Ralph went to his car, looked back over his shoulder, and with a flash of teeth and a bitter grin demanded:
"Got enough? You, Degger, know what this is for. If you don't put a bridle on your tongue after this, better put many a mile between us. For if I come after you again I won't let you off so easy."
He got into the car, started it, backed it around, and shot up the road on the return journey to Clinkerport before his two victims were on their feet.
Ralph was not entirely unmarred. When he had backed his roadster into the stable behind the bungalow that served the Endicotts for a garage, he went into the washroom and bathed his bruises and the cut above his right eye.
There was room in the stable for his small car and the family automobile. The remainder of the floor space had been turned into a laboratory and workshop by Professor Endicott.
The latter caught sight of his nephew before he could plaster up the cut. He opened the door of the washroom, and, standing there, a tall, sapling-like figure in his white smock, stared rather grimly at Ralph.
"Another smash-up?" he asked.
"No, sir. The car isn't hurt. Just a little trouble with a fellow."
"With whom, may I ask?"
"That Degger." For Ralph was nothing if not perfectly frank.