Young Dill, who was smart enough in his way, saw that some joke was going to be had at his expense if he did not look out. The loungers leaned forward expectantly. Hank looked triumphant. At last he thought he had the “Dutchman” up a tree.
“You vant to know vot kindt of meat makes idt pest bolognas?” he asked innocently.
“That’s what I said, Dutch,” grinned Hank.
“You ought to know dot aber bedder dan me alretty,” said young Dill gravely.
“Is that so, old Sauerkraut? How’s that?”
“Pecos der pest bologna is made midt calf’s headt, undt you vos veel supplidt mid dot,” drawled out young Dill, and without waiting to hear the roar of laughter that went up at Hank’s expense, he wandered into the office and registered. His signature was a peculiar one. This is how it read on the register:
“Herr Heiny Pumpernick Dill,—Inventor At Large (and Small)—N. Y.”
After ascertaining what time dinner would be ready, Herr Dill went to his room and busied himself till the meal was served by tidying up as well as he could, and removing the effects of his immersion. In this he could not but admit that he was not very successful, and he resolved immediately after dinner to saunter out and see what he could find in the way of smart attire in the village.
“I vunder now if I couldt gedt idt some yellow gloves,” mused young Dill to himself as he carefully unpacked the model of the sausage machine and placed it on the floor.