“Aren’t they wonderful?” he sighed.
“You’ve painted some pictures just as wonderful,” said Tommy.
“That’s the trouble,” laughed Dave, “wonderful—but in a different way. Your father and Mr. Somers seemed to find a lot to talk about, Jack.”
A hum of steady conversation was coming from an adjoining room which Mr. Lyons used as a study.
“That reminds me,” said Jack; “you chaps will have to unbosom yourselves at once. Gold mines, aeroplanes and all sorts of hunting experiences seem to have been in your line. Come right up to my den.”
The room on the top floor which Jack called his very own was about twelve by sixteen feet, and furnished with several chairs, a desk and table. Gridiron heroes and baseball idols looked at the beholder from their cardboard prisons—Jack had them tacked up all over the walls, while a fishing pole and old-fashioned musket decorated one corner.
The den did not appear extraordinarily neat; several coats, a pile of books, and a box of note-paper with its contents scattered in glorious confusion over the desk might have offended a fastidious taste. But Jack airily explained that a very important matter had prevented him from tidying up.
“And I’ll tell you all about it, fellows,” he said, animatedly, when his visitors had seated themselves. “We—and by that I mean Joe Preston, Aleck Hunt, Fred Winter and myself—have the dandiest scheme. What is it?—Well, I want to hear your story first. Dad has been telling me how you found the ‘Rambler Club’s Gold Mine’—he’s a stockholder in the company, you know.”
“Yes; and just as soon as father said he intended to go East to see Mr. Lyons on business we made up our minds to keep him company,” said Bob, with a smile.
“It means a whole lot of work for me,” sighed Dave.