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 road-men. 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?”