The Rambler Club's House-Boat

“Well, Bob Somers, I certainly am glad you came on to New York with your father. Dad has been talking so much about you Rambler chaps lately that I’ve been simply wild to meet the crowd.”

“And three of us are here for your inspection, Jack Lyons,” laughed Bob. “Dave Brandon”—his hand fell on the shoulder of a stout, good-humored-looking boy standing by his side—“is our poet, artist and historian; and this is Tommy, or, perhaps, I’d better say, Mr. Thomas Clifton.”

A very tall, thin boy flushed as Jack Lyons eyed him quizzically and then heartily shook his extended hand.

“If titles go by the length of people I think you’d better add Esquire, too,” gurgled Jack.

“For a long time Tommy was the smallest member of our crowd,” explained Dave Brandon; “then, suddenly——”

“Nothing could keep him down,” supplemented Bob, with a smile.

“And I don’t wonder, after the way you boys have been living out in the open,” said Jack. “But what’s the use of our standing here in the hallway when there are comfortable chairs in my den up-stairs?”

“And I do feel most uncommonly tired,” confessed Dave, stifling a yawn, “for, honestly, I didn’t sleep a minute more than twelve hours last night.”

Jack laughed heartily as he led the way into the drawing-room.

Mr. John Lyons, his father, a widely-known New York lawyer and promoter, resided in a fine mansion on Fifty-seventh Street. Externally, there was nothing about the house to distinguish it in any way from the rest of a long brown-stone row, but the interior was famed for the wealth and beauty of its appointments.

“Thought you might like to take a look in here, fellows,” remarked Jack. “Dad goes in a lot for painting and statuary. Some of these things he picked up while abroad. Everything free for this day only. Step around and see the animals.”