At the time Clown was resting on a pile of blankets; although he seemed to be asleep he was listening to the conversation, for like a policeman, he always slept with one eye open. As soon as he realized what it was all about, he got up on his hind legs and went straight to the reporter, understanding probably how much what the newspaper said might help Bertha to find him.
He was polite as he could be to this reporter and took great pains to show off before him, and—this was really a flash of genius—succeeded three different times, using as his letters the print on a rolled placard lying near him, in putting together the word "B-E-R-T-H-A," by placing his foot on the letters in the right order.
Greatly puzzled as to what it could mean the reporter wrote down on his tablet the word Clown had spelled. He could not help being surprised by this strange sign of intelligence. He bowed respectfully to this strangest of all subjects for interview, and as he left him he said gravely:
"Delighted to have met you, my dear sir."
Clown returned his bow, no less politely. He felt a trifle proud, perhaps, but he was charmed to have made himself understood by a human being.
I leave you to imagine, dear friends, what a stir was caused by this article which appeared on the front page of the paper. It was headed: