Picture Play Magazine (Mar-Aug 1916)

Pickles and Pearls 285 stack, the Motorists' Retreat, which the sign informed him was the name by which the inn was called, summoned him most naturally. Why not walk into the Retreat, he asked himself, order a meal in a lordly, high-handed manner, and then — suffer the consequences ? The consequences could not pain him nearly so much as the terrible famine with which he was afflicted. To think, with Charlie, was to act. Brushing the straw from his clothes, and adjusting his apparel with a few deft touches, he pulled his hat down firmly and entered the inn. He was met by a stout gentleman — not so stout as Capitola Rawlins-Jorkins, but taller. This gentleman was apt to figure in the consequences, and, for a second, Charlie's heart fluttered. But the die was cast, and he must proceed. "My machine was punctured a mile down the road," Charlie explained, "and while my chauffeur is repairing it, I have come hither to partake of breakfast." The stout gentleman was surveying Charlie hungrily, and in a manner hard to understand. "Just a minute," said he, and waddled to a place behind the office desk and picked up a piece of paper. "I have a description here, and Wait a minute !" the landlord broke off. "On second thought," Charlie answered, "I believe I had better return to the machine and help the chauffeur. He was still in fear of Leeson. Perhaps his bargain with Pollock and Blake had not proven satisfactory to the Lawton garage man. Again, it might be that Harold de Yere had involved him somehow in the abduction of Miss McTodd. If his description had been telephoned into the country surrounding Boggsville, certainly it must have been for a purpose. What that purpose was, Charlie did not care to stay and inquire. Before he could reach the door, a man who looked enough like the proprietor of the inn to be his twin brother, stepped into the office — and Charlie's retreat was cut off. "Is your name Charlie!" demanded the man behind the desk, reading from a paper. Denial was useless. Realizing that he was trapped, Charlie answered "Yes." "Used to be night watchman in the McTodd "Pickle Works, didn't you?" "I am the man you want. Before you go to extremes, however, give me something to eat. Sir, I am famished !" "What's the row, Tom?" inquired the stout man near the office door. "No row, Jerry," answered the man at the counter. "Remember that telephone message we got last night?" "The one from police headquarters in Boggsville, with a description?" "Uh-huh. Here's the man." "No !" wheezed Jerry, tossing his arms and beaming at Charlie. "Well, well !" He advanced upon the bewildered young man with extended hand. "Sir Charles, you do this humble inn great honor," he went on fulsomely. "We — my brother and I — are proud, happy, and glad to have you beneath this roof. We are the Tanglefoot brothers. I am Jerry. Shake hands with Tom. I own the hotel and Tom runs it." Jerry picked a straw from Charlie's coat collar like a bosom friend. "While you are in this hotel. Sir Charles, the whole place is yours." "You have but to command, your lordship," said Tom, caressing Charlie's hand, "and your every order will be obeyed. Jerry," he added, in an aside to his brother, "just put 'God Save the King' on the phonograph." By that time Charlie had made up his mind that it was a private asylum, and he thought it well to humor Jerry