Bikey the Skicycle and Other Tales of Jimmieboy. Bangs John Kendrick

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СКАЧАТЬ style="font-size:15px;">      "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.

      IV

       THE TYRED INN

      The entrance to the Tyred Inn and the parlors and rooms of that extraordinary place were quite like those of any other roadside hotel, but the method of conducting it and the singular things that were to be found in it made Jimmieboy's brief stay there an experience long to be remembered. The bicycle idea was carried out in everything. If you wanted a bell boy you had to ring a bicycle bell. In place of an elevator or staircase they had a spiral pathway running up from the centre of the hall to the roof, upon which guests could either walk or ride, an electric bicycle built for two being provided for those who did not care to walk up, the elevator boy sitting on the front seat and managing the apparatus.

      From the parlor there came the most beautiful strains of music, as from a fine brass and string orchestra, all of which was managed by the merest bit of a midget sitting astride of a safety and working the pedals, which in turn worked the great musical instrument that occupied the whole of the lower end of the room. Upon the walls were all sorts of curious pictures, and for a decoration of the ceiling there were automatic frescoes presenting a constantly moving bicycle scene. For instance, instead of a series of groups of rosebuds and cupids, there were about a hundred little plaster wheelmen racing about the edge of the ceiling, and every once in a while one of these would take a header, flying immediately back to his saddle again, however, and continuing on his way until the clockwork by which the frescoes were run forced him to take the header all over again. On and around they raced incessantly, and so varied were the things that they did that it did not seem to Jimmieboy as if he could remember half of them in case he should ever want to tell his father or his brothers about it afterward.

      "That's a fine ceiling, isn't it?" asked the landlord, with a grin, as Jimmieboy gazed overhead, his mouth wide open in wonderment.

      "I should say so," replied the boy, delightedly. "I wish I could have a ceiling like that in my room."

      "Nonsense," said Bikey. "You'd soon get tired of it. It wouldn't take long for a ceiling like that to drive a man crazy."

      "That's so," put in the landlord. "But there are lots of things that would drive a man crazy that wouldn't drive a boy crazy – like trumpets and whistles. When it comes to things like that, boys are much stronger than men. I've known a boy of five to stand banging on a drum for seven hours, when his father couldn't stand it for seven minutes. Nobody need go crazy over my bicycle ceiling though," continued the landlord. "I just press a button and it's all over – see?"

      As the little man spoke he pressed a button on the side wall, and instantly the fresco bicycles stopped moving, the little plaster wheelmen jumped off and threw themselves down upon the soft grassy borders of the painted roadside and all was still. Then the landlord pressed another button and they jumped up, mounted again and the race began once more.

      "That's my own invention," said the landlord, "and it's a very popular feature of my house. It brings children here. When the mothers of this neighborhood want to go off wheeling, and there's nobody to look after the children, they bring them here and leave them with me, and they're as good as pie as long as that ceiling goes. That's another of my ways of making money. I charge fifty cents an hour for letting the youngsters in here, and it's a very poor sort of a day that I don't clear $40 on my kid account."

      "I should think so," said Jimmieboy in a superior sort of way. "I think that if I were a child I should like to spend a day here myself."

      The landlord looked at Jimmieboy with an amused expression.

      "Say, Mr. Bike," he whispered to Bikey. "What does he think he is, a telegraph pole? He said if he was a child. Isn't he a child?"

      "Yes," laughed Bikey, "but he is a little old for his age, you know. Had lots of experience."

      "Ha – I see," said the landlord. Then he turned to Jimmieboy again and said: —

      "Now, Mr. Man, if you'll accompany me up stairs I'll show you my pantry."

      "Good," said Jimmieboy. "I must say I'm pretty hungry, and a pantry is just the sort of thing I'd like to see."

      Mounting the "bikevator," as the printed sign over it called the arrangement that took guests to the upper floors, the party was soon transferred to the landing above. The landlord, after assisting Jimmieboy to dismount, walked to the end of a long corridor and, taking a bunch of keys from his pocket, unlocked and opened a little door.

      "Come in," he said, as he disappeared through the door. "I have to keep the pantry locked."

      Jimmieboy and Bikey entered as they were bid, and the landlord closed the door after them. The place was dimly lighted, but on the shelves, that rose one above another from floor to ceiling, all sorts of curious looking bottles and cakes and pies and biscuits could be seen, and Jimmieboy's mouth watered at the sight.

      "What'll you have?" asked the landlord. "An air cake or a piece of fresh pneumatic mince pie?"

      "A little of both," said Jimmieboy.

      "Or a bite of my gutta percha gum?" suggested the landlord.

      "Well, it's hard to say," said Jimmieboy. "Indeed, I don't know what an air cake or a pneumatic mince pie is, nor did I ever hear of gutta percha gum."

      "I know that mighty well," laughed the landlord. "Nobody ever heard of these patent dainties of mine, but they're the best things for the digestion you ever saw, and they last forever. If people could only train themselves to eat my food they'd be able to save money in two ways – bakers' bills and doctors' bills."

      "I don't quite understand," said Jimmieboy.

      "One of my pneumatic mince pies will show you in a jiffy," returned the landlord. "One pie if properly cared for will last a lifetime" —

      "Not with a real live boy in the house it won't," said Jimmieboy, positively.

      "That may be all very true," said the landlord, "but if the real live boy ate one of those pies he would cease to be a real live boy. You see this pie is made of rubber, and all you've got to do is to blow it up with an air pump and serve it."

      "But you called it mince pie," said Jimmieboy, very much disgusted.

      "Well, it's my pie," said the landlord. "I guess I've got a right to call it what I please."

      "But you said it saved doctors' bills," put in Bikey, who was no better pleased with this absurd invention than was Jimmieboy.

      "And I said right," said the landlord, with a self-satisfied smile. "It's just this way: – If you eat mince pie it gives you indigestion and you have to send for the doctor, and then you get a bill for several dollars. Now, with my pie it's different. You can't eat it, and therefore you can't get indigestion, and you don't СКАЧАТЬ