranny plumped himself down into the nearest chair and waved the letter aloft, while his eyes began to sparkle with excitement.
“Well, you heard about that great mine they found, eh, dad?”
“The Rambler Club’s Gold Mine?”
“Yes; exactly! Well, after doing that stunt, they all brake-beamed-it back to Kingswood, and——”
“Brake-beamed-it! Why, what do you mean?”
“Oh, it’s just a little of the language you object to, dad,” laughed Cranny. “Brake-beamers are chaps who stow themselves away under freight-cars when the trainmen aren’t looking. But the Ramblers were able to dig down in their jeans for the coin.”
“The purity of the English language will eventually be destroyed if the coming generation keeps up this dreadful slang,” murmured Mr. Beaumont. Then, aloud, he added: “And where is Bob Somers now?”