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“What was it?” asked Philo Gubb eagerly.

“A hair,” said Chi Foxy. “Just one hair. It was a hair out of my tramp whiskers that had got in my ear, and the minute he pulled it out I was all right again and no more tramp than he was. So you see that’s the way I keep acting tramp as long as I have even one hair of tramp disguise about me. Come on, be a good feller and let me have half a dollar to get some feeds with.”

P. Gubb put his hand in his pocket and withdrew it again. “I much admire to like the way you act right up to the disguise,” he said, “and it does you proud, but of course when you ask for fifty cents it’s nothing but part of the disguise, ain’t it?”

“Now, see here, bo!” said Chi Foxy earnestly. “Don’t you go and misunderstand me. I didn’t mean to be mistook that way. I do want fifty cents. I’m hungry, I am.”

P. Gubb smiled approvingly. “Most excellent trampish disguise work,” he said. “Nobody couldn’t do it better. A real tramp couldn’t do it better.”

Chi Foxy frowned. “Say,” he said, “cut that out, won’t you, cully? Your head ain’t solid ivory, is it? I’m starvin’. Gimme fifty cents, mister. Gimme a quarter if you won’t give me fifty. Come on, now, be a good feller.”

“A deteckative like you are oughtn’t to need twenty-five cents so bad as that,” said P. Gubb. “A deteckative acquainted with the knowing of a Dook and of Sherlock Holmes don’t have to beg.”

Chi Foxy actually gritted his teeth. He was angry with himself. He had talked too well. He had proved so thoroughly that he was a detective that P. Gubb would not believe he was hungry.

“See here, bo,” he said suddenly, “is this straight about you being a detective, or is that a bluff, too?”

Philo Gubb showed Chi Foxy the badge he had received upon completion of his correspondence course of twelve lessons.

“I’m the most celebrated and only deteckative in the town of Riverbank, Iowa,” he said seriously, “and you can ask the Sheriff or the Chief of Police if you don’t believe me. I’m working right now onto a case of quite some importance, into which a calf was stolen, but up to now the clues ain’t what they should be. If you don’t think I’m a deteckative you can ask Farmer Hopper. He hired me for to get the capture of the guilty calf-stealer aforesaid.”

Chi Foxy studied P. Gubb’s simple face.

“And you can arrest a feller and lodge him in jail?” he asked.

“I’ve arrested many and lodged them into jail,” P. Gubb assured him.

“Well, bo,” said Chi Foxy frankly, “I’m the man you’re looking for. Arrest me.”

The tramp knew enough about arrests to know that even a suspect, when lodged in jail, would be fed, and he was hungry and getting hungrier every moment. P. Gubb looked at him with surprise.

“I thought you said you was a deteckative,” he said.

“I am,” said Chi Foxy. “Or I wouldn’t know I was a criminal. I detected it myself, because nobody else could. Even my old friend Shermlock Hollums couldn’t detect it, but I did. I’m a–a murderer, I am. There’s a thousand-dollar reward offered for me.”

“Then why don’t you arrest yourself and get the reward?” asked P. Gubb.

“Say,” said Chi Foxy with disgust. “It can’t be done. I know, for I’ve tried. I’m a fugitive, that’s what I am, and right behind me, no matter where I flee to, comes myself ready to grab me and arrest me. I’ve chased myself all over Europe, Asia and Africa, and I can’t get away from myself, and I can’t grab myself. It’s–it’s just awful.”

Chi Foxy wiped an imaginary tear from his eye.

“And I can’t keep away from the scene of my crime,” he said. “I come back here time after time–“