Chapter III: An Eavesdropper

Both Carl and Ping tried to explain matters at the same time. Each talked loud, in the hope of drowning out the other, and the jargon was terrific. Finally McGlory got a hand over the Chinaman's mouth, and Carl was able to give his side of the question. After that, Ping had his say.

"There's been no cause whatever for this flare-up," said Matt. "Everybody knows that Carl can't sing, but everybody who's acquainted with him, too, knows that he's got more pluck to the square inch than any fellow of his size. Carl's all right, Ping. He went around South America with Dick Ferral and me on that submarine, and we parted company in San Francisco just before I met up with Joe. Shake hands," and Matt pushed Carl toward the Chinaman.

"My workee fo' Motol Matt," whispered Ping, who had likewise been given a push by the cowboy; "Dutchy boy no workee, huh?"

"You're both pards of mine," said Matt, "and you've got to be friends. Now, shake hands."

The shaking was done--rather hesitatingly, it is true, but nevertheless it was done.

"Now," went on Matt, "you get into your regalia, Ping. Carl, you can get out of your wet clothes and put on Joe's working suit. While you're about it, tell me how you happen to be here. You stay and listen, Joe," the young motorist added. "I want you to like Carl as well as I do."

"That's me, pard," laughed McGlory, taking a seat on one of the buckets. "There's plenty of ginger in the Dutchman, and that's what cuts the ice with me."

Ping, covertly watching and listening, moved over to his bag of clothes and began rigging himself out in his gorgeous raiment. Carl, talking as he worked, removed his water-logged costume.

"I vas a tedectif, Matt," said he gravely.

"What's that?" demanded McGlory.

"Detective," smiled the king of the motor boys. "My Dutch pard has been making a sleuth out of himself."

"Yah, so," pursued Carl. "Tick Verral vent off mit his uncle, in Tenver, und I run avay to San Francisco looking for Matt. He don'd vas dere some more, und I can't find oudt nodding aboudt vere he vas gone. I haf to do somet'ing vile vaiting for him to turn oop, und so I go indo der tedectif pitzness. Dot's great vork, I bed you. You findt somet'ing for somepody, und dey gif you all kindts oof money. Fine!"

"How much have you made at the business, Carl?" queried Matt.

"Vell, nodding, so far as I haf gone, Matt. Aber I don'd haf no luck mit it. I vas schust learning der ropes. A feller hat his money took avay in 'Frisco. I ged oudt oof dot mit a proken headt, und don'd findt der money. Vell, next a olt laty in Salt Lake City loses her parrot, und say she gif ten tollar vould I findt him. I ketch der parrot off a push schust ven anodder feller lays holt oof him. Ve fight for der pird, der pird iss kilt, und some more I don'd ged nodding, only a plack eye und some fierce talk from der olt laty. Aber I don'd ged tiscouraged, nod at all. I vork on mit meinseluf.

"Pympy, I peen in Chicago--der blace vere ve vas, Matt, mit der air ship. Dot's a great town for der tedectif pitzness, I bed you. I try to hire oudt by a prifate tedectif achency, aber dey don'd vant me. I keep afder dose fellers, und afder I was t'rown from der office a gouple oof times I valked in on dem by der fire escape. Den dey gif me some chobs."

"What sort of a job did they give you, Carl?"

By that time the Dutch boy had stripped and put on McGlory's clothes. Reaching for his water-logged bundle, he untied it, and fished a folded newspaper from an assortment of rubber collars, socks, and red cotton handkerchiefs.

The newspaper was very damp, and had to be handled with care.

"Dis iss some English papers, Matt," explained Carl. "Id vas brinted in Lonton, und dose tedectif fellers had him py deir office. How mooch iss a t'ousant pounds in Unidet Shtates money, hey?"

"Five thousand dollars."

"Veil, dot's der chob--making dot fife t'ousant. I bet you I get rich vone oof dose tays."

"You have to do something, don't you, before you get the money?" queried McGlory, with a wink at Matt.

"Ach, dot's nodding," answered Carl, in a large, offhand manner. "Readt dot, Matt."

Matt took the wet newspaper and read a marked paragraph, which ran as follows:

"£1,000 Reward! This sum will be paid for any information concerning
one Margaret Manners, last known to be in Calcutta, India. Miss
Manners is about eighteen years of age, and is the only daughter of
the late Captain Lionel Manners, of the English Army, stationed at
Bombay. Miss Manners disappeared from her home, under mysterious
circumstances, and it is possible she went to America and engaged in
the circus business. Any one with knowledge concerning the missing
person, and desirous of obtaining the reward, will please communicate
with Arthur Hoppleson, Solicitor, 10 Kent's Road, London, W. C.
Further information, which cannot be publicly printed, will be
cheerfully furnished."

Motor Matt, after reading the paragraph to himself, read it aloud.

"Why," grinned McGlory, "that outfit of detectives was working your German friend, Matt. They gave him that and sent him on a wild-goose chase, just to get rid of him."

"Dot's a misdake," declared Carl. "Dose fellers saw I meant pitzness, py shinks, und dey gif me der hardest case dey hat. Yah, so. Since den I haf peen looking for shows. Eferyvere I hear aboudt some shows I hike avay. Aber I don'd findt Miss Manners. She don'd vas in der mooseums, oder in der Vild Vest shows, or in Rinklings; und oof she vasn't in der Pig Gonsolidated, den I vas oop some shtumps. My money has blayed oudt, und I hat to rite in a pox car to Lafayette, Intiana. Here I vas shdrolling along tovard der show groundts ven I see dot shink mit der puckets, und hat sooch a scrap. Afder der scrap vas ofer, a man on a elephant shpeak about Motor Matt. Den I don'd t'ink oof nodding more. I come, so kevick as bossiple, to findt my olt raggie. Und here ve vas, togedder like ve used to be." A broad smile covered Carl's face. "Now I don'd care for nodding. Oof you t'ink you could help me findt Miss Manners, den I vill be opliged, und gif you part oof der revard--a gouple oof pounds oof id, anyvay."

"It looks to me, Carl," said Matt, handing back the paper, "as though the men in that detective office were trying to have some fun with you. Have you written to London to secure further information?"

Carl looked startled.

"Vell," he admitted, "I ditn't t'ink oof dat."

"You're a fine detective, you are," said Matt. "You might as well hunt for a needle in a haystack as to hunt for this English girl. Can't you see? You've got a pretty wide field to cover, and it is only _supposed_ that she came to America and engaged in the circus business."

Carl ran his fingers through his carroty hair.

"Meppy dot's right," he mused. "Oof dose fellers in Chicago vas making some monkey-doodle pitzness mit me, you bed you I vould like to fool dem. Meppy I findt der girl. Den vat? V'y, dose tedectif fellers feel like t'irty cent. You vas vorking for der show, Matt?"

"We've an engagement with the manager for making flights in our aëroplane."

"Vat's dose?"

"What's an aëroplane? Why, Carl, it's a heavier-than-air flying machine."

"So? Und you go oop in id?"

"Yes."

Carl sat on a bucket and ruminated for a space.

"You know pooty near efery vone dot vorks for der show, hey?" he asked.

"Yes, I know every one."

"Iss dere a girl mit der name oof Markaret Manners?"

"No. But she'd have a different name if she was with a show, Carl. Performers hardly ever use their real names."

"Dot's righdt, too." Once more Carl ran his fingers through his mop of hair. "Iss der any vone connected mit der show vat has a shtrawperry mark on der arm?" he asked, brightening.

"Strawberry mark on the arm?" repeated Matt. "Why, Carl, that advertisement doesn't say anything about such a thing."

"I know dot, aber efery young laty you read aboudt vat's lost has der shtrawperry mark on der----"

McGlory let off a roar of laughter. Carl straightened up with a pained look on his fat face.

"Carl," cried McGlory, "you're a great sleuth, and no mistake! You jump at too many conclusions."

"Dere don'd vas anyt'ing else to chump ad," returned Carl. "Dis vas a dark case, you bed you, und dere has to be some guessings. Dot's vat I make now, der guessings."

"Pretty woolly guessing, at that, and----"

McGlory broke off abruptly to follow a sudden movement on Matt's part. The canvas forming the side of the menagerie tent had shaken, as though there was some one on the other side of it. Matt, seeing the shiver of the canvas, leaped for the wall. The next moment he had lifted the canvas and was looking into the other tent.

A tall, brown-faced man, wearing a turban and an embroidered jacket, was just vanishing through the tent entrance. Matt dropped the canvas and turned away, a thoughtful look taking the place of the smile with which he had listened to Carl's talk.

"What was it, pard?" asked McGlory.

"An eavesdropper," replied Matt.

"Speak to me about that!" exclaimed McGlory. "If some one thought the Dutchman's yarn worth listening to, then perhaps there's something in it."

"Perhaps." Motor Matt's brow wrinkled perplexedly.

"Who was the fellow? Could you recognize him?"

"It was Ben Ali."

McGlory bounded up, excited, and his own face reflecting some of the perplexity that shone in his friend's.

Before the conversation could be continued, however, a man thrust his head into the calliope tent.

"They're waiting for you fellows," he announced. "Hustle!"