The Mystery Megapack

himself away to receive the two incoming guests from Chicago.
    Casting a further disapproving glance over the lobby, The Early Bird waited for Mr. Clackworthy to register. The lobby was shabbily and indifferently furnished with cane-bottomed chairs, numerous cuspidors, and a long, battered table for traveling salesmen to write their letters, at present given over to the checker game. The hotel desk itself was a counter, the top of which was covered with carpeting; at the end of it stood a fly-speckled cigar case of very doubtful-looking smokes.
    “Two rooms with baths,” murmured Mr. Clackworthy mechanically as he affixed his name and that of James Early to the untidy register. It was the order that he always gave for accommodations.
    “Huh?” A surprised ejaculation came from the shirt-sleeved clerk, and he stared sharply, suspecting that he was being made the butt of banter.
    “Two rooms and baths, if you don’t mind.”
    “How’ll a shower do?” and the clerk snickered. “Josh Duncan’s rheumatism says rain, an’ the roof of No. 18 is some leaky.”
    “Ain’tcha got no bathtubs in this joint?” demanded The Early Bird indignantly.
    The clerk, perceiving that the request for baths had been quite serious, ceased grinning. He suddenly realized that Alschoola House was entertaining two guests accustomed to luxury and willing to pay for it.
    “Sorry, gentlemen,” he said, “but we ain’t got but one bath to the floor.”
    Mr. Clackworthy smiled philosophically, and even offered the clerk a cigar. Past experience had shown him that considerable information of value is often to be obtained from friendly knights of the hotel desk.
    “Do the best you can for us,” he said cheerfully. “We shall probably be here for some time.” At this prospect The Early Bird gave voice to a mournful groan and sank miserably into a chair.
    The clerk was now looking the pair over in a critically appraising survey, noting the faultless tailoring of Mr. Clackworthy’s one hundred-and-fifty-dollar suit, the neat cut of his Vandyke beard, the expansive opulence which exuded from his tall, impressive figure.
    “You ain’t—hum—sellin’ stock?” he ventured suspiciously.
    “No.”
    “It wouldn’t’ be none of my put-in, nohow; only, if you was, I was goin’ to tell you that the same train you come in on goes back in fifty minutes. This ain’t no town for stock salesmen. Flint Whitecotton don’t like nobody comin’ in here an’ packin’ away Alschoola money—and what Flint Whitecotton says in this man’s town, goes.”
    “Ah!” murmured Mr. Clackworthy, his eyes lighting with interest. “Quite the local nabob, Mr. Whitecotton.”
    “Yep! Owns half the town, an he’s got a mortgage on the other half.”
    “Tell me,” requested Mr. Clackworthy, “is he somewhat bald of head, with a hook-nose, and—”
    “That’s him, mister.”
    “I saw him as I passed the bank.”
    “Uh-huh; president of the bank. Owns the big store, flour mill, lumber yard, and—”
    “An’ the hotel, of course,” chimed in The Early Bird from his slouched position in the chair.
    “No, but I guess he will,” and the clerk sighed. “He’s got a mortgage on it. Like as not I’ll lose my job then; we don’t get along very well, Flint Whitecotton an’ me. That’s why I tipped you off in case you was sellin’ stock. Old Flint got the city council to pass an ordinance taxin’ every stock salesman a hundred dollars.” He frowned, frankly puzzled; swiftly, he began checking over the list of possible businesses that might have brought the prosperous-looking gentlemen to Alschoola. Not groceries, farm implements, washing machines, patent churns—and certainly they were not book agents.
    “I am an emissary of—progress,” said the master confidence man.
    The clerk blinked solemnly for a moment, then pounded his fist down on the carpeted top of the desk.
    “You’re a capitalist!” he exclaimed.
    “Yes, I have been so accused.”
    “I ought to have guessed that right off, Mr.—” He gave a quick glance toward the register. “Mr. Clackworthy. I wonder now if you mebbe come to have a look at Whitecotton’s twenty-acre tract east of town?” His tired, dreamy-looking eyes were alight now, and his voice trembled with eagerness.
    Mr. Clackworthy shook his head and stated that such was not the case, but adding that he might be interested if the Whitecotton tract showed any opportunity of profit.
    “It does!” the