The Chicken by Ellis Parker. Butler Filo Gubb, with three rolls of wallpaper
under his arm and a pail of mixed paste in one hand, walked along
Cherry Street near the brickyard. On this occasion, mister Gubb was in a
reasonably contented frame of mind, for he had just received his share of the
reward for capturing the dynamiters, and had this very morning paid the full amount
to mister Meadowbrook, leaving but eleven six hundred and fifty dollars still to be
paid to that gentleman for the utterly hopeless gold mine stock. And upon the
further payment of seventy five cents half its cost, mister Meadowbrook gave him a
telegram he had received from Cyrilla. The telegram was as follows, Rapidly shrinking,
have given up all soups, including tomato soup, chicken soup, mulligaton,
he mocked, turtle, green pea vegetable, gumbo, lent al,
konsumme bullyon and clam broth. Now weigh only nine hundred and fifty pounds.
Why are at once whether clam chowder is a soup or a food fond remembrances
to Gubby. Mister Gubb was thinking of this telegram as he walked toward his
work. Just ahead of him, a short lane led between Missus Smith's house
and the Cherry Street Methodist Chapel to the brickyard. Missus Smith's chicken coop stood
on the fence line between her property and the brick yard. Filo Gubb had
passed Missus Smith's front gate when Missus Smith waddled to her fence and hailed him.
Oh, mister Gobb, She panded, you got to excuse me for
speaking to you when I don't know you. Missus Miffin says you're a detective.
Deed ticketing is by aim and my profession, said mister Gubb. Well,
said Missus Smith, I want to ask a word of you about I've
had a chicken stole. Chicken stealing is a crime, if ever there was
one, said Filo Gub. Seriously, what was the chicken worth? Forty
cents? Said Missus Smith Well, said Filo Gub. It wouldn't hardly pay
me. It ain't much, admitted Missus Smith. No, you're you're right,
it ain't, said Filo Gub. Was this a rooster or a hen.
It was a hen, said Missus Smith. Well, said mister Gubb.
If you was to offer a reward of one hundred dollars for the capture
of the thief, oh my land, exclaimed Missus Smith. It would be
cheaper for me to pay somebody five dollars to come and steal the rest of
the chickens. It seems to me that you ought to make the thief pay.
I ain't the one that did the crime, am I. It's only
right that a thief should pay for the time and trouble he puts you to,
ain't it. I never looked at it that way, said mister Gubb
thoughtfully, But it stands to reason. Of course it does, said missus
Smith. You catch that thief and you can offer yourself a million dollars reward
if you want to. That's none of my business, well said Filo Gubb,
picking up his paste pail. I guess if there ain't any important murders
or things turned up by seven tonight, I'll start in to work for that
reward. I guess I can ask more than five dollars reward. At seven,
the evening was still light, and Filo Gubb to cover his intentions and
avert suspicion in case his interview with Missus Smith had been observed by the thief,
put a false beard in his pocket and a revolver beside it, and
left his office in the oppera house block. Cautiously, he slipped into the
alley and glided down it, leaping close to the stables. The detective must
be cautious. The abandoned brick kilns offered admirable seclusion. A brick kiln is
built entirely or almost so of the brick that are to be burned, and
the kilns are torn down and carted away as the brick or sold. The
overstructure of the kilns was a mere roof of half inch planks laid on timbers
that were upheld by poles. A ladder leaning against one of the poles gave
access to the roof. In the darkness, it was impossible for Philo Gub
to find a fingerprint of the culprit on the kilns. Although he looked for
one. He did not even find the usual and highly helpful button. Torn
from its place in the criminal's eagerness to depart, He found only an old
horseshoe and a broken tobacco pipe, as there were evidences that the pipe had
been abandoned on that spot several years earlier. Neither of these was a very
valuable clue. Mister Gubb next game his attention to the chicken coop. It
was pre eminently a hand made chicken coop of the rough and ready variety.
Philo Gub entered the chicken house and looked around, lighting his dark lantern and
throwing its rays here and there that he might see better. The house was
so low of roof that he had to stoop to avoid the roosts, and
the tails of the chickens brushed his hat. It needed brushing, so this
did no harm the hens, and the two roosters complained gently of this interruption
of their beauty sleep, and moved along the roosts, and mister Gubb went
outside again. It was quite evident that the thief had had no great hardships
to undergo in robbing that roost. All he had to do was to enter
the chicken house, choose a chicken, and walk away with it. Why
had he not taken ten chickens? Mister Gubb, as he put the keg
hoop over the end board of the gate studied this. The theory that mister
Gus adopted was that the thief coming for a rate on the coop, had
been surprised to find it so poorly guarded. It had been so easy to
enter the coop and steal the chicken that he had decided it would be folly
to take eight or ten chickens and thus arouse instant suspicion and reprisal. Instead
of this, he had taken but one, trusting that the loss of one
would be unnoticed or blade to rats or cats or weasels. Thus he would
be able to return again and again as foul meat was needed or desired,
and the chickens would be like money in the bank, a fund on which
to draw. This theory was so sound that mister Gubb believed it would require
nothing more than patience to capture the criminal. The thief would come back for
more chickens. Filo Gubb looked around for an advantageous position in which to await
the coming of the thief and be unseen himself, and the loose board roof
of the brick kiln met his eye. No position could be better. He
climbed the ladder inside the kiln. Pushed one of the boards aside enough to
permit him to squeeze through on to the roof, and, creeping carefully over
the loose boards, reached the edge of the roof. Here he stretched himself
out flat on the boards and waited. Nothing. Absolutely nothing happened. The
mosquitoes, numerous, indeed, because of the nearness of the pond, buzzed
around his head and stung him on the neck and hands, but he did
not dare slap at them lest he betray his hiding place. Hour followed hour,
and no chicken thief appeared, And when the first rays of the sun
lighted the east, he climbed down and stalked stiffly away to a short hour
of sleep. The next night, the correspondent school detective wasted no time in
preliminary observations of the lay of the land. He kept out of sight until
the sun had set and dusk covered the land with shade, and then he
went at once to the roof of the brick kiln. This time he was
disguised in a red mustache, a pair of flowing white side whiskers, and
a woolen cap. He wore two revolvers, large ones in a belt about
his waist. It was still too early for brisk business in chicken stealing when
Philo Gubb climbed to the roof of the kiln and spread himself out there,
and he felt that he had time for a few minutes sleep. He was
tremendously sleepy. Sleep fairly pushed his eyelids down over his eyes, and he
put his crooked arm under his head, and, after thinking fondly of Syrilla
for a few minutes, went to sleep so suddenly that it was like falling
off a cliff into dreamland. He dreamed uneasily of having been captured by an
array of forty chicken thieves, of having been led in triumph before the Supreme
Court of the United States, and of having been condemned as a detective trust
on the charge of acting in restraint of trade, as injuring the Chicken Stealers
Association's business. Had required to dissolve himself. The dream was agonizing as he
tried one dissolvent after another without success. Turpentine merely dissolved his skin. Alcohol
had no effect whatever. He imagined himself in a long room in which stood
vast rows of vats bearing different labels, and in and out of these he
climbed, trying to obey the order of the court, but nothing seemed capable
of dissolving him, and he suddenly discovered that he was made of rubber.
He seemed to remember that rubber was soluble in benzine, and he started on
a tour of the vats, trying to find a benzene that he walked many
miles. Sometimes he arose in the air with ease and grace, and flew
a few miles. Finally he found the vat of benzine, immersed himself in
it, and began to dissolve, calmly and with a blessed sense of having
done his duty. It was then that Filo Gubb entered the dreamless sleep of
the utterly weary. And about the same time, two men slunk under the
roof of the brick kiln, and, after looking carefully around, took seats
on the fallen bricks, Resting their backs against the partly demolished kiln. They
arranged the bricks as comfortably as possible before seating themselves, and when they were
seated, one of them drew a whisky bottle from his pocket, and after
taking a good Swig offered it to his partner. Nope, said he.
I'm going to steer clear of that stuff until I know where I'm at.
And you're a fool for not doing the same, WIXI. First thing,
you know, you'll be salst And if you are and anything turns up,
what'll I do? I got all I can do to take care of you,
sober ah turn up? Well, what's going to turn up way out
here? Asked Wixy. They ain't nobody following us anyway. That's just a
notion you've got your nerves has gone back when you Sandlot. My nerve is
all right, And don't you worry about that, said Sandlot. I've got
plenty of nerves, so I don't have to brace it up with booze.
And you ain't. That's what's the matter with you. You saw that feller
as well as I did. Didn't you see him at the Bureau, that
fella with the white whiskers? Yes? Him? And didn't you see him
again in Durlingport? Well, what was he following us that way? For?
When he told us that Joliet he was going east? A tramp has
as good a right to change his mind as what we have, said,
Wixy. Didn't we tell him we was going east ourselves? Maybe he ain't
looking for steady company any more than we be. Maybe he come this way
to get away from us, like we did to get away from, say
sand Lot, he said, almost pleadingly. You don't really think Old White
Whiskers was a trail in us, do you? You ain't got a notion
he's a detective. How do I know what he is? Sandlot? All
I know is that when I see a feller like that once and then again,
and he looks like he was trying to keep hid from us, I
want to shake him off. I know that, and I know I'm going
to shake him off. And I know that if you get all boozed up
and full of liquor and can't walk and that fella shows up, I'm going
to quit you and look out for myself. When a feller steals something or
does any little harmless thing like that, it's different. He can't afford to
stick to a pal, even if he gets nabbed. But when it's a
case of now, don't use that word, said Wixy angrily. It wasn't
no more murder than nothing was We going to let Chicago Chicken bash our heads
in just because we stood up for our rights, him wanting a full half,
just because he put us onto the job. He ought to be killed
for asking such a thing. Will he was, wasn't, he asked Sandlot.
You killed him, all right? It was you swung on him with
the rock, Wixy, remember that, trying to put it off on me,
Ain't you? Said Wixy angrily. Well, you can't do it if
I hang you hang. Maybe I did take a rock to him, but
you had him strangled to death before I ever hit him. What's the use
gabbin about it? Said Sandlot. He's dead, and we made our getaway,
and all we got to do is keep god away. There ain't nobody
ever going to find him, not where we sunk him in that deep water.
Ain't I been saying that right along? Asked WIXI. Ain't I been
telling you was a fool to be scared of an old feller like white Whiskers,
cutting across country this way, when we might as well be forty miles
more down the rock Island, traveling along as nice as you please in a
box car. Now, look here, said Sandlot, menacingly. I ain't
going to take no abuse from you, drunk or sober. If you don't
like my way, you go back to the railroad and leave me go my
own way. I'm going on across country until I come to another railroad I
am. And if I come to a river and I run across a boat,
I'm going to take that boat and float aways. When I says nobody
is going to know anything about what we did to the chicken over there in
Chicago, I mean it, nobody is. But didn't sal know all three
of us was going out on that job that night. And when the chicken
don't come back, ain't she going to guess something happened to the chicken.
She's going to think he made a rich haul like he did, and that
he up and quit her, said Wixy. That's what she'll think. And
what if she does, says sand Lunt, She and him has been bordin
with mother Smith, ain't they. Ain't mother Smith been handin the chicken money
when he needed it because he said he was workin up this job with us.
I bet the chicken owed mother Smith a hundred dollars. And when he
don't come back, then what Sal will say she ain't got no money because
the chicken quit her, and mother Smith will, well, what, asked
Wixy. She'll send word to every crook in the country to spot the chicken,
and you know it, and when word comes back that there ain't no
trace of him, you've lost your nerve. That's what ails you, said
Wixy, scornfully. No I ain't, Sandlot insisted, I've heard plenty of
fellers tell how Mother Smith keeps tabs on anybody that tries to do her out
of ten cents. Even why maybe the chicken promised to come back that night
and pay up. I bet he did, and I bet he was sour
on Sal, and I bet mother Smith knew it all the time, and
that when he didn't come back that night, she sent out word to spot
him or us. I'll bet you you've lost your nerve, said Wixy,
drunkenly. You never did have no nerve. You're so scared you're seeing ghosts,
all right, said Sandlot, rising. I'll see ghosts then, but
i'll see them by my You can go good bye, said Wixy carelessly,
and finished the last drop in his bottle. Goodbye, old Sandlot. Goodbye.
Sandlot hesitated a moment and then arose, and, after a parting glance
at Wixi, struck out across the drying floor of the brickyard and was lost
in the darkness. Wixy blinked and balanced the empty bottle in his hand.
He's afraid, he boasted to himself. He's a coward, afraid of dark,
afraid of ghosts. Lost his nerve, I ain't afraid. He rose
to his feet unsteadily. Sandlot's coward, he said, and threw down the
empty bottle with a motion of disgust at the cowardice of Sandlot. The bottle
burst with a jangling of glass on the loose board roof. Philo gub raised
his head suddenly. For an instant he imagined he was a disembodied spirit,
his body having been dissolved in Benzene. But as he became wider awake,
he was conscious of a noise beneath him. Wixi was shifting twenty or thirty
bricks that had fallen from the kiln upon a truss of straw used the last
winter to cover new molded bricks to protect them from the frost against their drying.
He was preparing a bed. He muttered to himself as he worked,
and Philo Gubb, placing his eye to a crack between the boards of the
roof, tried to observe him. The darkness was so absolute he could see
nothing whatever. He heard Wixy stretch out on the straw, and in a
minute more he heard the heavy breathing of a sleeper. Wixy was not letting
any cowardice disturb his repose at all events, and Philo Gubb considered how he
could best get himself off the roof. The sleeping man was immediately beneath him,
the latter was a full ten yards away. Every motion made the loose
boards complain. Looking down, mister Gubb saw that the top of the kiln
reached within a few feet of where he lay, and that the partially removed
sides had left a series of giant steps. Mister Gubb loosened his pistols in
his belt. Now that he had the chicken thief so near, he meant
to capture him with the utmost care. He slid one of the boards of
the roof aside and put his long legs into the opening. Thus made feeling
for the kiln until he touched it, and when he had a firm footing
on it, he lowered the upper part of his body through the roof.
Five feet away, a cross timber reached from one pillar of the roof to
another, and just below that was one of the steps of the kiln.
Philo Gub lighted his dark lantern, and casting its ray, saw this cross
piece. If he could jump and reach it, he could drop to the
lower step and avoid the danger of bringing the side of the kiln down with
him. He slipped the lantern into his pocket, reached out his hands and
jumped into the dark. For an instant, his fingers grappled with the cross
piece. He struggled to gain a firmer, and then he dropped straight upon
the sleeping Wixi. He alighted fair and square on the murderer's stomach, and
the air went out of Wixi in a sudden whoof Philo Gub, in the
unreasoning excitement of the moment, grappled with Wixy, but the unresistance of the
man told that he was unconscious, and the correspondent school detective released him and
stood up. He uncovered the lens of his dark lantern and turned the ray
on Wixi. The murderer lay flat on his back, his eyes closed and
his mouth open. Mister Gubb put his hand on Wixi's heart. It still
beat. The man was not dead. With the dark lantern in one hand
and a rusty tin can in the other, mister Gubb hurried to the pond
and returned with the can full of water. But even in this crisis he
did not act thoughtlessly. He set the dark lantern on a shelf of the
kiln so that its rays might illuminate Wixi and himself alike. Drew one of
his pistols and pointed it full at Wixi's head, and holding it so,
he dashed the can of water in the face of the unconscious man. Wixy
moved uneasily. He emitted a long sigh and opened his eyes. I got
you, said Philo Gubb sternly. There ain't no use to make a move,
because I'm a detecative, and if you do, I'll shoot this pistol
at you. If you're able so to do, just put up your hands.
Wixy blinked in the strong light of the lantern. He groaned and placed
one of his hands on his stomach. Put him up, said Philo Gub,
and with another groan, Wixy raised his hands. He was still flat
on his back. He looked as if he were doing some sort of health
exercise. In a minute, the hands fell to the ground. I guess
you better set up, said Filo Gub. You ain't going to be able
to hold up your hands if you lay down that way. As he helped
Wixy to a sitting position, he kept his pistol against the fellow's head.
Now, then, said Filo Gub, when he had arranged his captive to
suit his taste. What you got to say, I got to say.
I never done what you think I done. Whatever it is, said Wixy.
I don't know what it is, but I never done it. Some
other feller done it. That don't bother me none, said Filo Gub.
If you didn't do it, I don't know who did. Just about the
best thing you can do is to account for the chicken and pay my expenses
of getting you. And the quicker you do it, the better off you'll
be. Pale as Wixy was, he turned still paler when Filo Gubb mentioned
the chicken. I never killed the chicken. He almost shouted. I never
did it. I don't care whether you killed the chicken or not, said
Filo Gub calmly. The chicken is gone, and I reckon that's the end
of the chicken. But missus Smith has got to be paid. Did she
send you, asked Wixy, trembling. Did Mother Smith put you on to
me? She did so, said the correspondent school detective, And you can
pay up or go to jail. How do you like that, Wixy studied
the tall detective. Look here, he said, Suppose I give you fifty
and we'll call it square. He meant fifty dollars. Maybe that would satisfy
missus Smith, said Filo Gubb, thinking of fifty cents. But it don't
satisfy me. My time's valuable and it's got to be paid for. Ten
times fifty ain't a bit too much. And if it had took longer to
catch you, I'd have asked more. If you want to give that much,
all right, and if you don't, all right too. Wixy studied
the face of Filo Gubb carefully. There was no sign of mercy in the
bird like face of the paper hanger detective. Indeed, his face was severe.
It was relentless in its sternness. Five dollars was little enough to ask
for two nights of first class correspondent school detective work. Rather than take less,
he would lead the chicken thief to jail, and Wixi with his third
and half of the chicken's third of the proceeds of the criminal job that had
led to the death of the chicken. Knowing the relentlessness of Mother Smith,
that female Fagin of Chicago, considered that he would be doing well to purchase
his freedom for five hundred dollars. All right, pal, he said,
suddenly you're on It's a bet here you are. He slipped his hand into
his pocket and drew out a great roll of money. With the muzzle of
Philogub's pistol hovering just out of reach before him, he counted out five crisp
one hundred dollar bills. He held them out with a sickly grin. Filo
Gubb took them and looked at them, puzzled. What's this for, he
asked, and Wixy suddenly blazed forth in anger. Now don't come any of
that, he cried. A bargain's a bargain. Don't you come a pretending
he didn't say, you'd take five hundred and try to get more out of
me. I won't give you no more. I won't. You can jug
me if you want to. You can't prove nothing on me. And you
know it. Have you found the body of the chicken, Well, you
got to have the corpus what you call it? Ain't you huh? Ain't
five hundred enough? I bet the chicken never cost mother Smith more than one
hundred and fifty. I was only thinking, began Filo Gub. Don't think,
then, said Wixi. Five hundred dollars seemed to Filo began again.
It's all you'll get if I hang for it, said Wixy firmly. You
can give mother Smith what you want and keep what you want. That's all
you'll get. Filo Gubb could not understand it. He tried to, but
he could not understand it at all. And then suddenly a great light dawned
in his brain. There was some this chicken thief knew that he and Missus
Smith did not know. The stolen chicken must have been of some rare and
much sought strain. So it was all right. The thief was paying what
the chicken was worth, and not what Missus Smith thought it was worth.
In her ignorance, he slipped the money into his pocket. All right,
he said, I'm satisfied if you are. The chicken was a fancy bird,
ain't it so? The chicken was a tough old rooster. That's what
he was, said Wixy, staggering to his feet. I thought he was
a hen, said Filo Cub. Missus Smith said he was a hen.
Wixy laughed as sickly laugh. It ain't much of a joke. That's why
everybody called him chicken, because his first name was hen. Filo Gubb's mouth
fell open. He was convinced now that he had to do with an insane
man. Wixy moved toward the oak drying floor. Well, so long part,
he said to Filo Gub, give my regards to mother Smith and say,
he added, if you see Sal, don't let her know what happened
to the chicken. Don't say anybody made away with the chicken. Sea Tell
Sal that chicken flew the coop himself. See who is sal, asked Filo
Gub. You ask mother Smith, said Wixy, she'll tell you, and
he went out into the dark. Filo Gubb heard him shuffle across the drying
floor, and when the sound had died away in the distance, he put
up his revolver. Five hundred dollars, he said, and he routed Missus
Smith out of bed. He did not tell her the amount of reward he
had made the chicken thief pay. He asked her what the most expensive chicken
in the world might be worth, and she reluctantly accepted ten dollars as being
far too much. Then he asked her who sal was sal queried. Missus
Smith, the chicken thief declared the statement that you would know, said mister
Gubb. He said, to tell her, well, mister Gubb said,
Missus Smith tartly, I don't know any sal and if I did, I
wouldn't carry messages to her for a chicken thief. And it's past midnight,
and the draft on my bare feet is giving me my death of cold.
And if you think this is a pink tea for me to stand around and
hold full conversation at I don't. And she slammed the door and of the chicken