Speaker 1: 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