CHAPTER XII.
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!”