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And your sign’s a crackajack.” The praise—the first she had had from outside—pleased Maida. It emboldened her to go on with the conversation. “You don’t go to school,” she said. The moment she had spoken, she regretted it. It was plain to be seen, she reproached herself inwardly, why he did not go to school. “No,” the boy said soberly. “I can’t go yet.
He changed his voice, and a brief command made Crackajack give up his teasing and retreat. Bull watched the exquisite little creature go, with a smile of pleasure. He did not know it, but that smile unlocked the last door to Tod's heart. "He was pretty near as wild as Diablo when I first got him," said the boy. "And mean say, he'd been kicked around all his life.
"He's a terrible bother, Crackajack is," said the boy angrily, and from the corner of his eye he stole a glance of unspeakable pride at the big man. "He's a beauty," exclaimed Bull Hunter. "A regular beauty!" For Crackajack combined the toughness of a mustang and the lean, strong running lines of a thoroughbred in miniature.
You say you looked him up, but I'll bet you a new hat there is one thing about him that you failed to investigate, and that is: What kind of Irish is he?" "Why, regular Irish, of course mighty good Irish, I should say. Keen, observing, not too talkative, a hard worker, temperate in his habits and a crackajack engineer to boot."
Who iss it?" he added with some impatience, turning upon the secretary again. "Oh, that's Haley's team and I guess that's his hired man, a young fellow just out from Scotland," replied the secretary indifferently. "I am no great judge of the pipes myself, but he strikes me as a crackajack and I shouldn't be surprised if he would make you all sit up."
"Maybe you don't know hosses, but you sure got hoss sense." Tod chuckled. "Most folks take Crackajack for a toy pony. He ain't. I've seen him carry a full-grown man all day and keep up with the best of 'em. He don't mind the weight of me no more'n if I was a feather. He's fast, he's tough, and he knows more'n a hoss should know, you might say!"
"Well, old Benjamin, the father, who was located in Framingham somewhere about the year 1716, had twelve children and three of these Benjamin, Junior, Simon, and Aaron all became crackajack clockmakers, especially Simon. The family, I take it, went to Grafton, a small town near Worcester, later on. At any rate Benjamin, Junior, was born there.
But I fatted him up in the barn, and he got so's he'd follow me around. And now he runs loose like a dog and comes when I whistle. He knows more things than you could shake a stick at, Crackajack does." "I'll bet he does," said Bull with shining eyes. "Say," said the boy suddenly, "I'm going to tell you about the way I worked with Diablo." "I'll take that mighty kind," said Bull gratefully.
"You are a crackajack runner. I wanted to give you a try to see what you could do. I'll see you to-morrow. Good-night." The pursuer gave up the chase. "As I live, I believe it was Pierson, manager of the ball team!" muttered Frank when he was sure it was no trick and he was no longer followed. "He looks something like Professor Grant, and he is a great mimic. That's just who it was."
He rented a nice four-room cottage there, with an icebox out on the back porch and a hammock in the front yard, and begun to paper and paint and grain and kalsomine and made good money from the start. Ellabelle was a crackajack housekeeper and had plenty of time to lie out in the hammock and read 'Lucile' of afternoons.
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