"Then p—pup—punk—puncture my tire—take a nail or a pin or anything—or we'll be dashed to pieces."
"Huh! haven't gug—got a nail or a pup—pin or anything," wept Jimmieboy.
"Then we are lost," said Bikey; but just then his tires punctured themselves and they came to a full stop two feet from the stone wall and directly in front of a little hotel, from the front door of which swung a bright red sign on which was the following inscription:—
THE TYRED INN
FOR
THE TIRED OUT.
"My!" ejaculated Bikey as he and Jimmieboy tumbled in a heap before the inn. "That was the narrowest escape I ever had. If we hadn't stopped we'd have been smashed all to bits—leastways I would have—you might have cleared the wall all right."
"Good morning, Biklemen," said a fat, pudgy little old fellow, appearing in the doorway of the inn and bowing profoundly.
"What's that you say?" asked Bikey looking up. "I didn't catch that last word."
"Biklemen," repeated the fat little fellow. "It's a word I invented myself to save time and it signifies gentlemen who ride bicycles. Instead of saying 'good morning, gentlemen who ride bicycles,' I say 'good morning, biklemen, is there anything I can do for you?'"