PEP IN CLOVER
“Kidnapped!” repeated Randy, in a hollow tone.
The furniture man nodded his head assentingly. He was big and fat and
had evidently come in a hurry. He had been blunt, but confused in
telling his story. Now he took a long breath to begin again.
Randy felt his heart sink. Everything had been going so well that the
sudden news of an interruption to their buoyant progress chilled him
through sheer contrast. He fancied all kinds of mishaps, and, seizing
his visitor by the sleeve, pulled it in a worried way.
“Tell me all about it--quick,” he demanded.
“Thought I had, but I guess you didn’t get it straight. This Pep of
yours was passing my place when I heard a woman shriek a bit ahead. She
had left her child in a baby carriage while she went into a dry goods
store. There came a whiff of wind down the street just as she came out.
I don’t wonder she hollered out, for that baby carriage was shooting
across the street like a feather in a tornado.”
“But--Pep?” urged Randy, breathlessly. “What of him?”
“He saw it in a flash. The woman stood motionless and screaming. This
Pep made a sprint. I never saw anything done so splendidly. In a flash
he slid over the pavement--just seemed to fly over the street, making
for that baby carriage. No wonder he hurried and no wonder the woman
screamed, for exactly at that instant a great red touring car came
tearing around the corner. It held the chauffeur and a fine-looking old
gentleman, who just rose up in his seat with a yell as he saw that baby
carriage directly in the path of the machine.
“There wasn’t even time for the chauffeur to move the wheel. I actually
shut my eyes, thinking the smash was bound to come. I don’t know how
the lad did it, but when I opened them, just cold with horror, there he
was lying on the ground and the baby carriage spinning safe and sound
across the street.”
“How badly was Pep hurt?” inquired Randy, his face pale with suspense.
“I heard someone in the crowd say his wrist was broken. It seems, at
the risk of his own life, he had made that dash for the baby carriage
and given it a push out of the way of the auto just as it was pouncing
down upon it.”
“Where is Pep now?” asked Randy.
“Why, that is the queer part of it. The passenger in the machine jumped
out and picked him up. He lifted him into the auto. He didn’t seem to
want to go with the man, but they speeded up and I supposed they were
going to bring him here, or to the nearest doctor, or the hospital. A
police officer came up right after the accident on a motorcycle. He
made some inquiries, took some notes and went away again. Just now he
came back and said that he could find no trace of machine or boy, and
that he had learned that the auto had been driven out of town on the
west road as fast as it could go. Don’t you see--kidnapped!”
“I don’t!” cried Randy almost frantically, “Wasn’t it enough that they
ran him down, without carrying him away nobody knows where? Oh, I must
get straight on his track--I must find Pep!”
“The police didn’t,” suggested the furniture man.
“I don’t care for that--I will!”
“Mebbe I’d better give you my address,” said his visitor. “There’s been
several accidents here lately. It’s mostly tourists passing through
the town who are reckless about how they drive--rich old fellows who
don’t value life or limb, and get out of the way fast as they can
when they’ve done any damage. I suppose the man who owns the machine
that hurt your friend had heard of how one or two before him had been
arrested and fined and forced to pay heavy damages, and just thought
he’d grab up the lad and get him and himself out of the way before any
investigation was made.”
“It’s shameful!” exclaimed Randy, wrought up now to the highest pitch
of excitement and indignation. “Poor Pep! He may be suffering tortures
and all those inhuman wretches think about is getting clear of being
found out. I’ll find him--I’ll run down his kidnappers and bring them
to account, even if the police can’t.”
The excited Randy did not even wait for the furniture man, but ran down
the boardwalk and then in the direction of the man’s store fast as he
could. There was not much to learn there outside of what he already
knew. His next call was at the police station. He was incensed at the
indifference of the officers. They had investigated the accident as far
as required, they claimed. The injured boy had been taken out of their
jurisdiction and that seemed to lead them to believe that it ended
their responsibility.
Randy knew the direction the red automobile had taken. He proceeded
to a livery garage where motorcycles were on rent, and made himself
known. He was well up in running the machine and was soon speeding on
the trail of his missing chum, as he supposed and hoped. The west road
out of Seaside Park was the best in the section. It ran to Brenton and
beyond that to the large cities. There was every reason to believe
that the kidnappers, if such they were, would favor a smooth, easily
traversed highway over inferior dirt and stone roads that ran parallel.
Randy stopped at the first little town he came to and made some
inquiries, but they availed him nothing. Five miles further on,
however, he got a clue. Here were crossroads and a “Roadside Rest,” a
general halting place for roadmen. Several autos were in view, their
occupants taking lunch in a pavilion near the hotel or walking about
stretching their limbs.
A man who wore a banded cap and a close fitting coat flitted around
here and there in an important way, and Randy decided he must be a sort
of major domo about the place.
“I would like to inquire about an automobile that passed or stopped
here within the past hour,” spoke Randy, approaching this man.
“Where from? What number?” inquired the latter.
“I don’t know,” explained Randy, “but I will give you the best
description I can from heresay. It was a big red car, and besides the
chauffeur and passenger there was a boy about my age who had got his
arm hurt----”
“Oh, I know now,” interrupted the man--“you mean Colonel Tyson’s car.
They stopped to get a wet towel soaked in ice water to wrap around the
boy’s wrist, I fancy, for he was holding one arm and seemed in pain.”
“Yes, yes--that is my friend,” declared Randy hastily. “Which way did
the machine go?”
“To Brenton, of course, where it belongs.”
“Then you know its owner?”
“Everybody knows him--Tyson, the millionaire. Used to be a big bond man
in New York City.”
“Thank you,” said Randy and was off on his travels again. “I hope Pep
isn’t hurt badly,” he mused. “He doesn’t seem to be from what I hear;
but why is this rich old fellow running away with him?”
It was quite late in the evening when Randy reached Brenton. He felt
easier, now that he seemed sure of locating his chum, or at least
running down the people who had carried him away. Once at Brenton
there was no difficulty in finding the Tyson home. It was a very fine
mansion with big grounds about it, but Randy was not at all awed by
that. He ran his machine up to the stone porch and ascending the steps
rang the door bell. A servant answered the summons.
“Is Mr. Tyson at home?” Randy inquired.
“He is at home, yes,” replied the servant, studying critically the
dust-covered caller. “Business with him?”
“I have. You just tell him I am Randy Powell, from Seaside Park, and I
came about the automobile accident.”
The servant left Randy standing in the vestibule until a portly,
consequential-looking man appeared. He viewed Randy in a shrewd,
supercilious way.
“What’s your business?” he challenged crisply.
“Are you Mr. Tyson?”
“Never mind that. What are you after?”
“But I do mind it,” retorted Randy boldly. “If you are Mr. Tyson, it
was your machine that ran down a friend of mine back at Seaside Park a
couple of hours ago, and I want to know what you have done with him.”
Mr. Tyson looked a trifle flustered; then very much annoyed. He said:
“I’ve done nothing with him. He just came along. Say, I hope you
haven’t gone and stirred up a lot of notoriety and trouble for me along
the line.”
“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?”
Mr. Tyson really looked so disgusted that Randy could not refrain from
smiling.
“The newspapers got hold of it and pictured me as a regular ogre. Now
it wasn’t our fault at all when this friend of yours got hurt this
evening. He had no business in the street--don’t you see?”
“Say, if he hadn’t got there where would that child in the baby
carriage be?” demanded Randy indignantly.
“Yes, that’s true,” agreed the millionaire slowly, “but even there
they could not legally hold us. The baby carriage had no lights on
it. Let all that go, though. This Pep was a brave fellow to risk his
life for the child, and I’m glad he did it. My lawyer, after the last
case, though, told me what to do in future accidents, so I followed his
advice. I captured your friend and I intend to keep him captured.”
“I don’t think you will,” began Randy, rising wrathfully to his feet.
“He’s a poor boy, but he’s got some friends and----”
“Pish! Don’t get excited. Keep cool, lad, hear me through. We rushed
your friend here, summoned the best surgeon in Brenton, and this Pep of
yours is snug and comfortable as a dormouse--in bed in the best room in
the house. I’m going to give him the best of care and pay him for any
loss of time he may sustain. Isn’t that fair?”
“Why--I suppose so,” admitted Randy. “Only--what does Pep say?”
“Well, at first he was going to fight us, lame hand and all. Then the
surgeon talked some sense into him, by telling him that if he would
use a little care and not use his arm he would be well as ever inside
of a week. If he didn’t, he may have all kinds of complications in the
future. To be frank with you, all I care for is to turn the boy out
sound and well, so he can’t be coming along later on with another of
those twenty thousand dollar damage suits.”
“Can I see him?” inquired Randy.
“You surely can,” replied Mr. Tyson with alacrity, “and I hope you will
coöperate with us in urging him to stay here and follow the directions
of the doctor.”
Mr. Tyson had not overstated the case when he told Randy that Pep was
well cared for. As Randy entered a great luxuriously furnished room
upstairs he saw his comrade propped up in bed, his arm in a sling and a
table spread with dainties directly at hand.
“You tell him to stay here,” whispered Mr. Tyson in Randy’s ear, and
left the two boys to themselves.
Pep grinned as he welcomed Randy. He moved his injured arm to show that
he was by no means helpless.
“I’m booked here for a week, Randy,” were his first words--“but why
not? There won’t be much to do around the new show for some days to
come, and if there was I wouldn’t be any help with my crippled arm.”
Then Pep in a modest way went on to give details of the accident.
“You see,” were his concluding remarks, “I’m comfortable and well cared
for here and, as the surgeon says, I might have trouble with my arm
if I got careless with it. Mr. Tyson says he will pay me for any loss
time, so don’t worry about me. I’ll show up at Seaside Park before the
week is over with a neat little lot of cash in my pocket, and fresh and
strong to help get the new Wonderland in ship shape order.”
Thus Pep dismissed the incident of the hour, so Randy went “home,”
rather lonesome without his chum. Neither guessed for a moment that
there was to grow out of the circumstance something destined to affect
their whole business career.