“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.
“That’s my name,” yapped the little man.