"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.