CHAPTER XXV_The Rambler Club's aeroplane

THE VISITORS

The inhabitants of Border City and the cow-punchers and sheep raisers

who occasionally visited it had perhaps never dreamed that there was

destined to spring up in town a building of such elegance and such

arrangements for comfort as the Carroll Inn.

Hot, dusty and generally silent, Border City, apparently dropped on

the prairie floor with no more regard for its general plan than if it

had been a scattered heap of chips, had become mildly famous, and the

Carroll Inn was worthy of its newly-acquired celebrity.

Since the advent of Major Warfield Carroll, a trifling inattention on

the part of the people to the science of government had been corrected.

Border City had elected a mayor--the principal street was named after

him; there were also a number of councilmen, a magistrate, and a police

force large enough to afford protection to the town. There were even

two full-fledged political parties, each with its “boss.”

Early on the morning following their return, Major Carroll sat in his

private room, where Willie was poring over a book on mechanics.

A sharp knock sounded at the door. The lad immediately answered it, and

a telegram was handed in.

“Goodness; it’s for Cran!” he exclaimed.

“You told me that he is coming here to-morrow morning, with the

intention of starting work in earnest, I believe,” said the Major, with

a twinkle in his eye.

“Yes, sir!”

“The telegram may be important. Better call him up at Lone Pine.”

The telephone stood in one corner of the room, and Willie was soon

imparting the information to Cranny.

“All right, Cran; just a second,” he said, a moment later.

Hastily tearing open the envelope, Willie glanced over the telegram,

then uttered an exclamation of surprise.

“Why--why--goodness!”--he stared hard at the Major--“Mr. Beaumont

is coming on!” he cried. His mouth was turned toward the telephone

again. “Cran--I say, Cran--your father will be here this afternoon at

five-forty. No; it’s not a joke! This afternoon, I say.”

“I can feel an awful row coming,” sounded over the wire, in Cranny’s

voice. It was much weaker than usual, and had a sort of despairing

ring. “If dad had only given me one week’s more time--just one week! I

can’t blame him for feeling sore, though. Gee!”

“Cheer up, Cran.”

A confused buzzing sound, as of many voices speaking at once, assailed

Willie’s ears. Then, presently, Cranny said:

“The whole crowd will be there in time to meet the train. Good-bye,

Willie.”

Mr. Beaumont’s ward, his face wearing a rather odd expression, hung up

the receiver.

“I shall be glad to meet your guardian, Willie,” remarked Major

Carroll, rising from his chair. “Come--it’s time to leave for the

workshop.”

The boy followed him briskly down-stairs.

At the hangar, Kindale and the other mechanicians often found a use for

his services. Willie Sloan was always active now, and eager to learn

all he could.

About half-past four o’clock that afternoon the boys from the ranch

rode up to a long shed which was built against one side of the hangar,

and dismounted; then, after tying their bronchos, they made a concerted

dash toward the entrance.

“They sure ain’t got no rheumatiz.” This from the art connoisseur.

“It’s only because they hain’t lived long enough,” growled old Si

Peterson.

In about five minutes the boys reappeared, accompanied by a small,

slight lad, and began to walk briskly toward the road.

“Dad is certainly going to jump on me,” remarked Cranny Beaumont, to

the slight lad.

“He’ll have to jump pretty high, then,” said the other.

“So the Major is at the inn?” said Dave. “Well, he’ll soon have the

pleasure of meeting your father, Cranny.”

The big lad made no response. He wasn’t in a very happy frame of mind,

for he had honestly intended to make a splendid showing of the Border

City business.

In front of the terminal were congregated the usual crowd of people

whose chief enjoyment in life seemed to be in watching the arrival and

departure of trains. Guests of the Carroll Inn as well as those from

the “Black Bear” and “Cattlemen’s Retreat” arrived. A little later, the

leading art connoisseur and old Si Peterson wandered up, to lend their

presence to the gathering.

Cranny was watching the train. It didn’t look like an ordinary train to

him; it seemed to typify the approach of fate. The shrieking whistle,

which again rolled over the prairie, smote harshly upon his ears, as

though it mocked his failure and carried with it the extinguishment of

all hope for a further stay in Wyoming.

“Well, I can’t help it now,” murmured Cranny, “but if I only had

another week----”

“Gee, Cran; won’t it be great to see your father?” cried Willie,

breaking in upon his thoughts.

In a moment more, the big locomotive rumbled beneath the train shed.

The reception committee, including the art connoisseur and old Si

Peterson, did not intend to miss a single thing which might furnish an

entertaining topic upon which to wile away an hour or two. They saw

upon the platform of the third car two gentlemen ready to alight, and

also the crowd of boys making a rush toward them.

“Hello, Mr. Beaumont!” called out Willie, who led the advance.

Then he stopped short, gaping in astonishment at a stout, florid-faced

man, who, suit case in hand, stood directly behind his guardian.

“Mr. Sharswood!” he gasped, faintly.

Yes, actually, it was Mr. Sharswood, of Tacoma.

Cranny, too, was amazed. But even more amazed to see his father’s face

wearing a genial, happy smile.

“Hello, Cranny! How are you, boys?”

The idle citizens witnessed the meeting, and listened to scraps of

conversation with the greatest interest.

“Cranny, I’m delighted. You have done wonderfully well--splendidly,”

they heard Mr. Beaumont say, as he grasped his son’s hand and shook it

heartily. “And I told Mr. Sharswood your mission would be successful.”

Cranny Beaumont almost staggered; he stared in utter bewilderment into

his father’s face, while, above the rapid flow of conversation which

followed, was heard a peculiar little gasping chuckle.

“Eh--eh?” stammered the big lad.

Was Mr. Beaumont actually making sport of him before all that crowd? It

seemed like it. And yet the expression on his face did not seem to be

assumed.

“Yes, Cranny, I’m proud of you,” went on Mr. Beaumont, rapidly. “All

the information I wanted--nothing unthought of; every detail clear and

concise! But why did you not write the letter yourself, instead of

getting Willie to do it for you?”

An idea suddenly flashed through Cranny’s mind which dispelled his

bewilderment.

“I--I----” he began. Then all the cool composure of his nature came to

his assistance. He gulped once or twice.

“Dad,” he said, with a shrug of his broad shoulders, “if you have

the kind of information you want, don’t give me a bit of credit for

it. All that belongs to----” He laid his hand on the shoulder of his

father’s ward.

“Willie Sloan! Why, what do you mean?” cried Mr. Beaumont, while the

florid face of Mr. Sharswood exhibited all the symptoms of extreme

astonishment.

“Just what I say,” answered Cranny, frankly. “This young chap got ahead

of me.”

The big lad thereupon explained clearly and concisely just how matters

stood.

“Well, well, Beaumont, I call that a manly act on your son’s part,”

exclaimed Mr. Sharswood. “It comes hard to admit one’s faults as freely

as he has. I admire him for it; I do, indeed, Beaumont. Cranny--your

hand!”

The boys felt considerable curiosity to learn the reason for the

appearance of Mr. Sharswood at Border City; but nothing was said on the

subject while the party was on its way to the Carroll Inn.

They found the financier waiting to receive them in his private room.

Cranny, having fully recovered his spirits, made the introduction in

his usual free and easy manner.

“Sit down, gentlemen,” said Major Carroll, waving his visitors to

seats. He looked sharply around, then added: “I thought Doctor Clifton

might be among you.”

“Doctor Clifton?” exclaimed Tim Lovell.

“Yes!”

Everybody stared hard at everybody else, while Tom, turning furiously

red, stood twirling his cap.

A surprising little laugh came from Willie. Then, rushing over, he

seized the tall lad by the hand and dragged him unwillingly forward.

“This is our Dr. Thomas Cliffy.”

“Why--why--he’s only a boy!” exclaimed the Major, with surprise in his

voice.

More confusion on the part of Tommy followed.

“I thought you said----”

“That he was a six-footer,” piped Willie, “and called him Doctor

Clifton--that’s all.”

A faint twinkle came into the financier’s eye. He glanced at the two

men and row of smiling lads.

“That’s so,” he said, slowly. The twinkle deepened; then he broke into

a hearty laugh.

“Well,” exclaimed Cranny, an instant later, “isn’t he a sly little

duffer, Dave? That’s the time he put one over on you, Major.”

“Cranny--Cranny!” remonstrated his father.

The financier smiled.

“I have discovered that our young friend Willie has a guileless,

innocent way about him,” he said, good-humoredly. “He did what no one

ever succeeded in doing before--completely hoodwinked me.”

“I hope--I hope you’re not angry, sir,” began Willie. “It seemed too

good a joke to spoil it. And, besides, isn’t he a six-footer?”

Tommy’s face had reached the limit of crimson.

“Oh, for goodness’ sake, forget it!” he snapped.

The Major, with a smile, disclaimed any feeling of anger.

“Tom,” remarked Willie, in a low tone, “that’s my last joke on

you--honest. I don’t feel grouchy, like I used to. Let’s be good

friends, eh?”

Tom instantly brightened up.

“Why, sure thing, Willie,” he said, cordially, extending his hand.

The Sloan-Clifton feud was at an end.

“Well, it certainly beats the dickens how things have turned out,”

remarked Cranny. “Why, here is Willie, who was just sent out here to

get livened up, an’----”

It wasn’t in the big lad’s nature to speak in a whisper. Major Carroll

overheard.

“Yes,” he said, “Willie has livened up. I predict that some day he will

surprise us.”

The boy glanced proudly toward Mr. Sharswood.

“I believe that if every young fellow could find out just what he is

especially fitted for in life the percentage of failures would be much

less,” said Major Carroll. “I hope you will pardon me, Mr. Beaumont,

for making an observation; to my mind, this was the trouble with your

ward--he did not find the work he was doing suited to his liking or

talents.”

“But why didn’t you tell me, Willie?” queried Mr. Beaumont.

“Because I didn’t know myself,” answered Willie; “I’ve just found out.”

The three gentlemen then began to talk earnestly.

Within a few minutes, Mr. Beaumont leaned back in his chair and

remarked:

“I am delighted. Even though nothing more than this had been

accomplished, I would have been more than satisfied with your trip.

Willie shall go to a school of technology. Cranny”--he laughed

dryly--“I was once a boy myself; I accept your explanation. You have,

at least, acted in a manly fashion.”

“Undoubtedly, sir; undoubtedly!” came from Mr. Sharswood.

“And shall have the privilege of staying a few weeks longer.”

Cranny found it hard to refrain from shouting.

“Say, Willie, what does P. G. S. stand for?” asked Bob, suddenly.

“Why, Pretty Good Sort, of course,” laughed Willie.

“And that’s just what you are!” cried Cranny Beaumont, “eh, fellows?”

And the others immediately assented with much enthusiasm and vigor.

* * * * *

Mr. Sharswood, who had become deeply interested in the development

of Border City, decided to remain in town with his friend, and make a

thorough investigation of the conditions.

Of course, with the boys, they attended the greatest aeroplane meet in

the history of Wyoming. The Ogdens captured several prizes for speed

and altitude flights, while Bob Somers, flying the machine with which

he had become familiar, also made several records which attracted local

attention, and, incidentally, added to the growing fame of the Rambler

Club.