[Illustration: FOUR CURIOUSLY SPOTTED BRONCHOS]
The Rambler Club’s
Aeroplane
BY W. CRISPIN SHEPPARD
AUTHOR OF
“THE RAMBLER CLUB AFLOAT”
“THE RAMBLER CLUB’S WINTER CAMP”
“THE RAMBLER CLUB IN THE MOUNTAINS”
“THE RAMBLER CLUB ON CIRCLE T RANCH”
“THE RAMBLER CLUB AMONG THE LUMBERJACKS”
“THE RAMBLER CLUB’S GOLD MINE”
“THE RAMBLER CLUB’S HOUSE-BOAT”
Illustrated by the Author
[Illustration]
THE PENN PUBLISHING COMPANY
PHILADELPHIA
MCMXII
COPYRIGHT
1912 BY
THE PENN
PUBLISHING
COMPANY
Introduction
The five boys belonging to the “Rambler Club,” together with Cranny
Beaumont and his father’s ward, Willie Sloan, have made a trip to
Wyoming.
They find that since their last visit to Border City the town has
undergone a great change, and is still in the midst of a true Western
boom. To add to the interest, a New York financier is carrying on
experiments with a dirigible balloon.
At Circle T Ranch the lads meet some of their old friends among the
cowboys.
This story tells how the Ramblers came into possession of an aeroplane.
Willie Sloan is an odd little chap, rather difficult to understand, and
is not altogether pleased with life on the plains. His presence among
the crowd is largely responsible for their unexpected and startling
adventures, in several of which the Border City aeronaut and his
dirigible balloon figure prominently. As an aviator, Bob Somers finds
that all his coolness and skill are needed.
The stay in Wyoming brings about quite an unexpected result for Willie
Sloan.
Other experiences of the same boys are told in “The Rambler Club
Afloat,” “The Rambler Club’s Winter Camp,” “The Rambler Club in the
Mountains,” “The Rambler Club on Circle T Ranch,” “The Rambler Club
Among the Lumberjacks,” “The Rambler Club’s Gold Mine,” “The Rambler
Club’s House-boat.”
Contents
I. A LETTER FROM BOB 9
II. WILLIE CANNOT HELP IT 19
III. CRANNY’S PLAN 32
IV. THE RAMBLERS ARRIVE 40
V. PREPARATIONS 54
VI. BORDER CITY ONCE MORE 64
VII. AT THE RANCH 79
VIII. AT LONE PINE 91
IX. IN THE AIR 104
X. BOB TAKES A FLIGHT 124
XI. THE DIRIGIBLE 136
XII. “HE’S A PUZZLE” 147
XIII. WILLIE SHOWS HIS NERVE 159
XIV. MILLING THE HERD 172
XV. THE UNDERGROUND PASSAGE 180
XVI. THE ASTONISHING WILLIAM 192
XVII. THE TWO IN THE SKY 209
XVIII. THE RESCUE PARTY 219
XIX. THE EAGLE 232
XX. OVER THE MOUNTAINS 241
XXI. ADRIFT 250
XXII. PRISONERS 270
XXIII. BY MOONLIGHT 281
XXIV. TO THE RESCUE 291
XXV. THE VISITORS 308
Illustrations
PAGE
FOUR CURIOUSLY SPOTTED BRONCHOS _Frontispiece_
“WHAT CAN A CHAP DO OUT HERE?” 80
“GO BACK TO THE RANCH” 169
“WHAT IN THE WORLD HAS BECOME OF THEM?” 223
AN ANSWER ALMOST IMMEDIATELY FLOATED BACK 299
The Rambler Club’s Aeroplane
CHAPTER I
A LETTER FROM BOB
“I tell you, Cranny, it’s simply impossible to do anything with that
boy; he hasn’t a bit of energy. Whenever my back is turned, he’s idling
away his time. I do wish to goodness I could wash my hands of him.”
Mr. Bolton Beaumont, real estate agent of Tacoma, Washington, paced the
floor of the office, his round, good-natured face wearing a most gloomy
and disturbed expression. Mr. Beaumont was a large man--large in all
dimensions--height, breadth and rotundity. The light, too, which, in
spite of his present displeasure, shone from a pair of keen gray eyes,
indicated a kindly, sympathetic disposition.
Cranston Beaumont, generally known as Cranny, bore but little
resemblance to his father. Cranny was long of limb, wide of shoulder,
his loose frame suggesting great strength and agility. The lurking
smile at the corners of a generous mouth appeared to be somewhat offset
by the aggressive appearance of a prominent chin; but, altogether,
Cranny was a wholesome, clean-cut chap, full of life, and brimming over
with courage.
Cranny’s expression gave no indication that his father’s words struck
a responsive chord; instead, he seemed to be in the happiest frame of
mind, his eyes occasionally turning toward a letter which lay open on a
desk before him.
“I believe that Willie is positively hopeless,” went on Mr. Beaumont,
in a louder tone. “But it doesn’t appear to bother you in the least.
Whom is that letter from? It seems to interest you hugely.”
Cranny sank against the back of his chair and began to whistle softly,
while the joyful look on his face deepened. Mr. Beaumont’s thoughts,
however, were too full of another subject to pursue his inquiries
further.
“I often wonder if that boy has a spark of ambition in his whole
make-up,” he continued. “He’s careless to an exasperating degree.
Cranny, have you noticed my desk?”
His son rose to his feet and walked across to the opposite side of the
office, where he stopped to gaze at several long irregular black smears
on the otherwise clean top of Mr. Beaumont’s desk.
“Great Scott! now isn’t that a peach of a decoration,” he gurgled. “Ha,
ha! How in the world----”
“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.”
“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.”
“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!”
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?”
“That’s just what I was coming to, dad. He and the other boys spent the
winter at school in Kingswood, while a couple of mining engineers hiked
out to Washington to see the mine.”
“Yes, I know all about that, Cranny,” interrupted Mr. Beaumont. “When
the news was received it started a gold rush to that section. Many men
staked out claims, and the mining recorder and gold commissioner were
kept pretty busy for a while. The parents of the Ramblers formed a
company to operate the mine.”
“And Bob Somers writes that a regular little town has sprung up out
there,” added Cranny, “and that some one has even opened a general
store.”
“Do you mean to say Bob has traveled all that distance again?” queried
Mr. Beaumont.
“Well, I should smile. The whole crowd, too. Just as soon as school was
over they chucked their books to the scrap heap and beat it out to the
mine.”
“Cranny, how many times must I entreat you not to use such language?”
“Honest, dad, I keep on forgetting. But my, hasn’t that Rambler Club
been going some? They’re in Portland now, and headin’ right this way.
Hooray--listen!” Cranny held Bob’s letter up to the light. “‘We expect
to reach Tacoma in a few days,’” he read, “‘and, of course, we’ll hunt
you up. And I can promise that there’ll be lots to talk about. And,
Cranny, our crowd has decided to visit Circle T Ranch again. What do
you think of that?’
“What do I think of that?” repeated Cranny, in a loud tone, as he
brought the palm of his right hand down on his knee with a resounding
slap. “Why, I think it’s the bulliest scheme out. Dad, you’ll have to
give me a couple o’ weeks’ vacation--honest to goodness you must. I
couldn’t stand not going along. Why, say, did I ever tell you about----”
“If you have missed the smallest detail of your momentous visit to the
cattle country it would surprise me greatly,” said Mr. Beaumont. “I
expected something like this just as soon as you mentioned Bob Somers’
name. Still”--the frown departed from his face--“I don’t know that I
can blame you; but, Cranny, your services can’t be spared just now.
If----”
His sentence was interrupted by the sudden opening of the door, which
admitted to the room, first, a shaft of light from the corridor, and,
second, a slight boyish form.
“Ah, Willie; here you are,” said Mr. Beaumont.