<h2><SPAN name="THE_EAGLES_CLAWS" id="THE_EAGLES_CLAWS"></SPAN>THE EAGLE’S CLAWS</h2>
<p>As Philo Gubb boarded the train for Riverbank after recovering the
silver loving-cup from the interior of the petrified man, he cast a
regretful glance backward. It was for Syrilla. There was half a ton of
her pinky-white beauty, and her placid, cow-like expression touched an
echoing chord in Philo Gubb’s heart.</p>
<p>Philo felt, however, that his admiration must be hopeless, for Syrilla
must earn a salary in keeping with her size, and his income was too
irregular and small to keep even a thin wife.</p>
<hr class="medium" />
<p>Five hundred dollars was a large reward for a loving-cup that cost not
over thirty dollars, it is true, but Mr. Jonas Medderbrook could
afford to pay what he chose, and as he was passionately fond of golf
and passionately poor at the game, and as this was probably the only
golf prize he would ever win, he was justified in paying liberally,
especially as this cup was not merely a tankard, but almost large
enough to be called a tank.</p>
<p>Detective Gubb hastened to the home of Mr. Medderbrook, but when the
door of that palatial house opened, the colored butler told Mr. Gubb
that Mr. Medderbrook was at the Golf Club, attending the annual
banquet of the Fifty Worst Duffers. <span class="pagenum"><SPAN name="Page_44" id="Page_44"></SPAN></span>Mr. Gubb started for the Golf
Club. As he walked he thought of Syrilla, and he was at the gate of
the Golf Club before he knew it.</p>
<p>He walked up the path toward the club-house, but when halfway, he
stopped short, all his detective instincts aroused. The windows of the
club-house glowed with light, and sounds of merriment issued from
them, but the cause of Philo Gubb’s sudden pause was a head
silhouetted against one of the glowing windows. As Mr. Gubb watched,
he saw the head disappear in the gloom below the window only to
reappear at another window. Mr. Gubb, following the directions as laid
down in Lesson Four of the Correspondence Lessons, dropped to his
hands and knees and crept silently toward the “Paul Pry.” When within
a few feet of him, Mr. Gubb seated himself tailor-fashion on the
grass.</p>
<p>As Philo sat on the damp grass, the man at the window turned his head,
and Mr. Gubb noted with surprise that the stranger had none of the
marks of a sodden criminal. The face was that of a respectably
benevolent old German-American gentleman. Kindliness and good-nature
beamed from its lines; but at the moment the plump little man seemed
in trouble.</p>
<p>“Good-evening,” said Mr. Gubb. “I presume you are taking an
observation of the dinner-party within the inside of the club.”</p>
<p>The old gentleman turned sharply.</p>
<p><SPAN name="Illo4" id="Illo4"></SPAN></p>
<div class="figcenter"> <ANTIMG src="images/i052.jpg" class="ispace" width-obs="500" height-obs="309" alt="A HEAD SILHOUETTED AGAINST ONE OF THE GLOWING WINDOWS" title="" /> <span class="caption">A HEAD SILHOUETTED AGAINST ONE OF THE GLOWING WINDOWS</span></div>
<p>“Shess!” he said. “I look at der peoples eading and drinking. Alvays I
like to see dot. Und sooch <span class="pagenum"><SPAN name="Page_45" id="Page_45"></SPAN></span>goot eaders!
Dot man mit der black beard, he vos a schplendid eader!”</p>
<p>Mr. Gubb raised himself to his knees and looked into the dining-room.</p>
<p>“That,” he said, “is the Honorable Mr. Jonas Medderbrook, the
wealthiest rich man in Riverbank.”</p>
<p>“Metterbrook? Mettercrook?” said the old German-American. “Not Chones,
eh?”</p>
<p>“Not Jones, to my present personal knowledge at this time,” said Philo
Gubb.</p>
<p>“Not Chones!” repeated the plumply benevolent-looking German-American.
“Dot vos stranche! You vos sure he vos not Chones?”</p>
<p>“I’m quite almost positive upon that point of knowledge,” said Philo
Gubb, “for I have under my arm a golf cup I am returning back to Mr.
Medderbrook to receive five hundred dollars reward from him for.”</p>
<p>“So?” queried the stranger. “Fife hunderdt dollars? Und it is his
cup?”</p>
<p>“It is,” said Philo Gubb. He raised the cup in his hand that the
stranger might read the inscription stating that the cup was Jonas
Medderbrook’s.</p>
<p>The light of the window made the engraving easy to read, but the old
German-American first drew from his pocket a pair of gold-rimmed
spectacles and adjusted them carefully on his nose. He then took the
cup and moved closer to the window and read the inscription.</p>
<p><span class="pagenum"><SPAN name="Page_46" id="Page_46"></SPAN></span></p>
<p>“Shess! Shess!” he agreed, nodding his head several times, and then he
smiled at Mr. Gubb a broadly benevolent smile. “Oxcoose me!” he added,
and with gentle deliberation he removed Mr. Gubb’s hat. “Shoost a
minute, please!” he continued, and with his free hand he felt gently
of the top of Mr. Gubb’s head. He turned Mr. Gubb’s head gently to the
right. “So!” he exclaimed: “Dot vos goot!” He raised the cup above his
head and brought it down on top of Mr. Gubb’s head in the exact spot
he had selected. For two moments Mr. Gubb made motions with his hands
resembling those of a swimmer, and then he collapsed in a heap. The
kindly looking old German-American gentleman, seeing he was quite
unconscious, tucked the golf cup under his own arm, and waddled slowly
down the path to the club gates.</p>
<p>Ten minutes later a small automobile drove up and young Dr. Anson
Briggs hopped out. Mr. Gubb was just getting to his feet, feeling the
top of his head with his hand as he did so.</p>
<p>“Here!” said Dr. Briggs. “You must not do that!”</p>
<p>“Why can’t I do it?” Mr. Gubb asked crossly. “It is my own personal
head, and if I wish to desire to rub it, you are not concerned in the
occasion whatever.”</p>
<p>“Oh, rub your head if you want to!” exclaimed the doctor. “I say you
must not stand up. A man that has just had a fit must not stand up.”</p>
<p><span class="pagenum"><SPAN name="Page_47" id="Page_47"></SPAN></span></p>
<p>“Who had a fit?” asked Philo Gubb.</p>
<p>“You did,” said Dr. Briggs. “I am told you had a very bad fit, and
fell and knocked your head against the building. You’re dazed. Lie
down!”</p>
<p>“I prefer to wish to stand erect on my feet,” said Mr. Gubb firmly.
“Where’s my cup?”</p>
<p>“What cup?”</p>
<p>“Who told you I was suffering from the symptom of a fit?” demanded
Philo Gubb.</p>
<p>“Why, a short, plump little German did,” said the doctor. “He sent me
here. And he gave me this to give to you.”</p>
<p>The doctor held an envelope toward Mr. Gubb, and the detective took it
and tore it open. By the light of the window he read:—</p>
<p class="center">Rec’d of J. Jones, golluf cup worth $500.<span class="right3"><span class="smcap">P. H.
Schreckenheim</span>.</span></p>
<p>Philo Gubb turned to Dr. Briggs.</p>
<p>“I am much obliged for the hastiness with which you came to relieve
one you considered to think in trouble, doctor,” he said, “but fits
are not in my line of sickness, which mainly is dyspeptic to date.”</p>
<p>“Now, what is all this?” asked the doctor suspiciously. “What is that
letter, anyway?”</p>
<p>“It is a clue,” said Philo Gubb, “which, connected with the bump on
the top of the cranium of my skull, will, no doubt, land somebody into
jail. So good-evening, doctor.”</p>
<p>He picked his hat from the lawn, and in his most <span class="pagenum"><SPAN name="Page_48" id="Page_48"></SPAN></span>stately manner
walked around the club-house and in at the door.</p>
<p>Inside the club-house, Mr. Gubb asked one of the waiters to call Mr.
Medderbrook, and Mr. Medderbrook immediately appeared.</p>
<p>As he came from the dining-room rapidly, the napkin he had had tucked
in his neck fell over his shoulder behind him, and Mr. Medderbrook,
instead of turning around bent backward until he could pick up the
napkin with his teeth, after which he resumed his normal upright
position.</p>
<p>“Excuse me, Gubb,” he said; “I didn’t think what I was doing. Where is
the cup?”</p>
<p>The detective explained. He handed Mr. Medderbrook the receipt that
had been sent by Mr. Schreckenheim, and the moment Mr. Medderbrook’s
eyes fell upon it he turned red.</p>
<p>“That infernal Dutchman!” he cried, although Mr. Schreckenheim was not
a Dutchman at all, but a German-American. “I’ll jail him for this!”</p>
<p>He stopped short.</p>
<p>“Gubb,” he said, “did that fellow tell you what his business was?”</p>
<p>“He did not,” said Philo Gubb. “He failed to express any mention of
it.”</p>
<p>“That man,” said Mr. Medderbrook bitterly, “is Schreckenheim, the
greatest tattoo artist in the world. He is the king of them all. A
connoisseur in tattooish art can tell a Schreckenheim as easily as a
picture-dealer can tell a Corot. But no matter! <span class="pagenum"><SPAN name="Page_49" id="Page_49"></SPAN></span>Mr. Gubb, you are a
detective and I believe what is told detectives is held inviolable.
Yes. You—and all Riverbank—see in me an ordinary citizen, wealthy,
perhaps, but ordinary. As a matter of fact, I was once”—he looked
cautiously around—“I was once a contortionist. I was once <i>the</i>
contortionist. And now I am a wealthy man. My wife left me because she
said I was stingy, and she took my child—my only daughter. I have
never seen either of them since. I have searched high and low, but I
cannot find them. Mr. Gubb, I would give the man that finds my
daughter—if she is alive—a thousand dollars.”</p>
<p>“You don’t object to my attempting to try?” said Philo Gubb.</p>
<p>“No,” said Mr. Jonas Medderbrook, “but that is not what I wish to
explain. In my contortion act, Mr. Gubb, I was obliged to wear the
most expensive silk tights. Wiggling on the floor destroys them
rapidly. I had a happy thought. I was known as the Man-Serpent. Could
I not save all expense of tights by having myself tattooed so that my
skin would represent scales? Look.”</p>
<p>Mr. Medderbrook pulled up his cuff and showed Mr. Gubb his arm. It was
beautifully tattooed in red and blue, like the scales of a cobra.</p>
<p>“The cost,” continued Mr. Medderbrook, “was great. Herr Schreckenheim
worked continuously on me, and when he reached my manly chest I had a
brilliant thought. I would have tattooed upon it <span class="pagenum"><SPAN name="Page_50" id="Page_50"></SPAN></span>an American eagle.
Imagine the enthusiasm of an audience when I stood straight, spread my
arms and showed that noble emblem of our nation’s strength and
freedom! I told Herr Schreckenheim and he set to work. When—and the
contract price, by the way, for doing that eagle was five hundred
dollars—when the eagle was about completed, I said to Herr
Schreckenheim, ‘Of course you will do no more eagles?’</p>
<p>“‘More eagles?’ he said questioningly.</p>
<p>“‘On other men,’ I said. ‘I want to be the only man with an eagle on
my chest.’</p>
<p>“‘I am doing an eagle on another man now,’ he said.</p>
<p>“I was angry at once. I jumped from the table and threw on my clothes.
‘Cheater!’ I cried. ‘Not another spot or dot shall you make on me! Go!
I will never pay you a cent!’</p>
<p>“He was very angry. ‘It is a contract!’ he cried. ‘Five hundred
dollars you owe me!’</p>
<p>“‘I owe it to you when the job is complete,’ I declared. ‘That was the
contract. Is this job complete? Where are the eagle’s claws? I’ll
never pay you a cent!’</p>
<p>“We had a lot of angry words. He demanded that I give him a chance to
put the claws on the eagle. I refused. I said I would never pay. He
said he would follow me to the end of the world and collect. He said
he would do those eagle claws if he had to do them on my infant
daughter. I dared him <span class="pagenum"><SPAN name="Page_51" id="Page_51"></SPAN></span>to touch the child. And now,” said Mr.
Medderbrook, “he has taken the golf cup I value at five hundred
dollars. He has won.”</p>
<p>At the mention of the threat regarding the child, Philo Gubb’s eyes
opened wide, but he kept silence.</p>
<p>“Gubb,” said Mr. Medderbrook suddenly, “I’ll give you a thousand
dollars if you can recover my poor child.”</p>
<p>“The deteckative profession is full of complicity of detail,” said Mr.
Gubb, “and the impossible is quite possible when put in the right
hands. The cup—”</p>
<p>“Bother the cup!” said Mr. Medderbrook carelessly. “I want my
child—I’ll give <i>ten</i> thousand dollars for my child, Gubb.”</p>
<p>With difficulty could Philo Gubb restrain his eagerness to depart. He
had a clue!</p>
<p>Ordinarily Mr. Gubb would have taken any disguise that seemed to him
best suited for the work in hand; but now he was going to see and be
seen by Syrilla!</p>
<p>Mr. Gubb ran down the list—Number Seven, Card Sharp; Number Nine,
Minister of the Gospel; Number Twelve, Butcher; Number Sixteen, Negro
Hack-Driver; Number Seventeen, Chinese Laundryman; Number Twenty,
Cowboy.... Philo Gubb paused there. He would be a cowboy, for it was a
jaunty disguise—“chaps,” sombrero, spurs, buckskin gloves, holsters
and pistols, blue shirt, yellow hair, stubby mustache. He donned the
complete <span class="pagenum"><SPAN name="Page_52" id="Page_52"></SPAN></span>disguise, put his street garments in a suitcase and viewed
himself in his small mirror. He highly approved of the disguise. He
touched his cheeks with red to give himself a healthy, outdoor
appearance.</p>
<p>Early the next morning, before the earliest merchants had opened their
shops, Philo Gubb boarded the train for West Higgins, for it was there
the World’s Greatest Combined Shows were to appear. The few sleepy
passengers did not open their eyes; the conductor, as he took Mr.
Gubb’s ticket, merely remarked, “Joining the show at West Higgins?”
and passed on. Boys were already gathering on the West Higgins station
platform when the train pulled in, and they cheered Mr. Gubb, thinking
him part of the show. This greatly increased the difficulty of Mr.
Gubb’s detective work. He had hoped to steal unobserved to the circus
grounds, but a dozen small boys immediately attached themselves to
him, running before him and whooping with joy.</p>
<p>“Boys,” said Mr. Gubb sternly, “I wish you to run away and play
elsewhere than in front of me continuously and all the time,”—and
they cheered because he had spoken. Only the glad news that the circus
trains had reached town finally dragged them reluctantly away.
Detective Gubb hurried to the circus grounds. The cook tent was
already up, and the grub tent was being put up. Presently the
side-show tent was up and the “big top” rising. It was not until nine
o’clock, however, that the side-show ladies and gentlemen began to
appear, and <span class="pagenum"><SPAN name="Page_53" id="Page_53"></SPAN></span>when they arrived they went at once to the grub tent and
seated themselves at the table. From a corner of the “big top’s” side
wall, Detective Gubb watched them.</p>
<p>“Look there, dearie,” said Syrilla suddenly to Princess Zozo, “don’t
that cowboy look like Mr. Gubb that was at Bardville and got the golf
cup?”</p>
<p>“It don’t look like him,” said Princess Zozo; “it is him. Why don’t
you ask him to come over and help at the eats? You seemed to like him
yesterday.”</p>
<p>“I thought he was a real gentlem’nly gentlemun, dearie, if that’s what
you mean,” said Syrilla; and raising her voice she called to Mr. Gubb.
For a moment he hesitated, and then he came forward. “We knowed you
the minute we seen you, Mr. Gubb. Come and sit in beside me and have
some breakfast if you ain’t dined. I thought you went home last night.
You ain’t after no more crim’nals, are you?”</p>
<p>“There are variously many ends to the deteckative business,” said Mr.
Gubb, as he seated himself beside Syrilla. “I’m upon a most important
case at the present time.”</p>
<p>Syrilla reached for her fifth boiled potato, and as her arm passed Mr.
Gubb’s face he thrilled. He had not been mistaken. Upon that arm was a
pair of eagle’s claws, tattooed in red and blue! How little these had
meant to him before, and how much they meant now!</p>
<p><span class="pagenum"><SPAN name="Page_54" id="Page_54"></SPAN></span></p>
<p>“I presume you don’t hardly ever long for a home in one place, Miss
Syrilla,” he began, with his eye fixed on her arm just above the
elbow.</p>
<p>“Well, believe me, dearie,” said Syrilla, “you don’t want to think
that just because I travel with a side-show I don’t long for the
refinements of a true home just like other folks. Some folks think I’m
easy to see through and that I ain’t nothin’ but fat and appetite, but
they’ve got me down wrong, Mr. Gubb. I was unfortunate in gettin’ lost
from my father and mother when a babe, but many is the time I’ve said
to Zozo, ‘I got a refined strain in my nature.’ Haven’t I, Zozo?”</p>
<p>“You say it every time we begin to rag you about fallin’ in love with
every new thin man you see,” said Princess Zozo. “You said it last
night when we was joshin’ you about Mr. Gubb here.”</p>
<p>Syrilla colored, but Mr. Gubb thrilled joyously.</p>
<p>“Just the same, dearie,” Syrilla said to Princess Zozo, “I’ve got
myself listed right when I say I got a refined nature. I’ve got all
the instincts of a real society lady and sometimes it irks me awful
not to be able to let myself loose and bant like—”</p>
<p>“Pant?” asked Mr. Gubb.</p>
<p>“<i>Bant</i> was the word I used, Mr. Gubb,” Syrilla replied. “Maybe you
wouldn’t guess it, lookin’ at me shovelin’ in the eatables this way,
but eatin’ food is the croolest thing I have to do. It jars me
somethin’ terrible. Yes, dearie, what I long for day and night is a
chance to take my place in the social <span class="pagenum"><SPAN name="Page_55" id="Page_55"></SPAN></span>stratums I was born for and
bant off the fat like other social ladies is doin’ right along. I
don’t eat food because I like it, Mr. Gubb, but because a lady in a
profession like mine has got to keep fatted up. My outside may be fat,
Mr. Gubb, but I got a soul inside of me as skinny as any fash’nable
lady would care to have, and as soon as possible I’m goin’ to quit the
road and bant off six or seven hundred pounds. Would you believe it
possible that I ain’t dared to eat a pickle for over seven years,
because it might start me on the thinward road?”</p>
<p>“I presume to suppose,” said Mr. Gubb politely, “that if you was to be
offered a home that was rich with wealth and I was to take you there
and place you beside your parental father, you wouldn’t refuse?”</p>
<p>Mr. Gubb awaited the reply with eagerness. He tried to remain calm,
but in spite of himself he was nervous.</p>
<p>“Watch me!” said Syrilla. “If you could show me a nook like that, you
couldn’t hold me in this show business with a tent-stake and bull
tackle. But that’s a rosy dream!”</p>
<p>“You ain’t got a locket with the photo’ of your mother’s picture into
it?” asked Mr. Gubb.</p>
<p>“No,” said Syrilla. “My pa and ma was unknown to me. I dare say they
got sick of hearin’ me bawl and left me on a doorstep. The first I
knew of things was that I was travelin’ with a show, representin’ a
newborn babe in an incubator machine. <span class="pagenum"><SPAN name="Page_56" id="Page_56"></SPAN></span>I was incubated up to the time
I was five years old, and got too long to go in the glass case.”</p>
<p>“But some one was your guardian in charge of you, no doubt?” asked
Gubb.</p>
<p>“I had forty of them, dearie,” said Syrilla. “Whenever money run low,
they quit because they couldn’t get paid on Saturday night.”</p>
<p>“Hah!” said Mr. Gubb. “And does the name Jones bring back the memory
of any rememberance to you?”</p>
<p>“No, Mr. Gubb,” said Syrilla regretfully, seeing how eager he was. “It
don’t.”</p>
<p>“In that state of the case of things,” said Mr. Gubb, “I’ve got to go
over to that wagon-pole and sit down and think awhile. I’ve got a
certain clue I’ve got to think over and make sure it leads right, and
if it does I’ll have something important to say to you.”</p>
<p>The wagon-pole in question was attached to a canvas wagon near by, and
Detective Gubb seated himself on it and thought. The side-show ladies
and gentlemen, having finished, entered the side-show tent—with the
exception of Syrilla, who remained to finish her meal. She ate a great
deal at meals, before meals, and after meals. Mr. Gubb, from his seat
on the wagon-pole, looked at Syrilla thoughtfully. He had not the
least doubt that Syrilla was the lost daughter of Mr. Jones (or
Medderbrook as he now called himself). The German-American tattoo
artist had sworn to complete the eagle by <span class="pagenum"><SPAN name="Page_57" id="Page_57"></SPAN></span>putting its claws on Mr.
Jones’s daughter, if need be, and here were the claws on Syrilla’s
arm. But, just as it is desirable at times to have a handwriting
expert identify a bit of writing, Mr. Gubb felt that if he could prove
that the claws tattooed on Syrilla’s arm were the work of Mr.
Schreckenheim, his case would be complete. He longed for Mr.
Schreckenheim’s presence, but, lacking that, he had a happy idea. Mr.
Enderbury, the tattooed man of the side-show, should be a connoisseur
and would perhaps be able to identify the eagle’s claws. Leaving
Syrilla still eating, Mr. Gubb entered the side-show tent.</p>
<p>Mr. Enderbury, seated on a blue property case, was engaged in biting
the entire row of finger nails on his right hand, and a frown creased
his brow. He was enwrapped by a long purple bathrobe which tied
closely about his neck. As he caught sight of Mr. Gubb, he started
slightly and doubled his hand into a fist, but he immediately calmed
himself and assumed a nonchalant air. As a matter of fact, Mr.
Enderbury led a dog’s life. For years he had loved Syrilla devotedly,
but he was so bashful he had never dared to confess his love to her,
and year after year he saw her smile upon one thin man after another.
Now it was Mr. Lonergan; again it was Mr. Winterberry—or it was Mr.
Gubb, or Smith, or Jones, or Doe; but for Mr. Enderbury she seemed to
have nothing but contempt. Mr. Enderbury had first seen her when she
was posing in the infant incubator, and had loved her even then, for
he was <span class="pagenum"><SPAN name="Page_58" id="Page_58"></SPAN></span>twenty when she was but five. The coming of a new rival always
affected him as the coming of Mr. Gubb had, but for good reason he
hated Mr. Gubb worse than any of the others.</p>
<p>“Excuse me for begging your pardon,” said Mr. Gubb, “but in the
deteckative business questions have to be asked. Have you ever chanced
to happen to notice some tattoo work upon the arm of Miss Syrilla of
this side-show?”</p>
<p>“I have,” said Mr. Enderbury shortly.</p>
<p>“A pair of eagle’s claws,” said Mr. Gubb. “Can you tell me, from your
knowledge and belief, if the work there done was the work of a Mr.
Herr Schreckenheim?”</p>
<p>“I can tell you if I want to,” said Mr. Enderbury. “What do you want
to know for?”</p>
<p>“If those claws are the work of Mr. Herr Schreckenheim,” said Mr.
Gubb, “I am prepared to offer to Miss Syrilla her daughterly place in
a home of wealth at Riverbank, Iowa. If those claws are Schreckenheim
claws, Miss Syrilla is the daughter of Mr. Jonas Medderbrook of the
said burg, beyond the question of a particle of doubt.”</p>
<p>Mr. Enderbury looked at Mr. Gubb with surprise.</p>
<p>“That’s non—” he began. “And if Schreckenheim did those claws, you’ll
take Syrilla away from this show? Forever?” he asked.</p>
<p>“I will,” said Philo Gubb, “if she desires to wish to go.”</p>
<p>“Then I have nothing whatever to say,” said <span class="pagenum"><SPAN name="Page_59" id="Page_59"></SPAN></span>Mr. Enderbury, and he
shut his mouth firmly; nor would he say more.</p>
<p>“Do you desire to wish me to understand that they are not the work of
Mr. Herr Schreckenheim?” persisted Mr. Gubb.</p>
<p>“I have nothing to say!” said Mr. Enderbury.</p>
<p>“I consider that conclusive circumstantial evidence that they are,”
said Detective Gubb, and he clanked out of the side-show.</p>
<p>Syrilla was still seated at the grub table, finishing her meal, and
Mr. Gubb seated himself opposite her. As delicately as he could, he
told of Jonas Medderbrook and his lost daughter, of the home of wealth
that awaited that daughter, and finally, of his belief that Syrilla
was that daughter. It was clear that Syrilla was quite willing to take
up a life of refinement and dieting if she was given an opportunity
such as Mr. Gubb was able to offer in the name of Jonas Medderbrook;
and, this being so, he questioned her regarding the eagle’s claws.</p>
<p>“Mr. Gubb,” she said, “I wish to die on the spot if I know how I got
them claws tattooed onto me. If you ask me, I’ll say it is the mystery
of my life. They’ve been on me since I was a little girl no bigger
than—why, who is that?”</p>
<p>Mr. Gubb turned his head quickly, but he was not in time to see a
plump, good-natured looking little German-American slip quickly out of
sight behind the cook tent. Neither did he see the glitter of the sun
on a large silver golf cup the plump <span class="pagenum"><SPAN name="Page_60" id="Page_60"></SPAN></span>German-American carried under
his arm; but the German-American had recognized Mr. Gubb, even through
his disguise of a cowboy.</p>
<p>“No matter,” said Syrilla. “But these claws have been on my arm since
I was a wee little girl, Mr. Gubb. I always thought they was a
trademark of a hospital.”</p>
<p>“I was not knowingly aware that hospitals had trademarks,” said Mr.
Gubb.</p>
<p>“Maybe they don’t,” said Syrilla. “But when I was a small child I had
an accident and had to be took to a hospital, and it wasn’t until
after that that anybody saw the eagle’s claws on me. I considered that
maybe it was like the mark the laundry puts on a handkerchief it has
laundered.”</p>
<p>“I don’t know much about the manners of the ways of hospitals,”
admitted Mr. Gubb, “and that may be so, but I have another idea. Did
you ever hear of Mr. Herr Schreckenheim?”</p>
<p>“Only that Mr. Enderbury is always cross on the days of the month that
he gets Mr. Schreckenheim’s statements of money due. Mr. Schreckenheim
is the man that tattooed Mr. Enderbury so beautiful, but poor Mr.
Enderbury has never been able to pay him in full.”</p>
<p>Philo Gubb arose.</p>
<p>“I am going to telegraph Mr. Medderbrook to come on to West Higgins
immediately by the three <span class="smcap">p.m.</span> afternoon train,” he said, “and you will
meet him as your paternal father and arrange to <span class="pagenum"><SPAN name="Page_61" id="Page_61"></SPAN></span>make your home with
him as soon as you desire to wish it.”</p>
<hr class="medium" />
<p>At five o’clock that afternoon, Mr. Medderbrook, escorted by Mr. Gubb,
entered the side-show tent. The lady and gentlemen freaks were resting
before evening grub, and all were gathered around Syrilla’s platform,
for the news that she was to leave the show to enter a home of wealth
and refinement had spread quickly. Syrilla herself was in tears. Now
that the time had come she was loath to part from her kind companions.</p>
<p>“I tell you, Mr. Gubb,” Mr. Medderbrook said, as they entered the
side-show, “if you have indeed found my daughter you have made me a
happy man. You cannot know how lonesome my life has been. Now, which
is she?”</p>
<p>“She is the female lady in the pink satin dress on that platform,”
said Mr. Gubb.</p>
<p>Mr. Medderbrook looked toward Syrilla and gasped.</p>
<p>“Why, that—that’s the Fat Woman! That’s the Fat Woman of the
side-show!” he exclaimed. “I thought—I—why, my daughter wouldn’t be
a Fat Woman in a side-show!”</p>
<p>“But she is,” said Mr. Gubb.</p>
<p>“Great Scott!” exclaimed Mr. Medderbrook.</p>
<p>For years Mr. Medderbrook had retained a memory of his daughter
as he had seen her last, a tender babe in long clothes. As he rode
toward <span class="pagenum"><SPAN name="Page_62" id="Page_62"></SPAN></span>West Higgins, however, he had thought about his daughter and
he had revised his conception of her. She was older now, of course,
and he had finally settled the matter by deciding that she would be
a dainty slip of a girl—probably a tight-rope walker or one of the
toe-dancers in the Grand Spectacle, or perhaps even engaged as the
Ten-Thousand-Dollar Beauty. But a Fat Lady! Mr. Medderbrook walked
toward Syrilla. Every eye in the tent was upon him. There was utter
silence except for Syrilla’s happy sobbing.</p>
<p>“Shess!” said a voice suddenly. “You bet I vos here! Und I vant my
money! Years I haf been collecding dot bill, und still you owe me. Now
I come, and you pay me all vot you owe or I make troubles!”</p>
<p>The voice came from outside the tent, and with surprising agility
Detective Gubb dived under the platform and wriggled under the canvas
wall.</p>
<p>“I don’t owe you a cent!” exclaimed the voice of Mr. Enderbury. “I’ve
paid you for every bit of tattoo I have on me.”</p>
<p>“Seven hunderdt dollars vos der contract,” cried the voice of Herr
Schreckenheim. “Und ten dollars is due me yet. I vant it.”</p>
<p>“Well, you’ll keep on wanting it,” said Mr. Enderbury’s voice. “Look
here! Look at my chest. There’s the eagle you did on me—do you see
any claws on it? No, you don’t! Well, I’m not going to pay for claws
that are not on me. No, sir!”</p>
<p><span class="pagenum"><SPAN name="Page_63" id="Page_63"></SPAN></span></p>
<p>“Claws? I do some claws on you, don’t I, ven I do dot eagle?” asked
the German-American.</p>
<p>“Yes, but they’re not on me now, are they?” asked Mr. Enderbury, “You
can go and collect from the person that has them. What do I care for
her now? She’s going to quit the circus business. I’ve paid for all
the tattoo that’s on me; you go and collect ten dollars for those
claws from Syrilla.”</p>
<p>“Und how does she get those claws on her?” asked Herr Schreckenheim
shrewdly.</p>
<p>“I’ll tell you how,” said Mr. Enderbury. “You remember when Griggs’ &
Barton’s Circus burned down years ago? Well, Syrilla was burned in
that fire—burned on the arm—and they took her to a hospital and her
arm wouldn’t heal. So somebody had to furnish some skin for a
skin-grafting job, and I did it. The piece they took had those claws
on it. That’s what happened. I gave those eagle’s claws to cure her,
and I’ve hung around her all these years like a faithful dog, and she
don’t care a hang for me, and now she’s going away. Go and collect for
those claws from her. I haven’t got them. She’s going to be rich; she
can pay you!”</p>
<p>Simultaneously there was an exclamation from Mr. Medderbrook, a cry
from Syrilla, and a short, sharp yell from outside the tent. Mr. Gubb
entered, spurs first, creeping backward under the canvas. As he backed
from under the platform it was observed that he held a shoe—about No.
8 size—in one hand, and that a foot was in the shoe, and the <span class="pagenum"><SPAN name="Page_64" id="Page_64"></SPAN></span>foot on
a leg, and the leg on a short, plump, elderly German-American, who
yelled as he was dragged into the tent on his back. In one hand of the
German-American was a large silver golf cup with a deep dent on one
side. As Mr. Gubb arose to his feet, still holding the German-American
tattoo artist’s foot in his hand, he said:—</p>
<p>“Mr. Medderbrook, the deteckative business is not always completely
satisfactory in all kinds of respects, and it looks as if it appeared
that the daughter I found for you is somebody else’s, but if you will
look at the other end of the assaulter and batterer I have in hand,
you will see that I have recovered the silver golf cup trophy once
again for the second time.”</p>
<p>“And that,” said Mr. Medderbrook as he took the cup from the
German-American’s hand, “is remarkable work. The ordinary detective is
usually satisfied to recover stolen property once, but you have
recovered this cup twice.”</p>
<p>“The motto of my deteckative business,” said Mr. Gubb modestly, “is
‘Perfection, no matter how many times.’”</p>
<p>Mr. Gubb might have said more, but he was interrupted by Princess
Zozo, the Snake Charmer, who had walked around Syrilla and unhooked
two of the hooks at the top of Syrilla’s low-necked gown.</p>
<p>“Look!” she exclaimed, and she pointed to a second pair of eagle’s
claws tattooed between Syrilla’s shoulder blades. Without a word Mr.
Medderbrook <span class="pagenum"><SPAN name="Page_65" id="Page_65"></SPAN></span>took five hundred dollars from his purse and handed them
to Mr. Schreckenheim.</p>
<p>“That pays you for the cup,” he said. And then, turning to Syrilla:
“Come to my arms, my long-lost daughter!”</p>
<p>After Syrilla had hugged her father affectionately, Mr. Gubb and the
freaks laid him on the ground and, by fanning him vigorously, were
able to bring him back to life. Mr. Medderbrook’s first act upon
opening his eyes was to hold out his hand to Mr. Gubb.</p>
<p>“Thank you, Gubb,” he panted. “It’s a big price, but I’ll keep my
word. The ten thousand dollars shall be yours.”</p>
<p>“Into ordinary circumstances,” said Mr. Gubb gravely, “ten thousand
dollars would be a largely big price to pay for recovering back a lost
daughter, Mr. Medderbrook, but into the present case it don’t amount
to more than ten dollars per pound of daughter, which ain’t a largely
great rate per pound.”</p>
<hr class="large" /><p><span class="pagenum"><SPAN name="Page_66" id="Page_66"></SPAN></span></p>
<div style="break-after:column;"></div><br />