The man with the bugle whispered to them, so the proprietor wouldn’t hear, “Don’t stay here. They’ll stick you for supper and put you in rooms where you can’t get any air. The windows are made into the roof, and don’t open. I got a horrible cold from sleeping here last year. Guess they never air the bedding. We are all down at the coach house. You may have to sleep on the floor, but the window will be open, and you can cook your own grub on the stove.” “That’s us!” said Peanut. “Say, we want to get some sweet chocolate first, though, and some post-cards, don’t we?” The Scouts all piled over to the long counter at one side of the room, and stocked up with sweet chocolate, and also wrote and mailed post-cards, to be sent down on the train the next day. The summit of Washington in summer is a regular United States post-office, and you can have mail delivered there, if you want. “Be sure you don’t scare your families with lurid accounts of to-day!” Mr. Rogers cautioned them. “Better save that till you’re safe home.” “Why don’t you write out a little account of your adventure for _Among the Clouds_?” said the proprietor. “You can have copies sent to your homes, if you leave before it comes out.” “What’s _Among the Clouds_?” the boys asked. He picked up a small eight page newspaper. “Printed at the base every day,” he said. “It was printed on top here, till the hotel burned. All the arrivals at the summit are put in daily.” “You write the story, Rob,” cried Art. “When will it be printed?” “Make it short, and I can telephone it down for to-morrow,” the man said. “Fine! We’ll all take two copies,” said Peanut. “Save ’em for us. We’ll be around here for two or three days. Hooray, we’re going to be in the paper!” “You might all register over there while the story is being written,” said the proprietor. Rob took a pencil and piece of paper and sat down by the stove to write, while the rest walked over to the register. There were very few entries for that day, as you can guess. The top of the page (the day before) showed, however, the names of two automobile parties, who had written, in large letters under their names, the make of the cars they had come up the mountain in. “Gee, how silly,” said Art. “Wait,” said Peanut, his eyes twinkling, “till _I_ register.” He wrote his name last, and under it he printed, in big, heavy letters: _Smith and Jerome’s Shoes_. “There,” he cried, “that’s the motor _I_ came up in! Good ad. for old Smith and Jerome, eh? Might as well advertise our Southmead storekeepers.” The man with the bugle, who was standing behind the boys, peeked over at the register, and roared with laughter. “You’re all right, kid!” he said. “I wish the motor parties could see it. It would serve ’em right for boasting about owning a car. Besides, that’s the lazy loafer’s way of climbing a mountain. If I were boss, I’d dynamite the carriage road and the railroad, and then nobody could get here but folks who knew how to walk.”