The Hard Boiled Egg by Ellis Parker Butler, this is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org. Reading by Greg Marguerite, The Hard Boiled Egg by Ellis Parker Butler, walking close along the wall to avoid the creaking floorboards, phylo-gub, paper-hanger and student of the Rising Sun Detective Agency's Correspondent School of Detecting, tip-toed to the door of the bedroom he shared with the mysterious Mr. Critz. In appearance Mr. Gub was tall and gaunt, reminding one of a modern Don Quixote or a human flamingo. By nature Mr. Gub was the gentlest and most simple-minded of men, now bending his long angular body almost double, he placed his eye to a crack in the door panel and stared into the room. Within just out of the limited area of Mr. Gub's vision, Roscoe Critz paused in his work and listened carefully. He heard the sharp whistle of Mr. Gub's breath as it cut against the sharp edge of the crack in the panel and he knew he was being spied upon. He placed his chubby hands on his knees and smiled at the door, while a red flush of triumph spread over his face. Through the crack in the door Mr. Gub could see the top of the wash stand beside which Mr. Critz was sitting, but he could not see Mr. Critz. As he stared, however, he saw a plump hand appear and pick up one by one the articles lying on the wash stand. They were, first, seven or eight half-shells of English walnuts, second, a rubber shoe-heel out of which a piece had been cut, third, a small rubber ball no larger than a pea, fourth, a paper-bound book, and, lastly, a large and glittering brick of yellow gold. As the hand withdrew the golden brick, Mr. Gub pressed his face closer against the door in his effort to see more, and suddenly the door flew open and Mr. Gub sprawled on his hands and knees on the worn carpet of the bedroom. There now, said Mr. Critz, there now. Serves you right. Hope you hurt yourself. Mr.  Why, he asked, snooping and sneaking like that, said Mr. Critz crossly, scaring me to fits almost. How'd I know who it was? If you want to come in, why don't you come right in instead of snooping and sneaking and falling in that way? As he talked, Mr. Critz replaced the shells and the rubber heel and the rubber pea and the gold brick on the wash stand.  As he talked, he bent his head down so that he might look above the glasses of his spectacles, and in spite of his pretended anger, he looked like nothing so much as a kindly benevolent old gentleman, the sort of old gentleman that keeps a small store in a small village and sells writing paper that smells of soap and candy sticks out of a glass jar with a glass cover. How'd I know but what you was a detective? He asked in a gentler tone. I am, said Mr. Gub soberly, seating himself on one of the two beds. I'm pretty near a detective, as you might say. Ding it all, said Mr. Critz. Now I got to go hunt another room. I can't room with no detective. Well, now, Mr. Critz, said Mr. Gub, I don't want you should feel that way.  You ain't told me what your business is, said Mr. Gub. You needn't pretend you don't know, said Mr. Critz, any detective that saw that stuff on the wash stand would know. Well, of course, said Mr. Gub, I ain't a full detective yet. You can't look for me to guess things as quick as a full detective would. Of course, that brick sorta looks like a gold brick. It is a gold brick, said Mr. Critz. Yes, said Mr. Gub, but I don't mean no offense, Mr. Critz, from the way you look. I sort of thought, well, that it was a gold brick you'd bought. Mr. Critz turned very red. Well, what if I did buy it, he said. That ain't any reason I can't sell it, is it? Just because a man buys eggs once or twice ain't any reason he shouldn't go into the business of egg selling, is it? Just because I bought one or two gold bricks in my day ain't any reason I shouldn't go to selling them, is it? Mr. Gub stared at Mr. Critz with unconcealed surprise.  He asked. If I ain't yet, that's no sign I ain't gonna be, said Mr. Critz firmly. One man has as good a right to try his hand at it as another, especially when a man has had my experience in it, Mr. Gub. There ain't hardly a con game I ain't been conned with. I've been confidence long enough. From now on, I'm going to confidence other folks. That's what I'm going to do. And I won't be bothered by no detective living in the same room with me. Detectives and con men don't mix nowadays. No, sir. Well, sir, said Mr. Gub. I can see the sense in that, but you don't need to move right away. I don't aim to start the Tekitin in earnest for a couple of months yet. I got a couple of jobs of paper hanging and decorating to finish up. And I can't start in sleuthing until I get my star anyway. And I don't get my star until I get one more lesson and learn it and send in the examination paper and $5 extra for the diploma. Then I'm going at it as a regular business. It's a good business. Every day there's more crooks. Excuse me, I didn't mean to say that. That's all right, said Mr. Crits kindly. Call a spade a spade. If I ain't a crook yet, I hope to be soon. I didn't know how you'd feel about it, explained Mr. Gub. Tactfulness is strongly advised into the lessons of the Rising Sun Detective Agency Correspondent School of Detecting. Slocum, Ohio, asked Mr. Crits quickly. You didn't see the ad in the hearthstone and farm side, did you? Yes, Slocum, Ohio, said Mr. Gub. And that is the paper I saw the ad into. Big money in detecting, be a sleuth. We can make you the equal of Sherlock Holmes in 12 lessons. Why? Well, sir, said Mr. Crits, that's funny. That ad was right atop of the one I saw, and I studied quite considerable before I could make up my mind whether it would be best for me to be a detective and go out and get square with the fellers that sold me gold bricks and things by putting them in jail, or to even things up by sending for this book that was advertised right under the Rising Sun Correspondent School. How come I settled to do as I'd done was that I had a sort of stock to start with. With a first-class gold brick and some green goods I'd bought, and this book only cost a quarter of a dollar, and she's a hummer for a quarter of a dollar, a hummer. He pulled the paper-covered book from his pocket and handed it to Mr. Gub. The title of the book was The Complete Conman by the King of the Grafters, price 25 cents. That their book, said Mr. Crits proudly, as if he himself had written it, tells everything a man needs to know to work every con game there is. Once I get it by heart, I won't be afraid to try any of them. Of course, I got to start small. I can't hope to pull off a wire-tapping game right at the start because that has to have a gang. You don't know anybody you could recommend for a gang, do you? Not right off hand, said Mr. Gub thoughtfully. If you wasn't going into the detective business, said Mr. Crits, you'd be just a feller for me. You look sort of honest and not as if you was too bright, and that counts a lot. Even in this here simple little shell game, I got to have a partner. I got to have a partner I can trust so I can let him look like he was winning money off of me. You see, he explained moving to the wash stand. This shell game is easy enough when you know how. I put three shells down like this on a stand and I put the little rubber pea on the stand and then I take up the three shells like this, two in one hand and one in the other, and I wave them around over the pea and maybe push the pea around a little. And I say, come on, come on, the hand is quicker than the eye. And all of a sudden I put the shells down and you think the pea is under one of them, like that. I don't think the pea is under one of them, said Mr. Gub. I seen it roll onto the floor. It did roll onto the floor that time, said Mr. Crits apologetically. It most generally does for me, yet. I ain't got it down to perfection yet. This is the way it ought to work. Oh, pasha, there she goes onto the floor again. Went under the bed that time. Here she is. Now, the way she ought to work is, there she goes again. You got to practice that game a lot before you try it on folks in public, Mr. Crits, said Mr. Gub seriously. Don't I know that? Said Mr. Crits rather impatiently. Same as you've got to practice snooping, Mr. Gub. Maybe you thought I didn't know you was snooping after me wherever I went last night. Did you? Asked Mr. Gub with surprise plainly written on his face. I've seen you every moment from 9 p.m. till 11, said Mr. Crits. I didn't like it, neither. I didn't think to annoy you, apologized Mr. Gub. I was practicing lesson four. You wasn't supposed to know I was there at all. Well, I don't like it, said Mr. Crits. To was all right last night, for I didn't have nothing important on hand. But if I'd been working up a con game, the feller I was after would have thought it mighty strange to see a man following me everywhere like that. If you went about it quiet and obtrusive, I wouldn't mind. But if I'd had a customer on hand and he'd seen you, it would make him nervous. He'd think there was a crazy man following us. I was just practicing, apologized Mr. Gub. It won't be so bad when I get the hang of it. We all got to be beginners sometime. I guess so, said Mr. Crits, rearranging the shells and the little rubber pee. Well, I put the pee down like this, and I dare you to bet which shell she's going to be under. And you don't bet, see. So I put the shells down and you're willing to bet you see me put the first shell over the pee like this. So you keep your eye on that shell and I move the shells around like this. She's under the same shell, said Mr. Gub. Well, yes, she is, said Mr. Crits placidly, but she hadn't ought to be. By rights she ought to sort of ooze out from under whilst I'm moving the shells around and I'd ought to catch her in between my fingers and hold her there so you don't see her. Then when you say which shell she's under, she ain't under any shell. She's between my fingers. So when you put down your money I'd tell you to pick up that shell and there ain't anything under it. And before you can pick up the other shells, I pick one up and let the pee fall on the stand like it had been under that shell all the time. That's the game, only up to now I ain't got the hang of it. She won't ooze out from under and she won't stick between my fingers and when she does stick she won't drop at the right time. Except for that, you've got her all right, have you? Ask Mr. Gub. Except for that, said Mr. Crits, and I'd have that, only my fingers are stubby.  Ask Mr. Gub. The work you'd have to do would be capping work, said Mr. Crits. Capper, that's the professional name for it. You'd guess which shell the ball was under. That would be easy the way you do it now, said Mr. Gub. I told you I got to learn it better, didn't I? Asked Mr. Crits impatiently. You'd be capper and you'd guess which shell the pee was under. No matter which you guessed, I'd leave it under that one so you'd win and you'd win $10 every time you bet. But not for keeps, that's why I've got to have an honest capper. I can see that, said Mr. Gub, but what's the use in letting me win it if I've got to bring it back? That starts the boobs betting, said Mr. Crits. The boobs see how you look to be winning and they want to win too, but they don't. When they bet, I win. That ain't a square game, said Mr. Gub, seriously, is it? A crook ain't expected to be square, said Mr. Crits. It stands to reason if a crook wants to be a crook, he's got to be crooked, ain't he? Yes, of course, said Mr. Gub. I hadn't looked at it that way. As far as I can see, said Mr. Crits, the more I know how a detective acts, the better off I'll be when I start in doing real business. Ain't that so? I guess till I get the hang of things better, I'll stay right here. I'm glad to hear you say so, Mr. Crits, said Mr. Gub, with relief.  I might get someone that wasn't honest. So it was agreed and Mr. Crits stood over the wash stand and manipulated the little rubber pee in the three shells while Mr. Gub sat on the edge of the bed and studied lesson 11 of the Rising Sun Detective Agency's Correspondence School of Detecting. When presently Mr. Crits learned to work the little pee neatly, he urged Mr. Gub to take the part of the capper and each time Mr. Gub won, he gave him a $5 bill. Then Mr. Gub posed as a boob and Mr. Crits won all the money back again, beaming over his spectacle rims and chuckling again and again until he burst into a fit of coughing that made him red in the face and did not cease until he had taken a big drink of water out of the wash pitcher. Never had he seemed more like a kindly old gentleman from behind the candy counter of a small village. He hung over the wash stand manipulating the little rubber pee as if fascinated. Ain't it curious how a feller catches onto a thing like that all to once, he said after a while. If it hadn't been that I was so anxious, I might have fooled with that for weeks and weeks and not got anywhere with it. I do wish you could be my capper a while anyway until I could get one. I need all my time to study, said Mr. Gub. It ain't easy to learn detecting by mail. Pasha now, said Mr. Crits, I'm real sorry. Maybe if I was to pay you for your time in trouble, five dollars a night, how say? Mr. Gub considered. Well, I don't know, he said slowly.  Now there ain't no need to feel that way, said Mr. Crits, your time's worth something to me. It's worth a lot to me to get the hang of this gold brick game. Once I get the hang of it, it won't be no trouble for me to sell gold bricks like this one for all the way from a thousand dollars up. I paid fifteen hundred for this one myself and got it cheap. That's a good profit, for this brick ain't worth a cent over one hundred dollars and I know for I took it to the bank after I bought it and that's what they was willing to pay me for it. So it's easy with a few dollars for me to have help whilst I'm learning. I can easily afford to pay you a few dollars and to pay a friend of yours the same. Well now, said Mr. Gub, I don't know but what I might as well make a little that way as any other. I got a friend. He stopped short. You don't aim to sell the gold brick to him, do you? Mr. Crits' eyes opened wide behind their spectacles. Land's sake, no, he said. Well, I got a friend, maybe willing to help out, said Mr. Gub. What do you have to do? You or him, said Mr. Crits, would be the come on and pretend to buy the brick and you or him would pretend to help me to sell it.  I can look anyway almost, said Mr. Gub with pride. Do tell, said Mr. Crits and so it was arranged that the first rehearsal of the gold brick game should take place the next evening. But as Mr. Gub turned away, Mr. Crits deftly slipped something into the student detective's coat pocket. It was toward noon the next day that Mr. Crits peering over his spectacles and avoiding as best he could, the pails of paste entered the parlor of the vacant house where Mr. Gub was at work. I just come around, said Mr. Crits rather reluctantly to say you better not say nothing to your friend.  For sure now, said Mr. Gub, you don't mean so. I don't mean nothing in the way of aspersions you mind, said Mr. Crits with reluctance. But I guess we better call it off. Of course, so far as I know you're all right. I don't know what you're getting at, said Mr. Gub. Why don't you say it? Well, I've been bunkered so often, said Mr. Crits. Seems like anyone can get money for me any time in any way, and I got to thinking it over. I don't know anything about you, do I?  And well, what's to stop you from just going away with that brick and never coming back? Mr. Gub looked at Mr. Crits blankly. I went and told my friend, he said, he's all ready to start in. I hate it, to have to say it, said Mr. Crits. But when I come to count over them bills, I let you to cap the shell game with, there was a $5 one short. I know, said Gub, turning red. And if you go over there to my coat, you'll find it in my pocket, all ready to hand back to you. I don't know how I come to keep it in my pocket. Must have missed it when I handed you back the rest.  But $1,000 gold brick that any bank will pay $100 for, I got to get out of this way of trusting everybody. Mr. Crits was evidently distressed. If it was anybody else but you, he said with an effort, I'd make him put up $100 to cover the cost of a brick like that whilst he had it. There, I've said it, and I guess you're mad.  Mr. Crits heaved a deep sigh of relief. You don't know how good that makes me feel, he said. I was almost losing what faith in mankind I had left. Mr. Gub ate his frugal evening meals at the pie wagon on Willow Street, just off Main, where by day pie wagon Pete dispensed light beyonds and pie wagon Pete was the friend he had invited to share Mr. Crits' generosity. The seal of secrecy had been put on pie wagon Pete's lips before Mr. Gub offered him the opportunity to accept or decline. And when Mr. Gub stopped for his evening meal, pie wagon Pete, now off duty, was waiting for him. The story of Mr. Crits and his amateur con business had amused pie wagon Pete. He could hardly believe such utter innocence existed. Perhaps he did not believe it existed, for he had come from the city and he had had shady companions before he landed in Riverbank. He was a sharp-eyed red-headed fellow with a hard fist and a scar across his face. And when Mr. Gub had told him of Mr. Crits and his affairs, he had seen an opportunity to shear a country lamb. How goes it for tonight, Philo? He asked Mr. Gub, taking the stool next to Mr. Gub while the night man drew a cup of coffee. Quite well, said Mr. Gub, everything has arranged satisfactory. I'm to be on the old houseboat by the wharf house on the levee at nine with it. He glanced at the night man's back and lowered his voice. And Mr. Crits will bring you there. Nine, eh? said pie wagon. I meet him at your room, do I? You meet him at the Riverbank Hotel at eight forty five, said Mr. Gub, like it was the real thing. I'm going over to my room now and give him the money. What money? asked pie wagon Pete quickly. Well you see, said Mr. Gub, he sort of hated to trust the, trust it out of his hands without a deposit. It's the only one he has. So I thought I'd put up a hundred dollars. He's all right. Oh, sure, said pie wagon, a hundred dollars, eh? He looked at Mr. Gub, who was eating a piece of apple pie hand to mouth fashion and studied him in a new light. One hundred dollars, eh? He repeated thoughtfully. You give him a hundred dollar deposit now and he meets you at nine and me at eight forty five. And the train leaves for Chicago at eight forty three, halfway between the houseboat and the hotel. Say, Gubby, what does this old guy look like? Mr. Gub, albeit with a tongue unused to description, delineated Mr. Crits as best he could. And as he proceeded, pie wagon Pete became interested.  He ain't got a scar across his face.  Say, did he have a coffin spell and choke red in the face? Well, sir, for a brand new detective, you've done well. Listen, Jim, Gubby's got the hard-boiled egg. The night man almost dropped his cup of coffee. Go away, he said, old hard-boiled himself? That's right, and caught him with the goods. Say, listen, Gubby. For five minutes pie wagon Pete talked while Mr. Gub sat with his mouth wide open. See, said pie wagon Pete at last. And don't you mention me at all. Don't mention no one. Just say to the chief, and haven't trailed him this far, Mr. Whitaker, and arrange to have him took with the goods it's up to you. See, and as soon as you say that, have him send a couple of bulls with you. And if they can do it, they'll nab old hard-boiled just as he takes your cash, and old sleuth and Sherlock Holmes won't be in it with you when tomorrow morning's papers come out, get it? Mr. Gub got it. When he entered his bedroom, Mr. Critz was waiting for him. It was slightly after eight o'clock, perhaps 8.15. Mr.  He had been reading the complete con man, and had pushed his spectacles up on his forehead as Mr. Gub entered. I'd done that brick up for you, he said, indicating it with his hand, so as it wouldn't glitter whilst you was going through the street. If word got passed round, there was a gold brick in town folks might sort of get suspicious like. Nice night for going out, ain't it? Got a letter from my wife this afternoon. He chuckled. She says she hopes I'm doing well. Sally'd have a fit if she knew what business I was going into. Well, time's getting along. I brung the money, said Mr. Gub, drawing it from his pocket. Don't seem hardly necessary, does it? Said Mr. Critz mildly. But I suppose it's just as well. Thank ye, Mr. Gub, I'll just pile it into my coat. Mr. Gub had picked up the gold brick and now he let it fall. Once more the door flew open, but this time it opened for three stalwart policemen whose revolvers pointed unwaveringly at Mr. Critz.  All right, boys, you've got me. He said in quite another voice and allowed them to seize his arms. He paid no attention to the police, but at Mr. Gub who was tearing the wrapper from what proved to be but a common vitrified paving brick, he looked long and hard. Say, said Mr. Critz to Mr. Gub, I'm the goat, you stung me all right. You worked me to a finish. I thought I knew all of you from burns down but you're a new one to me. Who are you anyway? Mr. Gub looked up. Me, he said with pride. Why, why I'm Gub, the foremost detective of Riverbank, Iowa. And of The Hard Boiled Egg by Ellis Parker Butler. The Pet by Ellis Parker Butler. This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org. Reading by Greg Marguerite. The Pet by Ellis Parker Butler. On the morning following his capture of The Hard Boiled Egg, the Riverbank Eagle printed two full columns in praise of Detective Gub and complimented Riverbank on having a superior to Sherlock Holmes in its midst. Mr. Philo Gub, said the Eagle, has thus far received only 11 of the 12 lessons from the Rising Sun Detective Agency's Correspondent School of Detecting. And we look for great things from him when he finally receives his diploma and badge. He informed us today that he hopes to begin work on the dynamite case soon. With the money he will receive for capturing The Hard Boiled Egg, Mr. Gub intends to purchase 18 complete disguises from the Supply Department of the Rising Sun Detective Agency, Slocum, Ohio. Mr. Gub wishes us to announce that until the disguises arrive, he will continue to do paper-hanging, decorating, and interior painting at reasonable rates. Unfortunately, there were no calls for Mr. Gub's detective services for some time after he received his disguises and diploma. But while waiting, he devoted his spare time to the dynamite mystery, a remarkable case on which many detectives had been working for many weeks. This led only to his being beaten up twice by Joseph Henry, one of the men he shadowed. The arrival in Riverbank of the world's monster combined shows the day after Mr. Gub received his diploma seemed to offer an opportunity for his detective talents, as a circus is usually accompanied by crooks. And early in the morning, Mr. Gub donned disguise number 16, which was cataloged as Negro Hack Driver, complete, $22. But while looking for crooks, while watching the circus unload, his eyes alighted on Cirilla, known as Half a Ton of Beauty, the Fat Lady of the Sideshow. As Cirilla descended from the car, aided by the living skeleton and the strongman, the fair creature wore a low-neck evening gown. Her arms and shoulders were snowy white, except for a peculiar mark on one arm.  And from that moment, he was deeply and hopelessly in love. Like one hypnotized, he followed her to the sideshow tent, paid his admission and stood all day before her platform. He was still there when the tent was taken down that night. Mr. Gub was not the only man in Riverbank to fall in love with Cirilla. When the ladies of the Riverbank Social Service League heard that the circus was coming to town, they were distressed to think how narrow the intellectual life of the sideshow freaks must be. And they instructed their field secretary, Mr. Horace Winterberry, to go to the sideshow and organize the freaks into an absent literary and debating society. This Mr. Winterberry did, and the Tasmanian wild man was made president. But so deeply did Mr. Winterberry fall in love with Cirilla that he begged Mr. Dorgan, the manager of the sideshow, to let him join the sideshow.  At the very next stop, made by the circus, a strong heavy-fisted woman entered the sideshow and dragged Mr. Winterberry away. This was his wife. Of this, the ladies of the Riverbank Social Service League knew nothing. However, they believed Mr. Winterberry had been stolen by the circus, and that he was doubtless being forced to learn to swing on a trapeze or ride a bareback horse. And they decided to hire Detective Gubb to find and return him. At the very moment when the ladies were deciding to retain Mr. Gubb's services, the paperhanger detective was on his way to do a job of paperhanging, thinking of the fair Cirilla he might never see again, when suddenly he put down the pal of paste he was carrying and grasped the handle of his paste brush more firmly. He stared with amazement and fright at a remarkable creature that came toward him from a small thicket near the railway tracks. Mr. Gubb's first and correct impression was that this was some remarkable creature escaped from the circus. The horrid thing loping toward him was indeed the Tasmanian wild man. As the wild man approached, Philo Gubb prepared to defend himself. He was prepared to defend himself with his last drop of blood. When halfway across the field, the Tasmanian wild man glanced back over his shoulder and as if fearing pursuit increased his speed and came toward Philo Gubb in great leaps and bounds. The correspondent school detective waved his paste brush more frantically than ever. The Tasmanian wild man stopped short within six feet of him. Viewed thus closely, the wild man was a sight to curdle the blood. Remnants of chains hung from his wrists and ankles. His long hair was matted about his face and his fingernails were long and claw-like. His face was daubed with ochre and red with black rings around the eyes and the circles within the rings were painted white, giving him an air of wildness possessed by but few wild men. His only garments were a pair of very short trunks and the skin of some wild animal bound about his body with ropes of horse hair. Philo Gubb bent to receive the leap. He felt the Tasmanian wild man was about to make but to his surprise, the wild man held up one hand in token of amnesty and with the other removed the matted hair from his head, revealing an undercrop of taffy yellow, neatly parted in the middle and smoothed back carefully. I say old chap, he said in a pleasant and well-bred tone. Stop waving that dangerous looking weapon at me, will you? My intentions are most kindly, I assure you. Can you inform me where a chap can get a pair of trousers here about? Philo Gubb's experience, I saw at once that this creature was less wild than he was painted. He lowered his paste brush. Come into this house, said Philo Gubb. Inside the house we can discuss pants and calmness. The Tasmanian wild man accepted. Now then, said Philo Gubb when they were safe in the kitchen. He seated himself on a roll of wallpaper and a Tasmanian wild man whose real name was Waldo Emerson Snooks, told his brief story. Upon graduating from Harvard, he had sought employment offering to furnish entertainment by the evening, reading an essay entitled, The Comparative Mentality of Ibsen and Emerson with Sidelights on the Effect of Turnip Diet at Brook Farm. But the agency was unable to get him any engagements. They happened, however, to receive a request from Mr. Dorgan, manager of the sideshow, asking for a Tasmanian wild man and Mr. Snooks had taken the job. To his own surprise, he made an excellent wild man. He was able to rattle his chains, dash up and down the cage, gnaw the iron bars of the cage, eat raw meat, and how, as no other Tasmanian wild man had ever done those things. And all would have been well if an interloper had not entered the sideshow. The interloper was Mr. Winterberry who had introduced the subject of Ibsen's plays and in a discussion of them, the Tasmanian wild man and Mr. Hoxie, the strong man, had quarreled and Mr. Hoxie had threatened to tear Mr. Snooks limb from limb. And he would have done so, said the Tasmanian wild man with a motion, if I had not fled. I dare not return. I mean to work my way back to Boston and give up Tasmanian wild manning as a profession, but I cannot without pants. I guess you can't, said Philo Gub. In any station of Boston's life, pants is expected to be worn. So the question is, old chap, where am I to be panted, said Waldo Emerson Snooks. I can't pant you, said Philo Gub, but I can overall you. The late Tasmanian wild man was most grateful. When he was dressed in the overalls and had wiped the grease paint from his face on an old rag, no one would have recognized him. And as for thanks, said Philo Gub, don't mention it. The detective gent is obliged to keep up a set of disguises hitherto unsuspected by the mortal world. This Tasmanian wild man outfit will do for a hermit disguise, so you don't owe me no thanks. As Philo Gub watched Waldo Emerson Snooks start in the direction of Boston, only some 1,300 miles away, he had no idea how soon he would have occasion to use the Tasmanian wild man disguise. But hardly had the wild man departed and a small boy came to summon Mr. Gub. And it was with a sense of elation and importance that he appeared before the meeting of the Riverbank Lady's Social Service League. And so, said Mrs. Garthwaite at the close of the interview, you understand us, Mr. Gub? Yes, ma'am, said Philo Gub. What you want me to do is find Mr. Winterberry, ain't it? Exactly, agreed Mrs. Garthwaite. And when found, said Mr. Gub, the said stolen goods is to be returned to you. Just so. And the fiends in human form that stole him are to be given the full limit of the law. They certainly deserve it, abducting a nice little gentleman like Mr. Winterberry, said Mrs. Garthwaite. They do indeed, said Philo Gub. And they shall be. I would only ask how far you want me to arrest. If the manager of the sideshow stole him, my natural and professional detective instincts would tell me to arrest the manager. And if the whole sideshow stole him, I would make bold to arrest the whole sideshow. But if the whole circus stole him, am I to arrest the whole circus? And if so, ought I to include the menagerie? Or I to arrest the elephants and the camels? Arrest only those in human form, said Mrs. Garthwaite. Philo Gub sat straight and put his hands on his knees. In referring to human form, ma'am, he asked, do you include them orangutans and apes? I do, said Mrs. Garthwaite. Association with criminals has probably inclined their poor minds to criminality. Yes, ma'am, said Philo Gub, rising. I leave on this case by the first train. Mr. Gub hastily packed the Tasmanian garment and six other disguises in a suitcase, put the $14 given him by Mrs. Garthwaite in his pocket and hurried to catch the train for Bardville, where the world's monster combined shows were to show the next day. With true detective caution, Philo Gub disguised even this simple act. Having packed his suitcase, Mr. Gub wrapped it carefully in manila paper and inserted a laundry ticket under the twine. Thus anyone seeing him might well suppose he was returning from the laundry and not going to Bardville. To make this seem the more likely he donned his Chinese disguise, number 17, consisting of a pink skull-like wig with a long pigtail, a blue jumper and a yellow complexion. Mr. Gub rubbed his face with crude ochre powder and his complexion was a little high, being more the hue of a pumpkin than the true oriental skin tint. Those he met on his way to the station imagined he was in the last stages of yellow fever and fled from him hastily. He reached the station just as the train's wheels began to move and he was springing up the steps onto the platform of the last car when a hand grasped his arm. He turned his head and saw that the man grasping him was Jonas Metterbrook, one of Riverbank's wealthiest men.  Mino savi melokentoki, he jabbered, bunting Mr. Metterbrook off the car-step. Bright and early the next morning Philo Gub gave himself a healthy coat of tan with rather high color on his cheekbones. From his collection of beards and mustaches, carefully tagged from number one to number 18 in harmony with the types of disguises mentioned in the 12 Lessons of the Rising Sun Detective Agency's Correspondence School of Detecting, he selected mustache number eight and inserted the spring wires into his nostrils. Mustache number eight was a long, deadly black mustache with up-curled ends, and when Philo Gub had donned it, he had a most sinister appearance, particularly as he failed to remove the string tag, which bore the legend number eight, gambler or card-sharp, manufactured and sold by the Rising Sun Detective Agency's Correspondence School of Detecting Supply Bureau. Having put on this mustache, Mr. Gub took a common, splint market basket from under the bed and placed it in the matted hair of the Tasmanian wild man. His makeup materials, a small mirror, two towels, a cake of soap, the Tasmanian wild man's animal skin robe, the hair rope and the abbreviated trunks. He covered these with a newspaper. The sun was just rising when he reached the railway sighting and hardly had Mr. Gub arrived when the work of unloading the circus began. Mr. Gub, searching for the abducted Mr. Winterberry, sped rapidly from place to place, the string tag on his mustache napping over his shoulder, but he saw no one answering Mrs. Garthwaite's description of Mr. Winterberry. When the tent wagons had departed, the elephants and camels were unloaded, but Mr. Winterberry did not seem to be concealed among them and the animal cages, which came next, were all tightly closed. There were four or five cars, however, that attracted Philo Gub's attention and one in particular made his heart beat rapidly. This car bore the words, world's monster combined shows freak car. And as Mr. Winterberry had gone as a social reform agent to the side show, Mr. Gub rightly felt that here, if anywhere, he would find a clue and he was doubly agitated since he knew the beautiful Cirillo was doubtless in that car. Walking around the car, he heard the door at one end open. He crouched under the platform, his ears and eyes on edge. Hardly was he concealed before the head ruffian of the unloading gang approached. Mr. Dorgan, he said in quite another tone than he had used to his laborers. Should I fetch that wild man cage to the grounds for you today? No, said Dorgan, what's the use? I don't like an empty cage standing around. Leave it on the car, Jake, or hold on. I'll use it, take it up to the grounds and put it in the side show as usual. I'll put the pet in it. Are you fooling, asked the loading boss with a grin. The cage won't know itself, Mr. Dorgan, after holding that ripped snort and wild man to be holding a cold corpse like the pet is. Never you mind, said Dorgan shortly. I know my business, Jake. You and I know the pet is a dead one, but these country yaps don't know it. I might as well make some use of the remains as long as I've got them on hand. Who are you going to fool, sweetie? Asked a voice and Mr. Dorgan looked around to see Cirilla, the fat lady, standing in the car door. Oh, just folks, said Dorgan, laughing.  And I don't think it's nice of you. Say what you will, Mr. Dorgan. A corpse is a corpse and a respectable side show ain't no place for it. I wish you would take it out in the lot and bury it like I wanted you to, or throw it in the river and get rid of it. Won't you, dearie? I will not, said Mr. Dorgan firmly. A corpse may be a corpse, Cirilla, any place but in the circus. But in a circus, it's a feature. He's going to be one of the seven sleepers. One of what? Asked Cirilla. One of the seven sleepers, said Dorgan. I'm going to put him in the cage. The wild man was in and I'm going to tell the audience he's asleep. He looks dead, I'll say. But I give my word, he's only asleep. We offer $5,000, I'll say, to any man, woman or child that proves contrary than that we have documents proven that this human being in this cage fell asleep in the year 1837, and has been sleeping ever since. The longest nap on record, I'll say. That'll fetch a laugh. And you don't care, dearie, that I'll be creepy all through the show, do you? Said Cirilla. I won't care a hang, said Dorgan. Mr. Gubb glided noiselessly from under the car and sped away. He had heard enough to know that Devil Tree was a foot. There was no doubt in his mind that the pet was the late Mr. Winterberry, for if ever a man deserved to be called pet, Mr. Winterberry, according to Mrs. Garthwaite's description, was that man. There was no doubt that Mr. Winterberry had been murdered and that these heartless wretches meant to make capital of his body. The inference was logical. It was a strong clue, and Mr. Gubb hurried to the circus grounds to study the situation. No, said Cirilla, tearfully. You don't care a hang for the nerves of the lady when the gent freaks under your care, Mr. Dorgan. It's nothing to you if repulsion from that corpse-like pet drags 70 or 80 pounds of fat off of me, for you well know what my contract is. So much a week and so much for each additional pound of fat, and the less fat I am, the less you have to add onto your payroll. The day the pet come to the show first, I fainted outright and busted down the platform.   He looks so lifelike, sobbed Cirilla. Oh hoxy, shouted Mr. Dorgan. Yes, sir, said the strong man coming to the car door. Take Cirilla in and tell the girls to put ice on her head. She's getting hysterics again. And when you've told him, go up to the grounds and tell Blake and Skinny to unpack the petrified man. Tell him I'm going to use him again today, and if he's looking shop-worn, have one of the men go over his complexion and make him look nice and lifelike. Mr. Dorgan swung off from the car step and walked away. The petrified man had been one of his mistakes. In days past, petrified men had been important sideshow features and Mr. Dorgan had supposed the time had come to reintroduce them. And he had had an excellent petrified man made of concrete with steel reinforcements in the legs and arms and a body of hollow tile so that it could stand rough travel. Unfortunately, the features of the petrified man had been entrusted to an artist devoted to the making of clothing dummies. Instead of an Aztec or cave-dweller cast in the countenance, he had given the petrified man the simpering features of the wax figures seen in cheap clothing stores. The result was that instead of gazing at the petrified man with awe as a wonder of nature, the audiences laughed at him and the living freaks dubbed him the pet or still more rudely the corpse. And when the glass case broke at the end of the week, Mr. Dorgan ordered the pet packed in a box. Just now, however, the flight of the Tasmanian wild man and the involuntary departure of Mr. Winterberry at the command of his wife after his short appearance as Wawa, the Mexican hairless dogman suggested the new use for the petrified man. When Detective Gub reached the circus grounds, the glaring banners had not yet been erected before the sideshow tent, but all the tents except the big top were up and all hands were at work on that one, or supposed to be. Two were not. Two of the roughest looking roustabouts after glancing here and there glided into the property tent and concealed themselves behind a pile of blue cases, hampers, and canvas bags. One of them immediately drew from under his coat a small but heavy parcel wrapped in an old rag. Say, Cole, he said in a coarse voice.  This here stuff will be just as safe in there as in the bank, see? Give me the screwdriver. Not to be opened until Chicago, said the other, gleefully pointing to the words dubbed on one of the blue cases. But I guess it will be. Hey, old pal, I guess so. Together they removed the lid of the box and Detective Gub, seeking the sideshow, crawled under the wall of the property tent just in time to see the two ruffians heritally jam their parcel into the case and screw the lid in place again. Mr. Gub's mustache was now in a diagonal position, but little he cared for that. His eyes were fastened on the countenance of the two roustabouts. The men were easy to remember. One was red-headed and pockmarked and the other was dark and the lobes of his ears were slit as if someone had at some time forcibly removed a pair of rings from them. Very quietly Filo Gub wiggled backwards out of the tent, but as he did so his eyes caught a word painted on the side of the blue case. It was pet. Mr. Gub proceeded to the next tent. Stooping he peered inside and what he saw satisfied him that he had found the sideshow. Around the inside of the tent, men were erecting a blue platform and on the far side four men were wheeling a tongueless cage into place. A door at the backside of the cage swung open and shut as the men moved the cage, but another in front was securely bolted and barred. Mr. Gub lowered the tent wall and backed away. It was into this cage that the body of Mr. Winterberry was to be put to make a public holiday for yokels and the murderer was still at large. Murderer? Murderers. For who were the two rough characters he had seen tampering with the case containing the remains of the pet? What had they been putting in the case? If not the murderers, they were surely accomplices. Walking like a wary flamingo, Mr. Gub circled the tent. He saw Mr. Dorgan and Cirilla enter it, himself hidden in a clump of bushes. He saw Mr. Lonergan, the living skeleton, Mr. Hoxie, the strongman, Major Ching, the Chinese giant, General Thumb, the dwarf, Princess Zozo, the serpent-charmer, Maggie, the Sir Cassian girl and the rest of the sideshow employees enter the tent. Then he removed his number eight mustache and put it in his pocket and balanced his mirror against a twig. Mr. Gub was changing his disguise. For a while the lady and gentleman freak stood talking, casting reproachful glances at Mr. Dorgan. Cirilla, with traces of tears on her face, was complaining of the cruel man who insisted that the pet become part of the show once more and Mr. Dorgan was resisting their reproaches. I'm the boss of the show, he said firmly. I'm going to use that cage and I'm going to use that pet. Couldn't you put Orlando in it and get up a spiel about him? Asked Princess Zozo, whose largest serpent was called Orlando.  He's passionately fond of cold cream. Well, the public ain't passionately fond of seeing a snake smell it, said Mr. Dorgan. The pet is going into that cage, see? Couldn't you borrow an ape from the menagerie? Asked Mr. Lonergan, the living skeleton who was as passionately fond of Cirilla as Orlando was of cold cream. And have him be the first man monkey to speak the human language, only he's got a cold and can't talk today. You did that once? And got roasted by the whole crowd. No, sir, Mr. Lonergan, I can't and I won't. Bring that case right over here, he added, turning to the four roustabouts who were carrying the blue case into the tent. Got it open? Good. Now. He looked toward the cage and stopped short.  Sitting on his haunches, his forepaws, or hands hanging down like those of a becking dog, the Tasmanian wild man stared from between the bars of the cage. The matted hair, the bare legs, the animal skin blanket, the streaks of ochre and red on the face, the black circles around the eyes with the white inside the circles were those of a real Tasmanian wild man. But this Tasmanian wild man was tall and thin, almost rivaling Mr. Lonergan in that respect. The thin Roman nose and the blinky eyes together with the manner of holding the head on one side suggested a bird, a large and dissipated flamingo, for instance. Mr.  He stared so steadily that he even took a telegram from the messenger boy who entered the tent and signed for it without looking at the address. The messenger boy too stopped to stare at the Tasmanian flamingo. The man who had brought the blue case set it down and stared. The freaks gathered in front of the cage and stared. What is it? asked Sirilla in a voice trembling with emotion. Say, where in the USA did you come from? asked Mr. Dorgan suddenly. What in the dickens are you anyway? I'm a Tasmanian wild man, said Mr. Gubb mildly. You, a Tasmanian wild man, said Mr. Dorgan. You don't think you look like a Tasmanian wild man, do you?  He looks like an intoxicated pterodactyl, said Mr. Lonergan, who had some knowledge of prehistoric animals. Only Harrier. He looks like a human turkey with a piebald face, suggested General Thumb. He don't look like nothing, said Mr. Dorgan at last. That's what he looks like.  He added sternly to Mr. Gubb. I don't want nothing that looks like you nowhere near this show. Mr. Dorgan, dearie, think how he'd draw crowds, said Cirilla. Crowds? Of course he'd draw crowds, said Mr. Dorgan. But what would I say when I've lectured about him? What would I call him? No, he's got to go, boys. He said to the four Rousedabouts, two of whom were those Mr. Gubb had seen in the property tent. Throw this feller out of the tent. Stop, said Mr. Gubb, raising one hand. I will admit I have tried to deceive you. I am not a Tasmanian wild man. I am a detective. Detective, said Mr. Dorgan. In disguise, said Mr. Gubb, modestly. In the detective profession, the assuming of disguises is often necessary to the completion of the clarification of a mystery plot. He pointed down at the pet, whose newly Rouged and powdered face rested smirkingly in the box below the cage. I arrest you all, he said, but before he could complete the sentence, the red-headed man and the black-headed man turned and bolted from the tent. Mr. Gubb beat and jerked at the bars of his cage as frantically as Mr. Waldo Emerson Snooks had ever beaten and jerked, but he could not rend them apart. Get those two fellers, Mr. Gubb shouted to Mr. Hoxie, and the strongman ran from the tent. What's this about a rest, asked Mr. Dorgan. I arrest this whole sideshow, said Mr. Gubb, pressing his face between the bars of the cage. For the murder of that poor, gentle, harmless man now a dead corpse into that blue box there. Mr. Winterberry by name, but called by you by the alias of the pet. Winterberry exclaimed Mr. Dorgan. That Winterberry, that ain't Winterberry, that's a stone man, a made-to-order concrete man with hollow tile stomach and reinforced concrete arms and legs. I had him made to order. The criminal mind is well equipped with explanations for use in time of stress, said Mr. Gubb. Lesson six of the Correspondent's School of Detecting warns the detective against explanations of murderers when confronted by the victim. I demand an autopsy on to Mr. Winterberry. Autopsy exclaimed Mr. Dorgan, I'll autopsy him for you. He grasped one of the pet's hands and wrenched off one concrete arm. He struck the head with a tent stake and shattered it into a crumbling concrete. He jerked the Roman tunic from the body and disclosed the hollow tile stomach. Hello, he said, lifting a rag-wrapped parcel from the interior of the pet. What's this? When unwrapped it proved to be two dozen silver forks and spoons and a good-sized silver trophy cup. Riverbank Country Club Duffer's Golf Trophy, 1909. Mr. Dorgan read, one by Jonas Medderbrook. How did that get there? Jonas Medderbrook said, Gubb is a man of my own local town. He is, is he, said Mr. Dorgan. And what's your name? Gubb, said the detective. Philo Gubb, Esquire, detective and paper hanger, Riverbank, Iowa. Then, this is for you, said Mr. Dorgan, and he handed the telegram to Mr. Gubb. The detective opened it and read, Gubb, care of circus, Bardville, Iowa. My house robbed circus night, golf cup gone, game now rotten, never win another, $500 reward for return to me, Jonas Medderbrook. You didn't actually come here to find Mr. Winterberry DQ, asked Cirilla. Mr. Gubb folded the telegram, raised his matted hair and tucked the telegram between id and his own hair for safekeeping. When a detective starts out to detect, he said calmly, sometimes he detects one thing and sometimes he detects another. That cup is one of the things I detected today.  I'll feel better. And you'll look better, said Mr. Dorgan, you couldn't look worse. In the course of the detective career, said Mr. Gubb, a gent has to look a lot of different ways and I thank you for the compliment. The art of disguising the human physiology is difficult. This disguise is but one of many. I am frequently called upon to assume. Well, if any more like this one, said Mr. Dorgan with sincerity, I'm glad I'm not a detective. Cirilla, however, heaved her several hundred pounds of bosom and cast her eyes toward Mr. Gubb. I think detectives are lovely in any disguise, she said. And Mr. Gubb's heart beat wildly. End of The Pet by Ellis Parker Butler. The Eagles Clause by Ellis Parker Butler. This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org. Reading by Greg Marguerite. The Eagles Clause by Ellis Parker Butler. 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 Cirilla.  Philo felt, however, that his admiration must be hopeless for Cirilla must earn a salary in keeping with her size. And his income was too irregular and small to keep even a thin wife. $500 was a large reward for a loving cup that cost not over $30, but is true. But Mr. Jonas Meadowbrook 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. Detective Gubb hastened to the home of Mr. Meadowbrook. But when the door of that palatial house opened, the collared butler told Mr. Gubb that Mr. Meadowbrook was at the golf club attending the annual banquet of the 50 worst duffers. Mr. Gubb started for the golf club. As he walked, he thought of Cirilla and he was at the gate of the golf club before he knew it. He walked up the path toward the clubhouse but when halfway he stopped short, all his detective instincts aroused. The windows of the clubhouse glowed with light and sounds of merriment issued from them but the cause of Philo-Gubb's sudden pause was ahead 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 Prye. When within a few feet of him, Mr. Gubb seated himself tailor fashion on the grass. 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 respectively benevolent, old German-American gentleman. Kindliness and good nature beamed from its lines but at the moment the plump little man seemed in trouble. Good evening, said Mr. Gubb. I presume you are taking an observation of the dinner party within the inside of the club. The old gentleman turned sharply. Yes, he said. I look at their people's eating and drinking. Always I like to see that. Un such good eaters. That man with their black beard, he was a splendid eater. Mr. Gubb raised himself to his knees and looked into the dining room. That, he said, is the honorable Mr. Jonas Matterbrook, the wealthiest rich man in Riverbank. Matterbrook, Mattercrook, said the old German-American. Not Jonas, eh? Not Jones, to my present personal knowledge at this time, said Philo Gubb. Not Jones, repeated the plumply, benevolent-looking German-American. That was strange. You was sure he was not Jones? 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. Matterbrook to receive $500 reward from him for. So, queried the stranger. $500? And it is his cup? 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 Matterbrook's. The light of the window made the engraving easy to read, but the old German-American first drew from his pocket a pair of cold-rimmed spectacles and adjusted them carefully on his nose. He then took the cup and moved closer to the window and read the inscription.  Excuse me, he added, and with gentle deliberation he removed Mr. Gubb's hat. Just a minute, please. He continued, and with his free hand he felt gently on the top of Mr. Gubb's head. He turned Mr. Gubb's head gently to the right. So, he exclaimed, dat was gut. 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. 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. Here, said Dr. Briggs, you must not do that. 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.  I say you must not stand up.  Who had a fit? asked Philo Gubb. You did, said Dr. Briggs.  You're dazed, lie down. I prefer to wish to stand erect on my feet, said Mr. Gubb firmly. Where's my cup? What cup? Who told you I was suffering from the symptoms of a fit? demanded Philo Gubb. Why, a short plump little German did, said the doctor, he sent me here and he gave me this to give to you. 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. Received of J. Jones, Golf Cup, worth $500. P. H. Schreckenheim. Philo Gubb turned to Dr. Briggs. 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. Now, what is all this? asked the doctor suspiciously. What is that letter anyway? 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. He picked his hat from the lawn and in his most stately manner walked around the clubhouse and in at the door. Inside the clubhouse, Mr. Gubb asked one of the waiters to call Mr. Metterbrook and Mr. Metterbrook immediately appeared. As he came from the dining room rapidly, the napkin he had tucked in his neck fell over his shoulder behind him and Mr. Metterbrook, instead of turning around, bent backwards until he could pick up the napkin with his teeth, after which he resumed his normal upright position. Excuse me, Gubb, he said. I didn't think what I was doing. Where's the cup? The detective explained. He handed Mr. Metterbrook the receipt that had been sent by Mr. Schrekenheim and the moment Mr. Metterbrook's eyes fell upon it, he turned red. That infernal Dutchman, he cried. Although Mr. Schrekenheim was not a Dutchman at all, but a German-American. I'll jail him for this. He stopped short. Gubb, he said, did that fellow tell you what his business was? He did not, said Philo Gubb. He failed to express any mention of it. That man, said Mr. Metterbrook bitterly, is Schrekenheim, the greatest tattoo artist in the world. He is the king of them all. A connoisseur in tattoo-ish art can tell Schrekenheim as easily as a picture dealer can tell a Corot. But no matter. Mr.  Yes, you had all river banks seen me and 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 the 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. You don't object to my attempting to try? Said Philo Gubb. No, said Mr. Jonas Metterbrook, 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 expenses of tights by having myself tattooed so that my skin would represent scales? Look. Mr. Metterbrook pulled up his cuff and showed Mr. Gubb his arm. It was beautifully tattooed in red and blue, like the scales of a cobra. The cost, continued Mr. Metterbrook, 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 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 $500, when the eagle was about completed, I said to Herr Schreckenheim, of course you will do no more eagles. More eagles, he said, questioningly. On other men, I said, I want to be the only man with an eagle on my chest. I am doing an eagle on another man now, he said. 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. He was very angry. It is a contract, he cried, $500 you owe me. 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. 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 to touch the child. And now, said Mr. Medebrook, he has taken the golf-cup by value at $500. He has won. At the mention of the threat regarding the child, Philo Gubb's eyes opened wide, but he kept silent. Gubb, said Mr. Medebrook suddenly, I'll give you $1,000 if you can recover my poor child. The detective profession is full of complicity of detail, said Mr. Gubb. And the impossible is quite possible when put in the right hands. The cub, bother the cub, said Mr. Medebrook carelessly. I want my child. I'll give $10,000 for my child, Gubb. With difficulty, could Philo Gubb constrain his eagerness to depart? He had a clue. 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 Sirilla. Mr. Gubb ran down the list. Number seven, card sharp. Number nine, minister of the gospel. Number 12, butcher. Number 16, negro hack driver. Number 17, Chinese laundry man. Number 20, 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 moustache. He donned the complete 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. 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 and observe to the circus grounds, but a dozen small boys immediately attached themselves to him, running before him and whooping with joy.  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 sideshow tent was up and the big top rising. It was not until nine o'clock, however, that the sideshow ladies and gentlemen began to appear and when they arrived they went at once to the grub tent and seated themselves at the table. From a corner of the big top sidewall, Detective Gubb watched them. Look there, dearie, said Cirilla suddenly to Princess Zozo. Don't that cowboy look like Mr. Gubb that was at Bardville and got the golf cup? 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 seem to like him yesterday. I thought he was a real gentlemanly gentleman, dearie, if that's what you mean, said Cirilla and raising her voice she called to Mr. Gubb. For a moment he hesitated and then he came forward.  I thought you went home last night. You ain't after no more criminals, are you? There are variously many ends to the detective business, said Mr. Gubb as he seated himself beside Cirilla. I'm upon a most important case at the present time. Cirilla 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. I presume you don't hardly ever long for a home in one place, Miss Cirilla. He began with his eye fixed on her arm just above the elbow. Well, believe me, Deary, said Cirilla. You don't want to think that just because I travel with a sideshow I don't long for the refinements of a true home, just like other folks.  But they've got me down wrong, Mr. Gubb. I was unfortunate in getting lost from my father and mother when a babe. But many is the time I've said to Zozo. I've got a refined strain in my nature. Haven't I, Zozo? You say it every time we begin to rag you about falling in love with every new thin man you see, said Princess Zozo. You said it last night when we was joshing you about Mr. Gubb here. Cirilla collared but Mr. Gubb thrilled joyously. Just the same, Deary, Cirilla 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. Pant, asked Mr. Gubb. Bant was the word I used, Mr. Gubb? Cirilla replied. Maybe you wouldn't guess it, looking at me shoveling in the edibles this way, but eating food is the cruelest thing I have to do. It jars me something terrible. Yes, Deary, what I long for day and night is a chance to take my place in the social stratums I was born for and bant off the fat like other social ladies is doing 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 fashionable lady would care to have. And as soon as possible, I'm going to quit the road and bant off six or 700 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 thin-word road?  Mr. Gubb awaited the reply with eagerness. He tried to remain calm, but in spite of himself he was nervous. Watch me, said Cirilla. If you could show me a nook like that, you couldn't hold me in this show business with a tent stake and a bull tackle, but that's a rosy dream. You ain't got to lock it with the photo of your mother's picture into it, asked Mr. Gubb. No, said Cirilla. My pa and ma was unknown to me.  The first I knew of things was that I was traveling with a show, representing a newborn babe in an incubator machine. I was incubated up to the time I was five years old and got too long to go into the glass case. But someone was your guardian in charge of you, no doubt, asked Gubb. I had 40 of them, dearie, said Cirilla. Whenever money run low they quit because they couldn't get paid on Saturday night. Ha, said Mr. Gubb, and does the name Jones bring back the memory of any remembrance to you? No, Mr. Gubb, said Cirilla regretfully, seeing how eager he was. It don't. 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. The wagon pole in question was attached to a canvas wagon nearby, and Detective Gubb seated himself on it and thought. The sideshow, ladies and gentlemen, having finished, entered the sideshow tent with the exception of Cirilla, 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 Cirilla thoughtfully. He had not the least doubt that Cirilla was the lost daughter of Mr. Jones, or Matterbrook as he now called himself. The German-American tattoo artist had sworn to complete the eagle by putting its claws on Mr. Jones's daughter, if need be, and here were the claws on Cirilla'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 Cirilla'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. Enderberry, the tattooed man of the sideshow, should be a connoisseur and would perhaps be able to identify the eagle's claws. Leaving Cirilla still eating, Mr. Gubb entered the sideshow tent. Mr. Enderberry seated on a blue property case was engaged in biting the entire row of fingernails on his right hand, and a frown creased his brow. He was then wrapped 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. Enderberry led a dog's life. For years he had loved Cirilla 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. Enderberry she seemed to have nothing but contempt. Mr. Enderberry had first seen her when she was posing in the infant incubator and had loved her even then, for he was 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. Excuse me for begging your pardon, said Mr. Gubb, but in the detective business questions have to be asked. Have you ever chance to happen to notice some tattoo work upon the arm of Miss Cirilla of the sideshow? I have, said Mr. Enderberry shortly. A pair of eagles claws, said Mr. Gubb, can you tell me from your knowledge and belief if the work there done was the work of Mr. Herr Schreckenheim? I can tell you if I want to, said Mr. Enderberry. What do you want to know for? If those claws are the work of Mr. Herr Schreckenheim, said Mr. Gubb, I am prepared to offer to Miss Cirilla her daughterly place in a home of wealth at Riverbank, Iowa. If those claws are Schreckenheim claws, Miss Cirilla is the daughter of Mr. Jonas Metterbroek of the said Berg beyond the question of a particle of doubt. Mr. Enderberry looked at Mr. Gubb with surprise. That's not, he began. And if Schreckenheim did those claws, he'll take Cirilla away from this show forever, he asked. I will, said Philo Gubb, if she desires to wish to go.  Do you desire to wish me to understand that they are not the work of Mr. Herr Schreckenheim? Persisted Mr. Gubb. I have nothing to say, said Mr. Enderberry. I consider that conclusive circumstantial evidence that they are, said Detective Gubb, and he clanked out of the sideshow. Cirilla 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 Metterbrook and his lost daughter, of the home of wealth that awaited that daughter, and finally of his belief that Cirilla was that daughter. It was clear that Cirilla 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 Metterbrook. 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 on me. If you ask me, I'll say it was 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 Cirilla, 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 Cirilla, but when I was a small child I had an accident and had to be took to the 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. Endeperi has always crossed on the days of the month that he gets Mr. Schreckenheim's statements of money too. Mr. Schreckenheim is the man that tattooed Mr. Endeperi so beautiful, but poor Mr. Endeperi has never been able to pay him in full. Milo Gubb arose. I'm going to telegraph Mr. Medebrook 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. Medebrook, escorted by Mr. Gubb, entered the sideshow tent. The lady and gentlemen freaks were resting before evening grub, and all were gathered around Cirilla's platform for the news that she was to leave the show to enter a home of wealth, and refinement had spread quickly. Cirilla herself was in tears. Now that the time had come, she was loathed to part from her kind companions. I tell you, Mr. Gubb, Mr. Medebrook said as they entered the sideshow. 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 the platform, said Mr. Gubb. Mr. Medebrook looked towards Cirilla and gasped. Why, that, that's the fat woman. That's the fat woman of the sideshow, he exclaimed.  But she is, said Mr. Gubb. Great Scott, exclaimed Mr. Medebrook. For years Mr. Medebrook 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 tightrope walker or one of the toe dancers in the grand spectacle, or perhaps even engaged as the $10,000 beauty.  Yes, said a voice suddenly. You bet I was here, would I find my money? Years I have been collecting that bill, and still you owe me. Now I come and you pay me all what you owe me, or I make trouble. The voice came from outside the tent, and with surprising agility, Detective Gubb dived under the platform and wriggled under the canvas wall.  I've paid you for every bit of tattoo I have on me. $700, what's their contract? cried the voice of Herr Schreckenheim. Und $10 is due me yet, I want it. Well, you'll keep on wanting it, said Mr. Enderberry'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, when I do that eagle? asked the German-American. Yes, but they're not on me now, are they? asked Mr. Enderberry. 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 $10 for those claws from Cirilla. Und how does she get those claws on her? asked Herr Schreckenheim shrewdly. I'll tell you how, said Mr. Enderberry. You remember when Griggs and Barton's circus burned down years ago? Well, Cirilla 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 eagles 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. Metterbrook, a cry from Cirilla, 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 number eight 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. Metterbrook, the detective 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. Metterbrook, 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 detective 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 Cirilla and unhooked two of the hooks at the top of Cirilla's low-necked gown. Look, she exclaimed, and she pointed to a second pair of eagle's claws tattooed between Cirilla's shoulder blades. Without a word, Mr. Metterbrook took $500 from his purse and handed them to Mr. Schreckenheim. That pays you for the cup, he said, and then turning to Cirilla. Come to my arms, my long lost daughter. After Cirilla 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. Metterbrook'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 $10,000 shall be yours. Into ordinary circumstances, said Mr. Gubb gravely, $10,000 would be a largely big price to pay for recovering back a lost daughter, Mr. Metterbrook. But into the present case, it don't amount to more than $10 per pound of daughter, which ain't a largely great rate per pound. End of The Eagles Clause by Ellis Parker Butler. A Christmas fantasy with a moral. This is LibriVox Recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org, L-I-B-R-I-V-O-X-dot-O-R-G. Recording by Paul Brown. A Christmas fantasy with a moral by Thomas Bailey Aldrick. Originally from the century, volume 43, issue two, 1891. Her name was Mildred Wentworth, and she lived on the slope of Beacon Hill in one of those old-fashioned swell front houses. She lived on the slope of Beacon Hill in those old-fashioned swell front houses which have the inestimable privilege of looking upon Boston Common. It was Christmas afternoon, and she had gone up to the blue room on the fourth floor in order to make a careful inspection in solitude of the various gifts that had been left in her slender stocking and at her bedside the previous night. Mildred was in some respects a very old child for her age, which she described as being half past seven, and had a habit of spending hours alone in the large front chamber occupied by herself and the governess. This day the governess had gone to keep Christmas with her own family in South Boston, and it so chanced that Mildred had been left to dispose of her time as she pleased during the entire afternoon. She was well content to have the opportunity, for fortune had treated her magnificently, and it was deep satisfaction, after the excitement of the morning, to sit in the middle of that spacious room with its three windows overlooking the pearl-crusted trees in the Common and examine her treasures without any chance of interruption. The looms of Kashmir and the workshops of Germany, the patient Chinaman and the irresponsible polar bear had alike contributed to those treasures. Among other articles was a small square box covered with mottled paper and having an outlandish, mysterious aspect as if it belonged to a magician. When you loosened the catch of this box, possibly supposing it to contain bonbons of a superior quality, there sprang forth a terrible little monster with a drifting white beard like a snowstorm, round emerald green eyes, and a pessimistic expression of countenance, generally, as though he had been reading Tolstoy or Schopenhauer. This abrupt personage, whose family name was Helio Gabulus, was known for simplicity's sake as Jumping Jack, and though the explanation of the matter is beset with difficulties, it is not to be concealed that he held a higher place in the esteem of Miss Wentworth than any of her other possessions, not excluding a tall wax doll, found the circle with a pallid complexion and a profusion of blonde hair. Titania was not more in love with Nick Bottom, the weaver, than Mildred with Jumping Jack. It was surely not his personal beauty that won her, for he had none. It was not his intellect, for intellect does not take up its abode in a forehead of such singular construction as that of Jumping Jack. But whatever the secret charm was, it worked. On a more realistic stage than this, we see analogous cases every day. Perhaps Oberon still exercises his fairy craft in our material world, and scatters at will upon the eyelids of mortals the magic distillation of that little western flower, which will make, or man or woman, daddly dot upon the next live creature that it sees. For an hour or so, Mildred amused herself sufficiently by shutting Helio Gabulus up in the box and letting him spring out again. Then she grew weary of the diversion and finally began to lose patience with her elastic companion, because he was unable to crowd himself into the box and undo the latch with his own fingers. This was extremely unreasonable, but so was Mildred made. How tedious you are! she cried at last.  I don't see how I ever came to like you.  What do you mean, sir, by standing and staring at me in that tiresome way? You look enough like Dobbs the Butcher to be his brother, or to be Dobbs himself. I wonder you don't up and say, Steak or chups, mum? Dear me, I wish you really had some life in you and could move about and talk with me and make yourself agreeable. Do be alive! Mildred gave a little laugh at her own absurdity and then, being an imaginative creature, came presently to regard the ideas not altogether absurd and finally, as not absurd at all. If a bow that has been frozen to death all winter can put forth blossoms in the spring, why might not an inanimate object, which already possessed many of the surface attributes of humanity and possibly some of the internal mechanism, add to itself the crowning gift of speech? In view of the daily phenomena of existence, would that be so very astonishing? Of course the problem took a simpler shape than this in Mildred's unsophisticated thought. She folded her hands in her lap and, rocking to and fro, reflected how pleasant it would be if Jumping Jack, or her doll, could come to life, like the marble lady in the play and do some of the talking. What wonderful stories Jumping Jack would have to tell, for example. He must have had no end of remarkable adventures before he lost his mind. Probably the very latest intelligence from Lilliput was in his possession and perhaps he was even now vainly trying to deliver himself of it. His fixed open mouth hinted as much. The land of the pygmies in the heart of darkest Africa, just then widely discussed in the newspapers, was of course familiar ground to him. How interesting it would be to learn at first hand of the manners and customs of those little folk. Doubtless he had been a great traveller in foreign parts, the label, in German text, on the bottom of his box, showed that he had recently come from Munich. Munich! What magic there was in the very word! As Mildred rocked to and fro, her active little brain, weaving the most grotesque fancies, a drowsiness stole over her. She was crooning to herself fainter and fainter and every instant, drifting nearer to the shadowy reefs on the western coast of nowhere, when she heard a soft, inexplicable rustling sound close at her side. Mildred lifted her head quickly, just in time to behold Helio Gabulus describe a graceful curve in the air and land lightly in the midst of her best Dresden China tea-set. Ho-ho! he cried, in a voice pretty naturally gruff for an individual not above five inches in height. Ho-ho! and he immediately began to throw Mildred's cups and saucers and plates all about the apartment.  Stop it!  You surprise me! And another plate crashed against the blue-flowered wallpaper. Stop it! she repeated, and then to herself, it's a mercy I waked up, just when I did. Patience, my child!  Do! screamed Mildred, stooping to pick up a large Japanese crystal which lay absorbing the wintry sunlight at her feet. When Helio Gabulus saw that, he retired to the farther side of his tenement, peeping cautiously over the top and around the corner and disappearing altogether whenever Mildred threatened to throw the crystal at him. Now Miss Wentworth was naturally a courageous girl, and when she perceived that the pygmy was afraid of her, she resolved to make an example of him. He was such a small affair that it really did not seem worthwhile to treat him with much ceremony. He had startled her at first. His manners had been so very violent, but now that her pulse had gone down, she regarded him with calm curiosity and wondered what he would do next. Listen, he said presently, in a queer differential way as he partly emerged from his hiding place, I came to request the hand of Mademoiselle Yonder, and nodding his head in the direction of Londella, the doll, he retreated bashfully. Her! cried Mildred, aghast. You are very nice, but I can't marry out of my own set, you know, observed Heliogabulus, invisible behind his breastwork. The shyness was mere dissimulation as his subsequent behavior proved. Who would have thought it? murmured Mildred to herself, and as she glanced suspiciously at Londella, sitting bolt upright between the windows with her back against the mop board, Mildred fancied that she could almost detect a faint rosy at hue stealing into the waxen cheek. Who would have thought it? And then, addressing Jumping Jack, she cried, Come here directly, you audacious person! And she stamped her foot in a manner that would have discouraged most suitors. But Heliogabulus, who had now seated himself on the lid of his box, and showed no trace of his late diffidence, smiled superciliously as he twisted off a bit of wire that protruded from the heel of one of his boots. This frontery increased Miss Wentworth's indignation, and likewise rather embarrassed her. Perhaps he was not afraid of her after all, in which case he was worth nothing as an example. I will brush you off and tread on you," she observed tentatively, as if she were addressing an insect. Oh, indeed! he rejoined, derisively crossing his legs. I will!" cried Mildred, making an impulsive dash at him. Though taken at a disadvantage, the mannequin eluded her with surprising ease. His agility was such as to render it impossible to determine whether he was an old young man or a very young old man. Mildred eyed him doubtfully for a moment, and then gave chase. Away went the quaint little figure, now darting under the brass bedstead, now dodging around the legs of the table, and now slipping between the feet of his pursuer at the instant she was on the point of laying hand on him. Owing doubtless to some peculiarity of his articulation, each movement of his limbs was accompanied by a rustling, wiry sound, like the faint reverberation of a banjo string somewhere in the distance. Heliogabulus may have been a person with no great conversational gift, but his gymnastic requirements were of the first order. Mildred not only could not catch him, but she could not restrain the mannequin from meanwhile doing all kinds of desultory mischief. For in the midst of his course, he would pause to overturn her tin kitchen or shy a plate across the room or give a vicious twitch to the lovely golden hair of Blondella in spite of, perhaps in consequence of, his recent tender advances. It was plain that in eluding Mildred, he was prompted by Caprice rather than by fear. If things go on in this way, she reflected, I shan't have anything left. If I could only get the dreadful little creature into a corner, there goes my Turine, what shall I do? To quit the room, even for a moment, in order to call for assistance at the head of the staircase, where moreover her voice was not likely to reach anyone, was to leave everything at the mercy of that small demon. Mildred was out of breath with running and ready to burst into tears with exasperation when a different mode of procedure suggested itself to her. She would make believe that she was no longer angry and possibly she could accomplish by cunning what she had failed to compass by violence. She would consent, at least seem to consent, to let him marry Blondella, though he had lately given no signs of very fervid attachment. Beyond this Mildred had no definite scheme when the story of the fisherman and the evil Afrite flashed upon her memory from the pages of the Arabian Nights. Her dilemma was exactly that of the unlucky fisherman, and her line of action should be the same, with such modification as the exigencies might demand. As in his case, too, there was no time to be lost. An expression of ineffable benevolence and serenity instantly overspread the features of Miss Wentworth. She leaned against the wardrobe and regarded jumping jack with a look of gentle reproach. I thought you were going to be interesting, she remarked softly. Ain't I interesting? asked the goblin, with a touch of pardonable sensitiveness. No, said Mildred candidly, you are not. Perhaps you try to be. That's something, to be sure, though it's not everything. Oh, I don't want to touch you. She went on with an indifferent toss of her curls. How old are you? Ever so old and ever so young. Truly, how very odd to be both at once. Can you read? Never tried. I'm afraid your parents didn't bring you up very well, reflected Mildred. I speak all languages. The little folk of every age and every country understand me. You're a great traveller, then. I should say so. You don't seem to carry much baggage about with you. I suppose you belong somewhere, and you keep your clothes there. I really should like to know where you came from, if it's all the same to you. Out of that box, my dove! replied jumping jack, having become affable in his turn. Never exclaimed Mildred with a delightful air of incredulity. I hope I may die, declared Heliogabulous, laying one hand on the left breast of his main spring. I don't believe it, said Mildred confidently. Ho-ho!  I don't mean to hurt your feelings, but you are fluffy, and I just want you to stop that ho-ho-ing. No, I don't believe it. You don't, don't you? Behold! I'm placing both hands on the floor. Heliogabulous described a circle in the air and neatly landed himself in the box. He was no sooner in than Mildred clapped down the lid and seated herself upon it, victoriously. In the suddenness of her movement, she had necessarily neglected to fasten the catch, but that was a detail that could be attended to later. Meanwhile, she was mistress of the situation and could dictate terms. One thing was resolved. Jumping jack was never to jump again. Tomorrow he should be thrown into the Charles at the foot of Mount Vernon Street in order that the tide might carry him out to sea. What would she not have given if she could have sealed him up with that talismanic seal of Solomon, which held the cruel marriage so securely in his brazen casket? Of course, it was not in Mildred's blood to resist the temptation to tease her captive a little. Now, Mr. Jack, I guess I've got you where you belong. If you are not an old man this very minute, you will be when you get out. He wanted to carry off my blondella, did you? Any idea! I hope you are quite comfortable. Let me out!" growled Helio Gabulus in his deepest base. I couldn't think of it, dear.  So you will please remember not to speak unless you are spoken to. And Mildred broke into the merriest laugh imaginable, recollecting how many times she herself had been extinguished by the same instructions. But Mildred's triumph was premature. For the little man in the box was as strong as a giant in a dime museum.  In a minute or two more, she must inevitably fall off, and jumping jack would have her. And what mercy could she expect at his hands after her treatment of him? She was lost. Mildred stretched out her arms in despair, gave a shriek, and opened her eyes, which had been all the while as tightly shut as a couple of morning glories at sundown. She was sitting on a rug in the middle of the room. Though the window panes were still flushed with the memory of the winter sunset, the iridescent lights had faded out in the Japanese crystal at her feet. She was not anywhere near the little imp. There he was over by the fireplace, staring at nothing in his usual senseless fashion. Not a piece of crockery had been broken, not a chair upset, and Blondella, the two fascinating Blondella, had not had a single chest disarranged. Mildred drew a long breath of relief. What had happened? Had she been dreaming? She was unable to answer the question, but as she abstractedly shook out the creases in the folds of her skirt, she remarked to herself that she did not care on the whole to have any of her things come to life, certainly not jumping jack. Just then, the splintering of an icicle on the window ledge outside sent a faint whiteness into her cheek, and caused her to throw a quick apprehensive glance toward the fireplace. After an instant's hesitation, Mildred, unconsciously dragging Blondella by the hair, stole softly from the room where the specters of the twilight were beginning to gather rather menacingly, and went downstairs to join the family and relate her strange adventure. The analysis of Miss Wentworth's dream, if it were a dream, for later on she declared it was not, and hurriedly gave Helio Gabulus to an unpleasant small boy who lived next door. The analysis of her dream, I repeat, shows strong traces of a moral. Indeed, the residuum is purely of that stringent quality. Helio Gabulus must be accepted as the symbol of an ill-considered desire realized. The earnestness with which Miss Wentworth invoked the phantasm and the misery that came of it are a common experience. Painfully to attain possession of what we do not want, and then painfully to waste our days in attempting to rid ourselves of it, seems to be a part of our discipline here below. I know a great many excellent persons who are spinning the latter moiety of life in the endeavor to get their particular jumping jack snugly back into its box again. End of A Christmas Fantasy with a Moral, recorded by Paul Brown, Lampala, Finland, December 4th, 2009.


The Sentinel project is trying to address trade-offs between three SDGs, Sustainable Development Goals. That's SDG 2, Zero Hunger, SDG 10, Reducing Inequalities and SDG 15, Protecting Terrestrial Ecosystems. There are trade-offs between these in particular in Sub-Saharan Africa where achieving SDG 2 would require probably more than doubling food production by 2050. Now this would clearly have immense social and environmental impacts. And so the challenge is that these trade-offs are currently not normally officially recognized in the political discourse in most countries in Sub-Saharan Africa, but also that there are power imbalances between those working in the agricultural sector with the agricultural sector delivering on employment and food security and those in the environmental sector who often cannot easily explain why environmental services are also very important and ultimately required for sustainable development. And the starting point is really to get decision-makers in the countries where we work, at the Sambia, Ghana and Ethiopia, to recognize that these trade-offs do exist and that they won't go away, so we need to talk about them. So we've been using, for example, now during the first year, a process of participatory scenario development to think through where the impacts of agricultural development, environmental and social impacts are likely to occur and which impacts are likely to happen under what type of future agriculture. So the process of bringing people together, discussing these issues, not blaming each other but really having a dialogue is extremely important for that. And that is also the spirit of the project overall, its co-development of knowledge between researchers and research users, developing their capacity to do this and to develop new partnerships and new ways of having dialogues about these very contentious issues. So the Sentinel theme is highly topical and relevant at this stage because, as I said earlier, most countries have signed up to the SDGs and so it's clearly important to be aware of where these trade-offs occur and how we might eventually be able to overcome them, even though the how might not necessarily be a political solution but maybe a negotiation of objectives and recognition that there might not be always a win-win situation throughout. The other exciting thing is really to work with very good partners both in Africa and in the UK and to really have a process of transdisciplinary research whereby we bring together people from very different fields. Some of them have never worked together. They've never really worked with people who are doing habitat mapping or modeling of ecosystem services. So it's very new for all of us and we are learning a lot from it. And certainly the equitable partnership that is our ambition to achieve in Sentinel is also very exciting and very ambitious because we really try to share responsibilities in the project and to work together in a very democratic way. And for some of the partners this is a very new way of working. It's not always easy but it's interesting and we are enjoying it so far.