“That inn did not appeal to my æsthetic sense of refinement, anyhow,” observed Ready, as they filed out onto the street with their hand bags and grips. “It looked somewhat soiled and out of condition. The Mansion House seems far more alluring.” “I don’t think much of being turned down in that manner,” said Merry. “It is irritating.” The Mansion House proved to be a brick building near the centre of the business section of the place. “I’m glad we were turned down back there,” said Morgan. “This looks better to me.” “Yah, I pelief id does haf a petterment look,” agreed Dunnerwurst. “I think we vill peen accommodationed mit superiority here.” The office was empty. They waited a few moments and no one appeared. Then Frank found a bell on the desk and rang it. After another period of waiting and a second ringing of the bell, a sleepy-eyed fat boy came in, dragging his feet and looking both tired and disturbed. “Here, boy!” exclaimed Merry; “what’s the matter with this place? We want to stop here.” “You’ll ha-ve t-o s-ee Mr. Jones,” declared the boy, drawling forth his words with a great effort. “Who is Mr. Jones?” “He’s th-e pro-pri-e-tor.” “Well, where is he?” “I do-n’t kno-ow.” “Stick a pup-pup-pin into him and wa-wa-wake him up, Ready!” cried Joe Gamp. “Do-n’t yo-ou lar-a-rfe a-ut me-e-e!” said the fat boy, still in that weary drawl. “I do-n’t li-ke to ha-ave a pi-un stu-ck in-to me-e-e.” Rattleton dropped on a chair and began to laugh. “He cakes the take—no, takes the cake!” cried Harry. “He don’t li-i-ike to ha-ave a pi-un stu-ck in-to he-e-e-um. Ha! ha! ha!” “Do-n’t yo-ou lar-r-rfe a-ut me-e-e!” said the fat boy resentfully. “This is a fine hotel!” exploded Hodge. Dunnerwurst waddled over to the fat boy. “Look ad myseluf,” he commanded. “We vish to pecome the jests uf the house.” “Guests, Hans,” corrected Frank, laughing. “Yah, so id vos I said id. Ve vant to pecome der jests uf der house. Der money we vill paid vor dot, und we haf id readiness. Now on yourseluf got a mofement und pring righdt avay quick der brobrietor. Id is our urchent objection to registrate righdt off before soon und to our rooms got assignments. Yah!” “Why-y do-n’t yo-ou ta-a-alk E-e-eng-lish?” inquired the fat boy. “Vot?” squawled Hans excitedly. “Vot dit you hear me say? Vy don’t Enklish talk me? Vot dit you caldt id? Dit you pelief I vos Irish talking alretty now? Chust you got a viggle on und pring der chentleman by der name of Chones vot this hodel runs.” He gave the fat boy a push, and the sleepy-eyed chap disappeared through the door by which he had entered, muttering: “So-ome fo-o-olks are al-wus in a naw-ful hur-ry.” Five minutes later an undersized man with a reddish mustache came pudging into the room. He was smoking a huge, black cigar, which he held slanted upward in a comical manner. His hands were in his pockets. “What do you fellers want?” he asked, in a voice like the yapping of a small dog. “Are you Mr. Jones?” asked Merry.