CHAPTER VI THE RUINED MILLIONAIRE
"What a car!"
"It's got folding bunks in, as sure as you're born!"
"And that looks like a small kitchen!"
"Those tires are a new kind, too—cushion instead of pneumatic!"
"Say, you could drive that through a hail storm and you'd never know it!"
"That's the car for me, boys, if dad will stand for it, and I can get it!" Thus exclaimed Dick Hamilton, the other exclamations coming from his two chums as they stood admiring the big car.
Nor were they the only ones, for a throng had gathered about the space where the peculiar auto was being exhibited. In general shape it was like any large enclosed car, but it exceeded in size any Dick had ever seen. And in the interior appointments, certainly it was the "last word" in auto construction.
Briefly described, for I shall go more into details later, it was a six-cylinder machine, with the whole body back of the engine itself enclosed in wood and glass. There was no division back of the steering wheel, the whole interior of the car, save for a space that Paul described as the "kitchen," being thrown into one compartment. And that apartment contained, as Beeby had said, folding bunks or berths, that served as long seats in the day time, while at night they made comfortable beds.
There was a small stove, evidently operated by an electric current; there were electric lights, and the car could be started by the same agency, as Dick noted. Then there were displayed dishes with which to set a folding table, and utensils for cooking on the electric stove. There was ample room for food and bed clothing, as well as for garments.
"That's the nearest thing to a traveling parlor and dining car that I've seen!" exclaimed Dick; "with sleeping berths thrown in. That's the car I want. I wonder if it's for sale, boys?" and he looked questioningly at a man who seemed to be in charge.
"Yes, it is," was the answer. "It has just been put on the market. In fact the car has been on exhibition only since this morning, when we got instructions to dispose of it."
"Do you make those up for stock?" asked Paul.
"No, this is the only car like it in the world, we believe. It was made to order for a gentleman, but now he does not want it, and he authorized us to dispose of it for him. It has never been used, though it has been thoroughly tested."
"What's the matter?" asked Dick. "Didn't he like it?"
"Maybe it wasn't big enough," suggested Beeby.
"As to that I can't say," went on the salesman. "I only was told to dispose of it, and I'm afraid I'm going to have my own troubles. It's too large for use in the city. It was built for touring purposes exclusively, and it is very complete. But few persons would want a car like it, I am afraid. Would you like to look it over more closely?" he asked, seeing how interested Dick and his chums were.
"We sure would!" exclaimed Paul.
"And if dad doesn't keep his word, and get this for me," added Dick, "why—I'll get it myself. This car positively must be mine!"
"I'm afraid it will be more than the average young man can afford," remarked the agent, with a smile.
"The beauty of it, though," said Paul to the man in a low voice, as they slipped under the ropes, "is that he isn't an average young man."
"No?"
"That's Mortimer Hamilton's son," went on Paul.
"The millionaire?"
Paul nodded.
"Great Scott!" whispered the man. "I came near making a break," and he hurried after Dick to explain the points of the car.
While Dick, his chums and others in the interested crowd looked on, the agent showed how the bunks could be utilized as seats in the day time, or even folded up out of the way and camp stools used when it was desired to eat. The table was let down from the "ceiling" and could be folded and raised with but little effort when not wanted.
There were enough dishes to feed six persons at a time, though four was all the car would "sleep." More could travel in it during the day, however. The electric stove, operated by a current from a dynamo, as well as from a storage battery, was very efficient, and a fairly complete meal could be cooked on it. There was also ample storage room for supplies.
The engine, in which Dick was also greatly interested, was of a new and very powerful type. It was almost "trouble-proof," and would stand up well under hard usage.
The use of a new type of cushion tires, instead of those inflated with air, insured freedom from punctures and blowouts, and would, because of the weight of the car, and a new kind of springs, make riding very easy.
"In short, it's a car for a long tour," said the agent.
"And it's the car for me!" exclaimed Dick. By this time most of the crowd had gone to look at other exhibits, leaving the agent and the three boys comparatively alone. "But why did not the man who ordered it take it after it was completed?" asked Dick. "Was he dissatisfied with it?"
"Not at all!" exclaimed a voice back of the boys. "I couldn't take the car after I ordered it, for the simple reason that I didn't have the money to pay for it. I lost my fortune between the time I contracted for the Last Word and the time it was finished. That's all."
"Oh," said Dick blankly. He was rather surprised to be taken up so quickly. He turned to see who had spoken, and, as he did so, he uttered an exclamation of surprise that was echoed by Paul Drew.
For, standing near the big car which he could not now possess, was the young man whom Paul and Dick had seen acting so strangely on the railroad tracks—the young man who, according to Paul, had been prevented from committing suicide by Dick's prompt action.
The stranger, too, was as much surprised as were Dick and Paul. He paused as he was about to continue his explanation, and an odd look came over his face. Then he held out his hand, saying:
"I believe I have met two of you boys before."
"That's right," agreed Dick. "I'm glad to see you again. So this is your car?"
"It was," he replied with a little smile. "Now it's for whoever can raise the money. I can't."
"I came on from Kentfield," Dick explained. "The academy has closed for the summer, and I'm looking for a touring car. My father is giving me one as a sort of reward for not flunking in class."
"I see. Well, you couldn't get a better car than this. I know the firm well, and, while it is rather peculiarly built, from ideas of my own, still it can compete with any of the regular machines, and beat most of them, though it has not abnormal speed, of course."
"I'm not looking for speed," laughed Dick. "I want comfort."
"It's rather odd that we should meet again," went on the young man. "I live out near Kentfield, but I thought I would take a run in to New York, to see if there was a chance of getting rid of the car. I haven't paid for it yet, but I believe I am, in a way, responsible, since I agreed to take it. I wouldn't like to see the firm lose money on it, but if it comes to getting it out of me they'll have hard work. I'm dead broke—cleaned out.
"Three months ago I was worth over a million. Now I have barely enough to live on. But I'm going to make my pile again!" he exclaimed with energy. "I'm not going to give up, and when I come into my own again I'll have another car like this. I've been foolish once, but I'm through now. They don't catch me twice on the same bait. No more speculation for Frank Wardell!" and he slapped the big tire of one of the wheels determinedly.
Dick Hamilton started.
"What—what did you say your name was?" he asked.
"Wardell—Frank Wardell. I'll give you a card," and he produced one.
"Mine's Hamilton—Dick Hamilton," said Dick.
"Glad to meet you. I know your father slightly—Mortimer Hamilton?"
"Yes."
"This is odd, a ruined millionaire and a successful one," and he laughed grimly. "Never mind, I'll be in your class soon again," and he shook hands with Dick, who had introduced his chums.
"Wardell—Frank Wardell," murmured Dick to Paul. "Do you recognize that name?"
"I can't say that I do. Why?"
"Don't ask me now. I'll tell you later. To think it should come out this way," went on Dick. "Frank Wardell! The man I met on the track—a ruined millionaire. No wonder he acted so strangely. Oh, if I could only help him! I hope he doesn't ask too much about my family. I'd hate to have to admit that I'm Uncle Ezra's nephew," and with this rather mystifying ejaculation, Dick gave his attention to what Mr. Wardell was saying—explaining some points about the car that had escaped the attention of the boys.
"I do hope you will take it, Mr. Hamilton," the ruined millionaire went on. "I don't know of anyone I'd rather would get it than you. I know you'll appreciate it."
"I think very likely I shall take it," said Dick.
"Then you'll take a load off my shoulders," the other went on, "for I feel, in a measure, responsible for the price, and the land knows I could never raise the cash."
And Dick, as he looked over the wonderful touring car, could not help thinking how strangely fate had ordered matters. Paul looked at his chum, anxious to hear why the name "Wardell" should make such an impression on the young millionaire.