Naturally, I couldn't take a dare like that, and went him one better; I told him I'd not only drive to the very top of the hill, but I'd stop at the Gift House and crack a bottle of champagne on each wheel of the _Yellow Peril,_ in honor of the occasion; that would make a bottle apiece, for there were four of us along.
It was done, to the delight of the usual Sunday crowd of brides, grooms, tourists, and kids.

A mounted policeman interviewed us, to the further delight of the crowd, and invited us to call upon a certain judge whom none of us knew.

We did so, and dad was good enough to pay the fine, which, as I said before, was not much.

I've had less fun for more money, often.
Dad didn't say anything at the time, so I was not looking for the roast I was getting.

It appeared, from his view-point, that I was about as useless, imbecile, and utterly no-account a son as a man ever had, and if there was anything good in me it was not visible except under a strong magnifying-glass.
He said, among other things too painful to mention, that he was getting old--dad is about fifty-six--and that if I didn't buck up and amount to something soon, he didn't know what was to become of the business.
Then he delivered the knockout blow that he'd been working up to.