"Patti cats and De Reszke cats—the kind that sing, you know," explained the landlord. "They put 'em on their back yard fences so that these operatic felines would not be able to sit down there and sing and keep them awake all night; but the scheme didn't work. I had an idea that the cat teasers would puncture the bicycle wheels in time to stop 'em, and they did, but they interfered with people on foot as well, and after these people got lockjaw from puncturing their feet on my pavement I took it up and suggested sprinkling the roadway twice a day with tacks. This satisfied the Secretary, and a law was passed compelling me to do it, and I do. How it works you have seen for yourselves."
"That's true," said Bikey, ruefully.
"Well, it saved me," said Jimmieboy.
"But how are we ever to get home?" asked Bikey.
"Oh, as for that," returned the landlord, "gather yourselves together and come inside. I think I can fix you out very shortly, and it won't cost you more than $800."
"Come on, Bikey," said Jimmieboy, "I'd sort of like to see the inside of this house, anyhow."
"I haven't got any $800," snapped Bikey.
"Oh, never mind about that," laughed the landlord. "I run a banking business here, too. I'll lend you all you want. Come in."
And so they went into the "Tyred Inn for the Tired Out," and a most remarkable place they found it to be.