We had come ninety miles over bad roads, and it was 160 miles to Chicago, so we decided to stop at Paw Paw for the night. We drove through the town and inquired which was the best hotel--our usual question--and were told that they had two, but the Dyckman House was first-class--a typical small country hotel, with little promise of comfort. We were shown into big, comfortable rooms with one private bath; but were told that “supper was over.” The manager was a typical small-town person of importance, but had a kindly eye, and looked amenable to persuasion. The others had given up hope; not so with me! Then and there I invented a “sob-story” that would have melted Plymouth Rock. It became our stock in trade, and many a supperless night we would have had without it. After praising up the town and his hotel, and saying that we had heard of its hospitality, and so forth; that we were strangers, and had come all the way from New York; that we were tired and hungry, and I _really_ was not very well; and that the price was no consideration, etc., he walked out to the kitchen and caught the cook with her hat on ready to depart, gave his orders, and in twenty minutes we were doing full justice to a perfectly good supper. After we had finished, I went out into the summer kitchen and found a good-natured Irish woman, as round as she was pleasing, fanning herself. I gave her a dollar, thanked her for staying, and made a friend for life. Even in Michigan our New York license attracted much attention. When we came out of a hotel or store, a crowd of people had invariably gathered about the car and were feeling the tires. The size seemed to astonish them. The fact that we had come from New York filled them with awe, and when, in fun, we said we were going to San Francisco, they were speechless! “Aw, gaw on!” or “By heck!” was all that they could exclaim.