consider that conclusive circumstantial evidence that they are,” said Detective Gubb, and he clanked out of the side-show.
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.
“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?”
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 German-American carried under his arm; but the German-American had recognized Mr. Gubb, even through his disguise of a cowboy.
“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.”
“I was not knowingly aware that hospitals had trademarks,” said Mr. Gubb.
“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.”
“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?”
“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.”
Philo Gubb arose.
“I am going to telegraph Mr. Medderbrook to come on to West Higgins immediately by the three p. m. afternoon train,” he said, “and you will meet him as your paternal father and arrange to make your home with him as soon as you desire to wish it.”
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.
“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?”
“She is the female lady in the pink satin dress on that platform,” said Mr. Gubb.
Mr. Medderbrook looked toward Syrilla and gasped.
“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!”
“But she is,” said Mr. Gubb.
“Great Scott!” exclaimed Mr. Medderbrook.
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 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.
“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!”
The voice came from outside the tent, and with surprising agility Detective Gubb dived under the platform and wriggled under the canvas wall.
“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.”
“Seven hunderdt dollars vos der contract,” cried the voice of Herr Schreckenheim. “Und ten dollars is due me yet. I vant it.”
“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!”
“Claws? I do some claws on you, don’t I, ven I do dot eagle?” asked the German-American.
“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.”
“Und how does she get those claws on her?” asked Herr Schreckenheim shrewdly.
“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!”
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 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: —
“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.”
“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.”
“The motto of my deteckative business,”
