"Well, my name is Martin," replied the driver, "James Martin. I certainly didn't mean to run you down, Mr. Duncaster. But the rain was in my eyes, and——"
"That will do," said the man with an air of authority. "Now who are you—my young soldier lad? I don't believe in this war business, but the country seems to be going crazy over it, so I might as well keep still. Who are you?"
"Hamilton—Dick Hamilton is my name."
"Hum—Hamilton—no relation to Mortimer Hamilton; are you?"
"He is my father."
"What."
"I say he is my father."
"Why that's odd—I'm—no, never mind—so you're Mortimer Hamilton's son; eh? I heard he had one, and that he was going to some sort of military school. I'm sorry to see it. And so you're the one who ran me down? And you haven't a crowd of roistering students with you?"
"No, I'm all alone. I've been attending to some business for my father."
"Hum! Business, yes. That's about all Mortimer Hamilton does. Well, you may go. I know where to find both of you in case I want you."