He grasped one of the Pet’s hands and wrenched off one concrete arm. He struck the head with a tent stake and shattered it into crumbling concrete. He jerked the Roman tunic from the body and disclosed the hollow tile stomach.
“Hello!” he said, lifting a rag-wrapped parcel from the interior of the Pet. “What’s this?”
When unwrapped it proved to be two dozen silver forks and spoons and a good-sized silver trophy cup.
“‘Riverbank Country Club, Duffers’ Golf Trophy, 1909?’” Mr. Dorgan read. “‘Won by Jonas Medderbrook.’ How did that get there?”
“Jonas Medderbrook,” said Mr. Gubb, “is a man of my own local town.”
“He is, is he?” said Mr. Dorgan. “And what’s your name?”
“Gubb,” said the detective. “Philo Gubb, Esquire, deteckative and paper-hanger, Riverbank, Iowa.”
“Then this is for you,” said Mr. Dorgan, and he handed the telegram to Mr. Gubb. The detective opened it and read:—
Gubb,
Care of Circus,
Bardville, Ia.
My house robbed circus night. Golf cup gone. Game now rotten: never win another. Five hundred dollars reward for return to me.