Part 10 (2/2)
”I would like to inquire about an automobile that pa.s.sed or stopped here within the past hour,” spoke Randy, approaching this man.
”Where from? What number?” inquired the latter.
”I don't know,” explained Randy, ”but I will give you the best description I can from heresay. It was a big red car, and besides the chauffeur and pa.s.senger there was a boy about my age who had got his arm hurt--”
”Oh, I know now,” interrupted the man-”you mean Colonel Tyson's car.
They stopped to get a wet towel soaked in ice water to wrap around the boy's wrist, I fancy, for he was holding one arm and seemed in pain.”
”Yes, yes-that is my friend,” declared Randy hastily. ”Which way did the machine go?”
”To Brenton, of course, where it belongs.”
”Then you know its owner?”
”Everybody knows him-Tyson, the millionaire. Used to be a big bond man in New York City.”
”Thank you,” said Randy and was off on his travels again. ”I hope Pep isn't hurt badly,” he mused. ”He doesn't seem to be from what I hear; but why is this rich old fellow running away with him?”
It was quite late in the evening when Randy reached Brenton. He felt easier, now that he seemed sure of locating his chum, or at least running down the people who had carried him away. Once at Brenton there was no difficulty in finding the Tyson home. It was a very fine mansion with big grounds about it, but Randy was not at all awed by that. He ran his machine up to the stone porch and ascending the steps rang the door bell. A servant answered the summons.
”Is Mr. Tyson at home?” Randy inquired.
”He is at home, yes,” replied the servant, studying critically the dust-covered caller. ”Business with him?”
”I have. You just tell him I am Randy Powell, from Seaside Park, and I came about the automobile accident.”
The servant left Randy standing in the vestibule until a portly, consequential-looking man appeared. He viewed Randy in a shrewd, supercilious way.
”What's your business?” he challenged crisply.
”Are you Mr. Tyson?”
”Never mind that. What are you after?”
”But I do mind it,” retorted Randy boldly. ”If you are Mr. Tyson, it was your machine that ran down a friend of mine back at Seaside Park a couple of hours ago, and I want to know what you have done with him.”
Mr. Tyson looked a trifle fl.u.s.tered; then very much annoyed. He said:
”I've done nothing with him. He just came along. Say, I hope you haven't gone and stirred up a lot of notoriety and trouble for me along the line.”
”Why should I-unless you deserve it.”
”Ha-hum!” muttered the millionaire. ”See here, come in. You look reasonable-more so than that young wildcat friend of yours unless he has his own way.”
Mr. Tyson led Randy into a magnificently furnished room, nodded him to a chair and sat down facing him.
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