The Rambler Club’s Aeroplane

BY W. CRISPIN SHEPPARD

AUTHOR OF

Illustrated by the Author

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[4] 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.”

Illustrations

[8]

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.

[10]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[11] 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,”[12] 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[13] 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?”

[14]“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.”

[15]“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[16] 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[17] 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[18] 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.

CHAPTER II WILLIE CANNOT HELP IT

Willie Sloan, age fifteen and a half, quite small for his years, wasn’t a bad-looking chap; or, rather, wouldn’t have been if his expression had indicated a greater degree of satisfaction with the world. Discontent seemed written all over his youthful face, and even his slouchy gait and untidy appearance told of an unhappy spirit. A mass of tousled hair, of a chestnut color, fell over a moderately high forehead; deep brown eyes, which had a habit of staring straight at one in a rather disconcerting fashion—some called it impudent—a thin nose, and a mouth never quite still completed his facial make-up.

But the light of boyish enthusiasm was woefully lacking in Willie Sloan’s face; and his voice, too, when he presently spoke, did not ring with the spirit of youth.

“Say, Mr. Beaumont, I lost that letter you told me to leave for Mr. Sharswood,” he[20] began, in a dogged manner, staring hard into Cranny’s grinning face.

“Lost it, Willie! Why, how in the world did that happen?”

“I couldn’t help it, sir. I must have dropped the envelope when I pulled some papers out o’ my pocket, just before getting there.”

Mr. Beaumont shot a swift, expressive glance at his son, and shrugged his shoulders.

“Willie, that may put me to no end of trouble.” His tone was as stern as his good-natured disposition would permit him to assume. “I’m more and more astonished at your carelessness.”

“Awfully sorry, sir; I couldn’t help it,” persisted Willie, as he threw his cap sullenly on a chair.

“Couldn’t help it!” sneered Cranny. “My land, but you do make me tired.”

“Then go take a rest,” said Willie, staring at him still harder. “Never lost anything yourself, I suppose?”

“Come, come!” interrupted Mr. Beaumont. “Don’t have any words about it, boys. Cranny, call up Mr. Sharswood; I’ll[21] have to explain this matter to him at once; and, Willie, you may keep on writing those letters I dictated this morning.”

The small lad, with a defiant look toward Cranny, seated himself before a typewriter which stood near Mr. Beaumont’s desk, and, in a half-hearted manner, began to pound the keys.

“I’m very sorry, Mr. Sharswood,” Mr. Beaumont was presently saying over the ’phone. “How did it happen? Well, Willie lost it—that’s all. Too bad you feel that way about it. Yes, I’ll be in the office all afternoon. Good-bye.”

“Is he comin’ over, dad?” asked Cranny, with a grin.

“Yes. Mr. Sharswood seems to be very much annoyed indeed,” answered his father. “The paper contained an opinion from my lawyer concerning an important transfer of property over which he has had some litigation. I shouldn’t have entrusted Willie with it,” he added, in a tone so low that it did not reach the lad’s ears. “He is becoming worse and worse.”

“Old Sharswood’ll call him down good[22] an’ hard; he’s a slam-back chap,” chirped Cranny.

“Please do not use such disrespectful terms, my son,” remonstrated the other. “What’s that—am I going to give you a vacation?—I’m afraid not.”

“Why?” grumbled Cranny. “I don’t want to be cooped up in this office all summer like a chicken in a wicker-work basket. Come, dad!”

“I can’t talk about it now, Cranny.”

Mr. Beaumont turned away, while his son, with a look of extreme disgust, tossed Bob Somers’ letter into an open drawer of his desk.

Cranny ran a close second to Willie Sloan in his lack of attention to business that afternoon. He found it almost impossible to keep his mind on the dry details of office work, for entrancing pictures of Circle T Ranch and the cow-punchers would persist in passing before his mental vision.

“Think of the great sport that bunch is going to have,” he murmured. “Gee! It’s enough to make a chap——”

A quick step in the corridor, the rattle of the knob as the door flew open, and the appearance[23] of a stout, florid-faced man brought his wandering thoughts back with startling abruptness.

“Mr. Sharswood!” said Mr. Beaumont, rising from his desk.

“Yes; here I am!” exclaimed the other, gruffly. “See here, Beaumont, how about that paper?”

Willie Sloan’s brown eyes were staring straight at Mr. Sharswood, while a scowl on his forehead slowly deepened.

“And do you mean to say, Beaumont, that you actually gave an important paper like that into the care of an irresponsible lad?” demanded Mr. Horatio Sharswood, as he vigorously mopped his face. “Why, it’s simply ridiculous—almost reprehensible. See here, boy, what do you mean by such a piece of stupid carelessness?”

“Wasn’t careless. I couldn’t help it,” mumbled Willie.

“Couldn’t help it! Fiddlesticks! And don’t you stare at me like that, either. It’s a mighty good thing you’re not in my office; I’d bundle you out in short order.”

“I’d be glad to leave it,” snapped Willie.

[24]Mr. Horatio Sharswood’s florid face turned a shade redder.

“Did you ever hear of such impudence?” he stormed. “Beaumont, do you allow your clients to be spoken to in that manner by a little whiffet of an office boy? Does he express any regret for his action?—oh, no—just brazens it out. Why—why——”

“I’m not a whiffet!”

Mr. Sharswood stared in amazement.

“Never lost anything yourself, I s’pose?” piped Willie.

“Be quiet!” commanded Mr. Beaumont, sternly. “Mr. Sharswood,” he added, “this is my ward, Willie Sloan. I regret exceedingly the loss of the paper, and will do all in my power to——”

“Oh, gee—oh, my! If that ain’t the queerest yet!”

This exclamation, in Willie Sloan’s squeaky voice, interrupted him. The boy was clutching an envelope which he had just drawn from some deep recess of a capacious pocket, and stood staring at it with a comical look of bewilderment.

“Oh—ginger—I—I didn’t lose it, after all.[25] Well, wouldn’t that stagger a mule? I—I——”

Cranny clapped his hands together and burst into a roar of laughter, while the two gentlemen gazed at the diminutive form of Mr. Beaumont’s ward in astonishment.

“And do you actually mean to say that you’ve put me to all this trouble for nothing?” roared Mr. Sharswood.

“Why—why, you ought to be mighty glad to get it back, sir,” said Willie, reproachfully. “I couldn’t help thinking I lost it—felt sure I’d looked through that pocket carefully; honest, I did.”

“Well, well, Beaumont, this is about the limit!” cried the visitor, as he seized the envelope from Willie’s outstretched hand. “All the afternoon wasted—for it put me into such a state of mind that I couldn’t do a stroke of work. What do you think of yourself, young man?”

Willie’s eyes were still staring hard into the stout man’s face. He gulped once or twice, then mumbled:

“I’m not wasting any time thinking about myself.”

[26]“Don’t feel a bit sorry, eh?”

“Why, I didn’t mean to do it. You see——”

Mr. Sharswood waved his hand.

“I don’t want to speak harshly of your ward, Beaumont,” he said, “but, really, I fear you are too easy with him. Keep a tight rein on the lad. And, as a special favor, my dear sir, send some one else to my office whenever important papers have to be delivered.”

“Well, I’m not asking to come, am I?” growled Willie, in a sepulchral whisper.

Mr. Horatio Sharswood glared sternly at the office boy, while Willie glared back.

“What a cheeky little lad!” exclaimed Mr. Sharswood, breaking an awkward silence. “He sits there just as calm as you please, staring a man out of countenance. It’s extraordinary. No, I can’t stay another instant—not even the tenth of a second. Good-bye.”

The door opened with a jerk, Mr. Horatio Sharswood’s stout form remained silhouetted against the clear light outside for scarcely a moment—then he was gone.

Mr. Beaumont was too considerate a man to say very much to his ward before Cranny;[27] he didn’t care to hurt the feelings of any one. Willie would, perhaps, respond to kindness; but any attempt to drive him might only result in his becoming more unruly and stubborn.

But a little later, when Cranny had left the office, Mr. Beaumont talked earnestly to his ward. Willie listened respectfully, and promised to do better, even brightening up as Mr. Beaumont pictured the reward which almost invariably follows hard and conscientious work. Then, when the gentleman went into another room, he worked hard for at least five minutes.