“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.”