hands. He was still flat on his back. He looked as if he were doing
some sort of health exercise. In a minute the hands fell to the
ground.
"I guess you'd better set up," said Philo Gubb. "You ain't goin' to be
able to hold up your hands if you lay down that way."
As he helped Wixy to a sitting position, he kept his pistol against
the fellow's head.
"Now, then," said Philo Gubb, when he had arranged his captive to suit
his taste, "what you got to say?"
"I got to say I never done what you think I done, whatever it is,"
said Wixy. "I don't know what it is, but I never done it. Some other
feller done it."
"That don't bother me none," said Philo Gubb. "If you didn't do it, I
don't know who did. Just about the best thing you can do is to
account for the chicken and pay my expenses of getting you, and the
quicker you do it the better off you'll be."
Pale as Wixy was, he turned still paler when Philo Gubb mentioned the
chicken.
"I never killed the Chicken!" he almost shouted. "I never did it!"
"I don't care whether you killed the chicken or not," said Philo Gubb
calmly. "The chicken is gone, and I reckon that's the end of the
chicken. But Mrs. Smith has got to be paid."
"Did she send you?" asked Wixy, trembling. "Did Mother Smith put you
onto me?"
"She did so," said the Correspondence School detective. "And you can
pay up or go to jail. How'd you like that?"
Wixy studied the tall detective.
"Look here," he said. "S'pose I give you fifty and we call it square."
He meant fifty dollars.
"Maybe that would satisfy Mrs. Smith," said Philo Gubb, thinking of
fifty cents, "but it don't satisfy me. My time's valuable and it's got
to be paid for. Ten times fifty ain't a bit too much, and if it had
took longer to catch you I'd have asked more. If you want to give that
much, all right. And if you don't, all right too."
Wixy studied the face of Philo Gubb carefully. There was no sign of
mercy in the bird-like face of the paper-hanger detective. Indeed, his
face was severe. It was relentless in its sternness. Five dollars was
little enough to ask for two nights of first-class Correspondence
School detective work. Rather than take less he would lead the chicken
thief to jail. And Wixy, with his third, and half of the Chicken's
third, of the proceeds of the criminal job that had led to the death
of the Chicken, knowing the relentlessness of Mother Smith, that
female Fagin of Chicago, considered that he would be doing well to
purchase his freedom for five hundred dollars.
"All right, pal," he said suddenly. "You're on. It's a bet. Here you
are."
He slipped his hand into his pocket and drew out a great roll of
money. With the muzzle of Philo Gubb's pistol hovering just out of
reach before him, he counted out five crisp one hundred dollar bills.
He held them out with a sickly grin. Philo Gubb took them and looked
at them, puzzled.
"What's this for?" he asked, and Wixy suddenly blazed forth in anger.
"Now, don't come any of that!" he cried. "A bargain is a bargain.
Don't you come a-pretendin' you didn't say you'd take five hundred,
and try to get more out of me! I won't give you no more--I won't! You
can jug me, if you want to. You can't prove nothin' on me, and you
know it. Have you found the body of the Chicken? Well, you got to have
the corpus what-you-call-it, ain't you? Huh? Ain't five hundred
enough? I bet the Chicken never cost Mother Smith more than a hundred
and fifty--"
"I was only thinkin'--" began Philo Gubb.
"Don't think, then," said Wixy.
"Five hundred dollars seemed too--" Philo began again.
"It's all you'll get, if I hang for it," said Wixy firmly. "You can
give Mother Smith what you want, and keep what you want. That's all
you'll get."
Philo Gubb could not understand it. He tried to, but he could not
understand it at all. And then suddenly a great light dawned in his
brain. There was something this chicken thief knew that he and Mrs.
Smith did not know. The stolen chicken must have been of some rare and
much-sought strain. So it was all right. The thief was paying what the
chicken was worth, and not what Mrs. Smith thought it was worth in her
ignorance. He slipped the money into his pocket.
"All right," he said. "I'm satisfied if you are. The chicken was a
fancy bird, ain't it so?"
"The Chicken was a tough old rooster, that's what he was," said Wixy,
staggering to his feet.
"I thought he was a hen," said Philo Gubb. "Mrs. Smith said he was a
hen."
Wixy laughed a sickly laugh.
"That ain't much of a joke. That's why everybody called him Chicken,
because his first name was Hen."
Philo Gubb's mouth fell open. He was convinced now that he had to do
with an insane man. Wixy moved toward the open drying-floor.
"Well, so 'long, pard," he said to Philo Gubb. "Give my regards to
Mother Smith. And say," he added, "if you see Sal, don't let her know
what happened to the Chicken. Don't say anybody made away with the
Chicken, see? Tell Sal the Chicken flew the coop himself, see?"
"Who is Sal?" asked Philo Gubb.
"You ask Mother Smith," said Wixy. "She'll tell you." And he went out
into the dark. Philo Gubb heard him shuffle across the drying-floor,
and when the sound had died away in the distance he put up his
revolver.
"Five hundred dollars!" he said, and he routed Mrs. Smith out of bed.
He did not tell her the amount of reward he had made the chicken thief
pay. He asked her what the most expensive chicken in the world might
be worth, and she reluctantly accepted ten dollars as being far too
much. Then he asked her who Sal was.
"Sal?" queried Mrs. Smith.
"The chicken thief declared the statement that you would know," said
Mr. Gubb. "He said to tell her--"
"Well, Mr. Gubb," said Mrs. Smith tartly, "I don't know any Sal, and
if I did I wouldn't carry messages to her for a chicken thief, and it
is past midnight, and the draught on my bare feet is giving me my
death of cold, and if you think this is a pink tea for me to stand
around and hold fool conversation at, I don't!"
And she slammed the door.
THE DRAGON'S EYE
It was with great pleasure that Mr. Gubb carried four hundred and
ninety dollars to Mr. Medderbrook, and his intended father-in-law
received him quite graciously.
"This is more like it, Gubb," he said. "Keep the money coming right
along and you'll find I'm a good friend and a faithful one."
"I aim so to do to the best of my ability," said Mr. Gubb, delighted
to find Mr. Medderbrook in a good humor. "I hope to get the eleven
thousand two hundred and sixty dollars I owe you paid up--"
"Where do you get that?" asked Mr. Medderbrook. "You owe me twelve
thousand dollars, Gubb."
"It was eleven thousand seven hundred and fifty," said Mr. Gubb, "and
this here payment of four hundred and ninety--"
"Ah!" said Mr. Medderbrook, "but the Utterly Hopeless Gold-Mine has
declared a dividend--"
"But," ventured Mr. Gubb timidly, "I thought dividends was money that
came to the owner of the stock."
"Often so," said Mr. Medderbrook. "I may say, not infrequently so. But
in this case it was a compound ten per cent reversible dividend,
cumulative and retroactive, payable to prior owners of the stock, on
account of the second mortgage debenture lien. In such a case," he
explained, "unless the priority is waived by the party of the first
part, you have to pay it to me."
"Oh!" said Mr. Gubb.
"Luckily," said Mr. Medderbrook, "I was able to prevail upon the
registrar of the company to make the dividend only ten cumulative per
cents instead of eleven retroactive geometrical per cents, or you
would now owe me thirteen thousand dollars."
"Well, I'm sure I'm much obliged to you," said Mr. Gubb with sincere
gratitude. "I appreciate your kindness of good-will most greatly."
He stood for a minute or two uneasily, while Mr. Medderbrook frowned
like a great financier burdened with cares.
"I don't suppose," said Mr. Gubb, when he had screwed up his courage,
"you have had no telegraphic communications from Miss Syrilla?"
"Why, yes, I have," said Mr. Medderbrook, taking a telegram from his
pocket, "and it will only cost you one dollar to read it. I paid two
dollars."
Mr. Gubb was very glad to pay the small sum and he eagerly devoured
the telegram, which read:--
Oh be joyful! Have given up all meat diet. Have given up
beef, pork, lamb, mutton, veal, chicken, pigs' feet, bacon,
hash, corned beef, venison, bear steak, frogs' legs,
opossum, and fried snails. Weigh only nine hundred and forty
pounds. Affectionate thoughts to little Gubby.
"I wish," said Mr. Gubb wistfully, when he had read the message, "that
Miss Syrilla could be here present this week in Riverbank whilst the
Carnival is going on."
"She would draw a big crowd at twenty-five cents admission," said Mr.
Medderbrook.
"I was thinking how pleasantly nice it would be for her to enjoy the
festivities of the occasion," said Mr. Gubb, but this was not quite
true. What he wished was that she could be present to see him in the
handsome disguise he had obtained for his work as Official Detective
of the Carnival, and which he was now about to don.
This, the second day of the Third Riverbank Carnival, opened with a
sun hot enough to frizzle bacon, and the ladies in charge of the
lemonade, ice-cream and ice-cream cone booths were pleased, while the
committee from Riverbank Lodge P.& G. M., No. 788, selling broiled
frankfurters (known as "hot dogs"), groaned. It was no day for hot
food. But it was grand Carnival weather.
The grounds opened at one-thirty and the amateur circus began at
two-thirty, but Philo Gubb, the detective, was on the grounds in full
regalia by ten o'clock in the morning. Through some awful error on the
part of the Chicago costumer, Philo Gubb's regalia had not arrived in
time for the first day of the Carnival, so he had absented himself
rather than let the crooks and thieves who were supposed to swarm the
grounds have an opportunity to become acquainted with his appearance
and thus be put on their guard against the famous Correspondence
School detective.
When the Committee on Organization of the Third Carnival and Circus
for the benefit of the Riverbank Free Hospital held its first public
mass meeting in Willcox Hall, Philo Gubb had been there. Like all the
rest of Riverbank, he was willing to assist the good cause in any way
he could, and he had meant to donate his services as official
paper-hanger, but a grander opportunity offered. Mr. Beech, the
Chairman of the Committee on Peanuts and Police Protection, offered
Mr. Gubb the position of Official Detective. Mr. Gubb accepted
eagerly.
During the weeks of preparation for the Carnival, a thousand plans for
getting the better of pickpockets and other crooks passed through
Philo Gubb's mind. He finally decided to disguise himself as Ali Baba.
He had a slight recollection that Ali Baba had something to do with
forty thieves. It seemed an appropriate _alias_.
His disguise he ordered from the Supply Department of the Rising Sun
Detective Agency, where he bought all his disguises. It consisted of a
tall conical cap spangled with stars, a sort of red Mother-Hubbard
gown bespattered with black crescents, a small metal tube, and a wand.
With the metal tube came several hundred sheets of apparently blank
paper, but, when these were rolled into cylinders and inserted in the
metal tube for half a minute, characters appeared on the sheets. A
child could work the magic tube, and so could Philo Gubb.
It was not until the second day that Mr. Beech thought of Mr. Gubb at
all. Then Mrs. Phillipetti, daughter-in-law of General Phillipetti,
who was Ambassador to Siberia in 1867, asked for Mr. Gubb. Mrs.
Phillipetti was in charge of the Hot Waffles Booth, No. 13, aided by
seventeen ladies of the highest society Riverbank could boast, and
they served hot waffles with their own fair hands to all who chose to
buy. The cooking of the waffles, being a warm task in late June, had
been turned over to three colored women, hired for the occasion, and
to complete the "ongsomble" and make things perfectly "apropos"--two
of Mrs. Phillipetti's favorite words--the three colored women had been
dressed as Turkish slaves, while Mrs. Phillipetti and her aides
dressed as Beauties of the Harem.
To judge by Mrs. Phillipetti's costume, the Beauties of the Harem were
expensive to clothe. She had more silk, gold lace, and tinsel strung
upon her ample form than would set a theatrical costumer up in
business, but the star feature of her costume was her turban. It was a
gorgeous creation, and would have been a comfortable piece of headgear
in midwinter, although slightly heating for a hot June day, but it
came near being the talk of the Carnival, for in the center of the
front, just above her forehead, Mrs. Phillipetti had pinned the
celebrated brooch containing the Dragon's Eye--the priceless ruby
given to old General Phillipetti by the Dugosh of Zind after the old
diplomat had saved the worthless life of the old reprobate by
appealing to the Vice-Regent of Siberia in his behalf.
The Dragon's Eye was about the size of a lemon and weighed nearly as
much as a pound of creamery butter, so it required considerable turban
to make it "apropos" and complete its "ongsomble." Pinned on her
shelf-like chest, Mrs. Phillipetti wore a small mirror somewhat
smaller than a tea saucer. By tipping the outer edge of the mirror
upward and glancing down into it, Mrs. Phillipetti had a good view of
the entire facade of her turban, reflected in the mirror, and she was
thus able to keep an eye on the Dragon's Eye.
"Oh, Mr. Beech!" cried Mrs. Phillipetti, stopping him as he was
bustling past her booth, "_do_ you know where Mr. Gubb is?"
"Gubb? Gubb?" said Mr. Beech. "Oh! that paper-hanger-detective fellow?
No, I don't know where he is. Why?"
"It's gone! The Dragon's Eye is gone!" moaned Mrs. Phillipetti.
Mr. Beech, although greatly concerned, tried to maintain his
composure. Mrs. Phillipetti explained that she had removed her turban
and placed it under a chair at the back of the booth. A little later
she had noticed that the turban, with the priceless Dragon's Eye, was
gone.
"Now, this--now--was not wholly unexpected," Beech said. "It's
a--now--unfortunate thing, but it's the sort of thing that happens.
Now, Mrs. Phillipetti, just let me beg you not to say anything about
it to anybody, and I'll have Detective Gubb get right on the case. The
matter is in my hands. Rest easy! We will attend to it."
"I--I hate to lose the Dragon's Eye," said Mrs. Phillipetti, wiping
her eyes, "but the worst is to have my turban stolen. Mr. Beech, I
will give one hundred dollars to whoever returns the Dragon's Eye to
me. The 'ongsomble' of my costume is ruined. I haven't anything else
'apropos' to wear on my head."
"You look fine just as you are," said Mr. Beech. "But if you want
something to wear, you can get a Turkish hat at the Paper Hat Booth
for twenty-five cents."
"Thank you!" said Mrs. Phillipetti scornfully. "I don't wear
twenty-five-cent hats!"
Within twenty minutes the Boy Scouts, who were acting as Aides to the
Executive Committee, had tacked in ten prominent places ten hastily
daubed placards that read:--
Philo Gubb, please report at Executive Booth.
Beech, Chmn. Police Committee.
And the members of the Board of Managers had, singly and by roundabout
routes, approached the scene of the theft and had studied it.
[Illustration: "THE 'ONGSOMBLE' OF MY COSTUME IS RUINED"]
To the left of Mrs. Phillipetti's booth was the Ethiopian Dip. Here,
some thirty feet back from a counter and shielded by a net, a negro
sat on an elevated perch just over a canvas tub full of water. In
front of the net was a small target, and if a patron of the game hit
the target with a baseball, the negro suddenly and unexpectedly
dropped into the tub of water. The price was three throws for five
cents.
As Riverbank had some remarkably clever baseball throwers, the
Ethiopian was dipped quite frequently. As the water was cold and such
a bath an unusual luxury for the Riverbank Ethiopians, no one
Ethiopian cared to be dipped very often in succession. Therefore the
Committee of Seven of the Exempt Firemen's Association, which had the
Dip in charge, had arranged for a quick change of Ethiopians, and
while one sat on the perch to be dipped, three others lolled in
bathing costumes just back of Mrs. Phillipetti's booth.
Mr. Beech questioned the colored men quietly.
"Turbine?" said one of them. "We ain't seen no turbine. We ain't seen
nuffin'. We ain't done nuffin' but sit here an' play craps."
"But you were here?" said Mr. Beech.
"Yes, we was heah," said the blackest negro. "We was right heah all de
time. Dey ain't been no turbine took from nowhar whilst we was heah,
neither. Ain't been nobody back heah but us, an' we's been heah all de
time."
"Well, perhaps you can tell how this board got pried loose, if you
were here all the time," said Mr. Beech.
"It wa'n't pried loose," said the yellow negro. "Hit got kicked loose
f'om de hinside. I know dat much, annerways. I seen dat oc-cur. I seen
dat board bulge out an' bulge out an' bulge out twell hit bust out.
An' dey hain't no turbine come out, nuther. No, sah!"
Mr. Beech went away. The detective business was not his business. He
specialized in coal and not in crime. But in going he passed by Mrs.
Phillipetti's booth and spoke to her.
"It will be all right," he said reassuringly. "We are on the track."
"Oh, thank you!" said Mrs. Phillipetti, who had completed the
"apropriety" of her "ongsomble" by wrapping a green silk handkerchief
about her head.
"I hope to return the turban and the jewel sometime to-morrow," said
Mr. Beech, bluffing bravely.
But Philo Gubb did not heed the notices posted to call him to the
Executive Booth. The evening passed and he did not appear, and Mr.
Beech, on his way home, stopped at the police station. It was after
midnight, but Chief of Police Wittaker was still on duty. He never
slept during the Carnival.
Mr. Beech explained the loss of the turban and the Dragon's Eye, and
early the next morning the Chief himself took up the hunt. By three
o'clock in the afternoon he had discovered several things. He
discovered that the yellow man who had claimed to see the board pushed
out from the inside was the husband of one of the waffle cooks in Mrs.
Phillipetti's booth. He learned that the yellow man had been in jail.
He learned that for a few minutes the yellow negro had been alone
behind the waffle booth. The Chief thereupon arrested the yellow
negro.
As he led the negro from the grounds by the back way, in order to
cause as little commotion as possible, he brushed by a strange
creature dressed as a wizard, who was standing by the rear entrance,
droning: "Tell your fortune, ten cents! Tell your fortune, ten cents!"
The wizard was tall and thin and wore a long white beard, a sort of
Mother-Hubbard gown, and a pointed cap. As the Chief passed with his
prisoner the wizard turned his eyes on the two, and then droned on. It
was Philo Gubb, the paper-hanger detective, on the job!
Philo Gubb, having received his costume, had come to the Carnival
grounds the back way. He had wandered about the grounds, peeking and
peering, seeking malefactors unsuccessfully. He felt the whole weight
of the Carnival on his shoulders. When he suspected a youth he
followed him at a safe distance, stopping when he stopped, going on
when he went on. He was so intent on trailing and shadowing that he
did not even notice the placards calling him to the Executive Booth.
Every few minutes he had to stop and tell a fortune with the magic
tube. So far he had collected two dollars and sixty cents.
The Chief, with his prisoner walking quietly by his side,--to avoid
unpleasant commotion in an otherwise orderly crowd,--had just passed
the wizard when he heard voices that made him look back.
"There he is!" said one voice. "Kick him off the grounds!"
"Here, you!" said another voice. "You've got to get out of here. And
you've got to give up the money you've taken. Quick now. We don't
allow any professionals on these grounds."
The voices were those of Henry P. Cross, Officer of the Day for this
day of the Carnival, and Sam Green, Jr., Vice-Chairman of Police, and
they were speaking to the wizard.
"Sh!" said the wizard, in a mysterious voice. "It's all right! Don't
make a fuss. It's all right!"
"Let me kick him off the grounds!" said Mr. Cross. "All I want is a
chance to kick him off the grounds. The cheap professional fakir,
sneaking in to get money that ought to go to the Hospital! Let me
kick--"
"Now, wait!" said Mr. Green irritably. "We want to make him disgorge
first, don't we? Just keep your head on, Cross. Let me handle this."
"It's all right! Don't make a fuss," whispered the wizard. "I belong
here."
"You belong nowhere!" shouted Mr. Cross. "You belong here, indeed!
Why, you couldn't tell that to a baby! I guess not! Telling fortunes
and putting the cash in your pocket. Don't the Ladies' Aid of the
Second Baptist Church have the exclusive fortune-telling privilege?
Didn't they put us onto you?"
The Chief turned back.
"What's up?" he asked.
"Professional," said Mr. Green. "Some Chicago grafter trying to make
money out of our show."
"I'm all right, I tell you," said Philo Gubb earnestly. "I'm no crook.
You see Beech. Ask Beech. Have Beech come here."
Mr. Cross looked at Mr. Green.
"You mean you fixed it with Beech so you could tell fortunes here?"
asked Mr. Cross.
"Yes, that's what I mean," said Philo Gubb. "You get Beech."
"Get Beech," said Mr. Green. "Beech will throw him out."
"I'll watch him," said the Chief. "If he tries to move I'll club him."
Mr. Cross and Mr. Green hurried away, and the Chief dangled his club
meaningly. The yellow man, who had been standing awaiting the end of
the controversy, seated himself on the grass and leaned his back
against a tree. Philo Gubb, as evidence that he did not mean to run,
also seated himself, and leaned back against the same tree. The Chief
stood a short distance away, his eyes keenly on them.
"How about it, Chicago man?" asked the yellow man in a low tone,
bending down to pick a blade of grass. "Kin you he'p a feller out?"
"How?" asked Philo Gubb.
"I got in trouble," said the yellow man. "I'm gwine git hit in de neck
ef some one don't he'p me mighty quick. Ef I hand you somethin' is you
gwine take it?"
"Sure," said Philo Gubb.
"Grab it!" whispered the yellow man, and his hand slid the Dragon's
Eye into the hand of Philo Gubb.
The Chief moved nearer.
"I guess dey let me go whin dey git me to de calaboose," said the
yellow man in a louder voice. "Kaze I ain' done nuffin' nohow."
"They'll let you go when we get that ruby," said the Chief meaningly;
"and if we can prove it on you, you go to the pen'."
Mr. Cross and Mr. Green returned with Mr. Beech.
"There he is," said Mr. Cross, pointing to the wizard Gubb.
"Never saw him in my life!" said Mr. Beech. "Now, then, what is this
now? What's this story you--"
The paper-hanger detective arose and leaned close to Mr. Beech's ear.
He whispered three words and Mr. Beech's attitude changed entirely.
"Oh!" he said. "I wondered where--now--all right! It's all right!
It's all right, Cross. All right, Green. All right, Chief!" Then he
turned to Gubb. "We've been wanting you, detective. Put up placards
for you. Now, listen! Mrs. Phillipetti had a turban stolen from her
booth, and that infernal ton and a half or so of ruby was in it. The
Dragon's Eye, she calls it. Well, that turban was stolen--"
"I am quite well acquainted with that fact," said Philo Gubb.
"Well, why don't you hunt for it, then?" asked Mr. Beech crossly. "I
thought you were going to be of some use. Fooling around here with
your silly ten-cent fortune-telling, having the time of your life
while all of us are worrying about that Dragon's Eye. Why don't you
hunt for it?"
"It ain't hardly necessary to engage in deteckative exertions at the
present moment on account of that ruby," said Philo Gubb slowly,
"because when I want it, all I got to do is to consult the magic
deteckative tube."
"You're crazy!" said Mr. Beech. "You're crazy as a loon!"
"The usual price for consulting the oracle is ten cents," said Philo
Gubb, "but I'll make a special exception out of this time."
He put the end of the magic tube to his ear and listened.
"The genyi of the tube says I've got the Dragon's Eye into my pocket,
and if you ask this yellow negro black-man he'll tell you where the
turban is at."
"Honest!" exclaimed Mr. Beech. "Gubb, you're a wonder!"