Dick Hamilton's Fortune The Stirring Doings of a Millionaire's Son

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Language: English
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"Here comes Dick Hamilton!" exclaimed a flashily-dressed youth to his companion, no less gaily attired, as the two stood in front of a building from which sounded a peculiar clicking noise.

"So it is, Guy," was the answer. "Let's get him into a game. Maybe I can win a little money. I need it, for I'm nearly dead broke."

"I thought you always had all the cash you wanted, Simon," remarked Guy Fletcher, with something like a sneer in his voice. "I know I loaned you some the other day."

"Do you think that lasted until now?" inquired Simon Scardale, glancing down at his patent leather shoes. "I'm short of ready money now, and if we can get your friend Hamilton into a game of billiards I think I can beat him."

"He's no friend of mine," returned Guy, with a short laugh. "He isn't my kind, even if his father is a millionaire."

"That's the main reason why you ought to cultivate his acquaintance," returned Simon. "It pays to keep in with such fellows. But here he is. Let me do the talking. You needn't play if you don't want to."

The two boys, who in spite of their fine clothes, did not have an air of good breeding, watched the approach of Dick Hamilton as he sauntered down the main street of the town that pleasant afternoon late in June.

Dick was a boy a little above the average height, well built, with curling brown hair and eyes of the same hue. The eyes were bright and clear, and, when he looked at you they seemed to glint like moss agates, as some of his friends used to say.

"And you ought to see them when he's excited," one of Dick's acquaintances once remarked. "His eyes sparkle and seem to look right through you."

It needed but a glance to see that Dick was well dressed, with that careless air of studied negligence which so marks the person accustomed to fine raiment. Dick wore his garments as if he was "used to them and not dressed up," as Fred Murdock remarked. There was that about him which at once proclaimed him for what he was—the son of a very wealthy man, for his father, Mortimer Hamilton, counted his fortune in the millions.

As Dick came opposite the place whence issued that peculiar sound, produced by ivory balls hitting against one another, he was hailed by Simon Scardale.

"I say, Dick, come in and have a little game of billiards?"

Dick paused and looked at the speaker with a quizzical glance.

"Who's going to play?" he asked.

"Why—er—I—am—for one," replied Simon. And maybe Guy, here, will take a cue. I'll bet I can beat you, and I'll give you twenty-five points to start with. I'll bet you ten dollars——"

"No, thanks," answered Dick, in rather languid tones, but the sparkle in his brown eyes showed there was more spirit in the words than at first might be apparent. "I don't believe I care to play."

"Afraid I'll beat you!" exclaimed Simon, with a sneer.

"You were very far from doing that the last time you played at my house," retorted Dick, quickly.

"Oh, well, that—er—that was on a table you were used to, and——"

"He's worried about losing the money!" interrupted Guy Fletcher....