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It may have been a blush of shame, but it was more like a flush of anger, that overspread the face of the thin Santa Claus. He stared hard at the placid German face of Mrs. Gratz, and decided she was too stupid to mean it–that she was not teasing him.

“You don’t catch on,” he said. “You see, there ain’t any such things as toober-chlosis bugs. I just made that up as a sort of detective disguise. Them chickens wasn’t eat by no bugs at all–they was stole. See? A chicken thief come right into the coop and stole them. Do you think any kind of a bug could pry off a padlock?”

Mrs. Gratz seemed to let this sink into her mind and to revolve there, and get to feeling at home, before she answered.

“No,” she said at length, “I guess not. But Santy Claus could do it. Such a big, fat man. Sure he could do it.”

“Why, you–” began the thin man crossly, and then changed his tone. “There ain’t no such thing as Santy Claus,” he said as one might speak to a child–but even a chicken thief would not tell a child such a thing, I hope.

“No?” queried Mrs. Gratz sadly. “No Santy Claus? And I was scared of it, myself, with such toober-chlosis bugs around. He should not to have gone into such a chicken coop with so many bugs busting up all over. He had a right to have fumigated himself, once. And now he ain’t. He’s all eat up, on the hoof, bones, and feet and all. And such a kind man, too.”

The thin Santa Claus frowned. He had half an idea that Mrs. Gratz was fooling with him, and when he spoke it was crisply.

“Now, see here,” he said, “last night somebody broke into your chicken coop and stole all your chickens. I know that. And he’s been stealing chickens all around this town, and all around this part of the country, too, and I know that. And this stealing has got to stop. I’ve got to catch that thief. And to catch him I’ve got to have a clue. A clue is something he has left around, or dropped, where he was stealing. Now, did that chicken thief drop any clues in your chicken yard? That’s what I want to know–did he drop any clues?”

“Mebby, if he dropped some cloos, those toober-chlosis bugs eat them up,” suggested Mrs. Gratz. “They eats bones and fedders; mebby they eats cloos, too.”

“Now, ain’t that smart?” sneered the thin Santa Claus. “Don’t you think you’re funny? But I’ll tell you the clue I’m looking for. Did that thief drop a pocketbook, or anything like that?”

“Oh, a pocketbook!” said Mrs. Gratz. “How much should be in such a pocketbook, mebby?”

“Nine hundred dollars,” said the thin Santa Claus promptly.

“Goodness!” exclaimed Mrs. Gratz. “So much money all in one cloos! Come out to the chicken yard once; I’ll help hunt for cloos, too.”

The thin Santa Claus stood a minute looking doubtfully at Mrs. Gratz. Her face was large and placid and unemotional.

“Well,” he said with a sigh, “it ain’t much use, but I’ll try it again.”

When he had gone, after another close search of the chicken yard and coop, Mrs. Gratz returned to her friend, Mrs. Flannery.

“Purty soon I don’t belief any more in Santy Claus at all,” she said. “Purty soon I have more beliefs in chicken thiefs than in Santy Claus. Yet a while I beliefs in him, but, one more of those come-agains, and I don’t.”

“He’ll not be comin’ back any more,” said Mrs. Flannery positively. “I’m wonderin’ he came at all, and the jail so handy. All ye have t’ do is t’ call a cop.”

“Sure!” said Mrs. Gratz. “But it is not nice I should put Santy Claus in jail. Such a liberal Santy Claus, too.”

“Have it yer own way, ma’am,” said Mrs. Flannery. “I’ll own ’tis some different whin chickens is stole. ‘Tis hard to expind th’ affections on a bunch of chickens, but, if any one was t’ steal my pig, t’ jail he would go, Santy Claus or no Santy Claus. Not but what ye have a kind heart anyway, ma’am, not wantin’ t’ put th’ poor fellow in jail whin he has already lost nine hundred dollars, which, goodness knows, ye might have t’ hand back, was th’ law t’ take a hand in it.”

“So!” said Mrs. Gratz. “Such is the law, yet? All right, I don’t belief in chicken thiefs, no matter how much he comes again. I stick me to Santy Claus. Always will I belief in Santy Claus. Chicken thiefs gives, and wants to take away again, but Santy Claus is always giving and never taking.”

“Ye ‘re fergettin’ th’ chickens that was took,” suggested Mrs. Flannery.

“Took?” said Mrs. Gratz.

“Tooken,” Mrs. Flannery corrected.

“Tooked?” said Mrs. Gratz. “I beliefs me not in Santy Claus that way. I beliefs he is a good old man. For givings I beliefs in Santy Claus, but for takings I beliefs in toober-chlosis bugs.”

“An’ th’ busted padlock, then?” asked Mrs. Flannery.

“Ach!” exclaimed Mrs. Gratz. “Them reindeers is so frisky, yet. They have a right to kick up and bust it, mebby.”

Mrs. Flannery sighed.

“‘T is a grand thing t’ have faith, ma’am,” she said.

“Y-e-s,” said Mrs. Gratz indolently, “that’s nice. And it is nice to have nine hundred dollars more in the bank, ain’t it?”