“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.
“See here,” he spoke, “you just tell me how much rumpus you have raised about this unfortunate affair.”
“I’ve raised no rumpus,” declared Randy. “I’ve simply run down your automobile, which the police of Seaside Park didn’t seem able or inclined to do.”
“I’m glad of that,” said Mr. Tyson, apparently greatly relieved, “and there will be no trouble at all in fixing up things satisfactorily all around. You would have heard from me before midnight, for this Pep—ought to be called Pepper—just ordered that his friend at Seaside Park—I suppose it’s you?”
“Yes, it’s me,” declared Randy.
“Well, he wanted word sent to you.”
“Is he badly hurt?” inquired Randy solicitously.
“Not at all—but that isn’t it. See here, lad, because I’m supposed to have a lot of money I seem to be a mark for everybody. I have been unfortunate enough to have various accidents with my machine. A month ago I ran down a man. About all he did was to stub his toe, but he’s sued me for twenty thousand dollars damages and has a doctor ready to swear he is crippled for life. Last week I ran over a valuable dog at Seaside Park and the magistrate fined me fifty dollars for speeding over the limit, and said if there was another complaint he would give me a jail sentence. Ugh! fine thing to be rich; isn’t it?”