Sputtering in mock indignation, Stiles slaps a hand down on the front desk. This sends all the papers there flying in every direction.

"That's seventeen to you, pal." Stiles that doesn't even make sense. "Now if you'll excuse us..."

The clerk, underpaid and long-suffering, has stooped down to start collecting the papers. Stiles glances at Arthur, chews on his lip, and then belly flops on the desk to begin quietly rifling through the drawers. The clerk's back is turned, at least.