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,” said Mr. Gubb modestly, “is ‘Perfection, no matter how many times.’”
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.
“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 took five hundred dollars from his purse and handed them to Mr. Schreckenheim.
“That pays you for the cup,” he said. And then, turning to Syrilla: “Come to my arms, my long-lost daughter!”
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.
“Thank you, Gubb,” he panted. “It’s a big price, but I’ll keep my word. The ten thousand dollars shall be yours.”
“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.”
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