ANOTHER FRUITLESS ATTEMPT
For a moment the young millionaire did not know what to say or think. His father in trouble! Uncle Ezra had come to take him away from Kentfield! And in the height of the football season just before the first big game!
"Is my father ill?" asked Dick.
"No, not ill, only worrying over business. I always said he had too many irons in the fire, and now some have burned him," declared the old man as he walked along beside his nephew out of ear-shot of the crowd. "I've come on to try my hand at helping him."
"But what can you do here?" asked Dick. "And why must I leave Kentfield?"
"To help your father. I should think you'd be glad to. He needs money. It costs money to stay here and play those silly, dangerous games."
"Not very much money, Uncle Ezra."
"Don't tell me! You ought to be in my woolen mill earning four dollars and a quarter a week, instead of wasting cash here. Now I want to have a serious talk with you, Nephew Richard. Your father is in trouble, and it's your duty to leave here and help him."
"I think I can help him by staying here just as well. But did he tell you to take me away from Kentfield—just when I have the football team in good shape? Did he say I was to leave?"
"No, he didn't exactly say so, but I know it would help. Besides, you might get injured playing this game, and then you'd be a cripple for life. You ought to be at work. Now I can make a place for you in the mill. In time you could work up to twelve or fifteen dollars a week, and of course, being my nephew, and the son of my only sister, I'd give you a chance. Better come, Dick. You might be hurt here."
"And I might be hurt in the mill, Uncle Ezra. I have heard of people being caught in the machinery."
"Well, of course it's possible," admitted the crabbed man. "But you must be careful. Besides if you got hurt in the mill it would be in a good cause. Though I warn you I carry accident insurance for all my employees and you can't collect any damages from me."
"Then I think I'll stay and play football, Uncle Ezra."
"Oh, the perversity and foolishness of the rising generation!" groaned Mr. Larabee. "But hurry on and get cleaned up. It is a disgrace for me to be seen walking with you, and I have on my best black suit that I don't want to get spoiled. Besides I must hurry back. I have a lazy hired man that loafs when I'm away."
Dick thought that any hired man who would not take a little chance of resting when his taskmaster was away from home would not show much spirit. But there was Mrs. Larabee to reckon with, and she was almost as much of a "driver" as her husband.
"There, now I am ready to hear all about it," said Dick, when he had led his uncle to one of the reception rooms of the academy, and had removed most of the traces of the recent football conflict. "Are father's affairs in much worse shape?"
"I should say they were!" exclaimed Uncle Ezra. "This man Porter—why Nephew Richard—what is that on your nose?" and the horrified old man sprang from his chair and approached our hero.
"Nose? What's the matter with it?" asked Dick in some alarm.
"There's a great big cut on it! How did it happen?"
"Oh, that's where I tried to stop Hal Foster's shoe with my nose, I expect. That's nothing. It's only a little cut. You should have seen the one I had last year. And when Teddy Naylor broke his collar bone——"
"That's enough! Not another word about the brutalities of football! I've heard enough! It's disgraceful. Let us talk about something else."
"I'm anxious to hear about father's affairs," said Dick.
"I don't know very much," replied his uncle, "but I know that his enemies are pressing him hard to get the control of the trolley line away from him, and it is paying well, too. I never thought it would, but your father insisted that he was right. But he has too many irons in the fire, I'm sure. This time this Mr. Porter is fighting him, and when I saw your father yesterday he said he did not know what to do, because a Mr. Duncaster would not sell his stock."
"Yes, I know that Mr. Duncaster," said Dick, with a grim smile at the recollection of the interview with the man.
"I came here to argue with him," said Mr. Larabee.
"You did?" cried Dick.
"Yes, your father consented. He said you had been unable to do anything with him, and it would do no harm if I tried. I'm a fighter, I am!" and Uncle Ezra squared his jaw aggressively. "I'll make him do as we want him to."
Dick had his doubts about this, but said nothing. He had, moreover, a little feeling against his uncle.
"I want to help dad myself," reflected the young millionaire, "and I believe I can do more with this Mr. Duncaster than Uncle Ezra can. I don't like him 'butting in,' but if dad told him to it must be all right. But I don't believe he'll have much success."
"Now I thought if you could take me to see this person who has the stock," went on Mr. Larabee, "I can induce him to sell it. Once your father has possession of it matters will be all right. Could we go out to his place this afternoon?"
"Oh, yes," agreed Dick. "It is not much of a run to Hardvale."
"I'm glad of it, for then I can start back home to-night. If I take along some sandwiches, which perhaps you can get from the kitchen here for me, I can ride all night in a day coach, and so save a hotel bill. We'll start for Hardvale at once. It is within walking distance, I presume."
"No," answered Dick, and he felt a secret delight in his answer, "the only way to get out there and back in time for you to make an early start for home is to take an auto."
"An auto!" cried Uncle Ezra in horror. "Never! I'll never waste money on one of those affairs, and when I undertook to come here on your father's business I stipulated that I would pay all expenses. He is to give me a commission for doing the work, provided I get the trolley stock, and the less expenses I have the more money I can make."
"But if you don't hire an auto you'll be here so long that you'll have to stay over and pay a hotel bill," said Dick, trying not to smile.
"Couldn't we hire a horse and carriage, or go in a trolley car—trolleys are cheap." Mr. Larabee looked hopeful.
"There is no trolley line to Hardvale," said Dick, "and a horse and carriage would be too slow. It's an auto or a hotel bill, Uncle Ezra."
"Oh dear! What a hard world this is! Well, let us go and get a cheap auto. I'll bargain with the driver."
The chauffeur wanted six dollars to go out to Hardvale and back with his taxicab. At the first mention of the price Dick thought his uncle would have a fit. Then, with a grim tightening of his lips, the old man began to bargain.
"I'll give you two dollars," he said.
"It wouldn't pay for my time, oil and gasolene," declared the man.
"I'll make it three, and not a cent more!" exclaimed Uncle Ezra firmly, with his hand on his pocketbook as if afraid it would be taken away from him.
"You'd better walk!" said the chauffeur. "I haven't any more time to bother with you."
Uncle Ezra begged and pleaded, but the driver was firm.
"Well, I'll tell you what I'll do," said the crabbed old man finally. "I'll pay your price, though I want you to understand that I think it's robbery, but will you throw in some sandwiches for my supper. I'm going to travel all night."
"Oh, yes, I suppose so," finally agreed the chauffeur. "Though it's the first time I've ever given a tip in my own cab. Hop in."
They arrived at Mr. Duncaster's house a little before dusk, and Uncle Ezra rapped on the door. There was a long silence and he knocked again.
"Nobody home I guess," ventured the chauffeur, who was lighting his lamps, preparatory for the trip back.
"Let me try," suggested Dick, and he gave several vigorous blows on the door. Uncle Ezra had rapped lightly, probably so as not to unduly wear out the pair of ancient gloves he was wearing.
This time a window over the front door was opened, and the head of Mr. Duncaster, graced with a nightcap and a tassle, was thrust out.
"What do you want? Go away from here! I've gone to bed!" he shouted. "I'll have you arrested for disturbing the peace! Get away!"
He started to close the window.
"Here! Wait!" cried Mr. Larabee. "I want to talk to you about your trolley stock."
At the mention of stock the window was opened again, and once more the head came out.
"Stock is it? Trolley stock? I suspected it was something like that when I smelled your gasolene wagon coming to my door. Well, that stock isn't for sale, and don't you bother me any more about it. I won't sell to either side. Now you get away. I always go to bed early and it's past my sleeping time now. Get away!"
"But you don't understand!" cried Mr. Larabee in desperation. "We want your stock, and I am authorized to offer you——"
"I won't listen to you! Get away, I'm going to sleep!" The head was drawn in and the window came down with a bang.
"Wait! Hold on! I'll increase the price! I must talk to you!" cried Uncle Ezra, but Mr. Duncaster was firm, and there was no reply to repeated knockings.
"I guess we'd better go," said Dick gently. He had surmised how it would be.
"I'm going to try the back door," said Uncle Ezra craftily. "Maybe I can surprise him." But he had his knocking for his pains, and came back crestfallen.
"Come on," suggested the chauffeur. "I want to get back and do some business where I can make something."
"Humph! You made enough out of us," declared Mr. Larabee as the man cranked up. "Now don't you forget my sandwiches."
They were bowling along through the outskirts of the town when suddenly, around the corner swung another auto. The driver of the one containing Dick and his uncle tried to get out of the way, but it was impossible.
The next instant there was a crash of glass, and Dick found himself sitting on the curbstone, while his uncle with a slight cut over his eye from which the blood was coming, was holding to a street lamppost. Both autos were slightly damaged, but the drivers were not hurt and they proceeded to lay the blame one on the other.
"I'll sue you for this! I'll have damages! I'm an injured man!" cried Uncle Ezra, as he put his handkerchief to his cut eye, while Dick tried to get up, but found that he could not.
"By Jove! I hope my leg isn't broken!" he thought in dismay. "And the Haskell game Saturday! Whew, this is tough luck!"
Once more he made an effort to get up, but fell back in a faint as a sharp pain shot through his ankle. He was conscious of a horrible fear of being disabled, as he felt some one lift his head while a girl's voice exclaimed:
"Why, it's Dick Hamilton! Call a doctor, Mildred." Then Dick lost consciousness.