HANK AND MILES MEET THEIR MATCH.
“Mr. Avery” and “Mr. Reynolds,” the names by which Hank Nevins and
Miles Sharkey had chosen respectively to be known, were seated on
the porch of the Hinkley House taking their ease with their feet
elevated so as to afford a good view of the soles of their boots to any
passers-by, when young Dill came down the street.
Having recovered from his first disappointment, the young German, who
came of a persevering race, determined to remain in Nestorville for a
time at any rate and try to see the Boy Inventors again, regarding the
Convertible Sausage Machine, at a more auspicious time. He had a small
sum of money saved up, quite sufficient for his needs, and he resolved
to buy some new clothes at the first opportunity and then make a more
imposing descent upon High Towers.
As he rightly argued, his appearance that morning had not been
calculated to inspire confidence.
“Der great inventors, aber Eddy’s son, aber Macaroni, der inventor of
der hairless telegraph, nefer fall py a pond midt a nigger,” he mused.
“Maype dose poys dink I am a faker. Aber I don’d plame dem. I gedt idt
me a new oudfit of clothes undt den call aroundt again. ‘No trouble to
show goodts’ as de used to say idt ven I vos in pisiness.”
This train of thought brought him as far as the Hinkley House where our
Teutonic friend bethought him that after his strenuous exertions of the
morning some dinner would be the proper thing.
“Dis looks idt like a goodt quiedt hotel, aindt idt?” he said to
himself. “I makes idt a pest (guest) of meinself here, py chiminy.”
By some mischievous chance the odd figure of Mr. Dill, rendered doubly
striking since his immersion, caught the eye of Hank Nevins,--alias
Mr. Avery,--as he sat discussing, with his chum Miles, the best means
of carrying out their designs against Ned Nevins and his Electric
Monarch.
There was nothing that Hank liked better than to tease some one who
looked as if he might prove an unresisting victim, and here was one
ready to his hand, at least so he judged.
“Hello, Dutchy,” he remarked amiably, “been taking a bath with your
clothes on?”
Young Dill faced round on him and looked him over from top to toe.
“Aber I dink idt a bath do you no harm, mein freindt, aindt idt,” he
remarked blandly, “midt or midoudt clothes on.”
This was not exactly what Hank had expected, and a subdued chuckle from
some hangers on about the hotel porch did not increase his good humor.
“It’s a good thing we didn’t cross on the same boat,” observed Hank.
“If I’d seen you I’d never have landed.”
“So----” observed young Dill amiably, “veel dere vos no chance of your
seeing me alretty.”
Hank winked at the loungers in order to show them that he was now
prepared to have some fun with the queer-looking German youth.
“Is that so? How was that, Dutchy?” he asked with a grin.
“Pecos I come on a _passenger_ boat,” rejoined young Dill with all the
equanimity in the world.
A look of intense discomfiture spread over Hank’s face.
“The Dutchman’s too much for him,” he heard some one whisper. As might
be expected this remark did not tend to smooth over Hank’s feelings
toward the simple-looking young German. Instead he determined to launch
some shaft of wit at him that would squash him flatter than a pancake.
But so far all his attempts had proved boomerangs.
“I suppose you know all about sausages?” he asked.
Young Dill’s eyes glittered. Here was a subject in which he was deeply
interested.
“Oh ches!” he burst out eagerly, “sissages und----”
“Never mind that, Sauerkraut,” sneered Hank. “What kind of meat makes
the best bologna?”
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.
“An inventor midt yellow gloves,--undt a redt necktie vould be some
class as an inventor. Aber he vould be as stylish as Macaroni oder
Eddy’s son.”
He fussed over his invention for a while to pass away the time till the
dinner bell rang out its summons. It was an odd-looking contrivance.
From a cylindrical steel box projected several hooked steel arms
manipulated with springs in a way which no one but the inventor could
by any possibility have mastered.
While young Dill was working on one of these arms, there came a sudden
sharp snap and he jerked his arm quickly out of the way and upwards.
“Himmel!” he exclaimed, “dot machine makes idt a preddy goodt trap
alretty. Dot lefer nearly caught it mein fingers. Maype if I can’t
sell idt as a sissage machine, I make idt a purglar trap oudt of idt
alretty--Hi-lee! dere goes der dinner bell! Dinner! I am coming on der
ger-jump!”