“You won’t feel so funny,” came the laugh, “if you have to go to bed to-night without your supper.”
“Bed?” says I, looking around at the sun-baked scenery. It was a beautiful country, all right—for sand burs and grasshoppers! “Where’s the bed?” I yawned. “Lead me to it.”
“This sand knoll may be the only bed you’ll get. For there isn’t a farmhouse in sight.”
I got my eyes on something.
“The Hotel Emporia for me, kid,” I laughed, pointing to a billboard beside the highway. “‘One hundred comfortable rooms,’” I read, “‘each with bath and running ice water. Delectable chicken dinners. Sun-room cafeteria. Inexpensive garage in connection.’ Who could ask for more?” I wound up.
“Jerry, don’t you ever run down?”
“Hey!” I yipped, straightening. “What do you think I am?—a clock?”
“Yah,” came the quick grin, “a cuckoo clock.”
“It took real brains to think up that one, kid. You win.”
“It’s a cinch,” the leader then went on, “that they aren’t letting any cars into this road. For we haven’t seen an automobile since three o’clock. And it’s after six now.”