An Oregon Girl Part 23

It may be pertinent to remark that Jack Sh.o.r.e had obtained most of his dago dialect from a close study of this very man. The similarity of speech and voice, therefore, was accountable for Sam's mistake of identification.

A moment later, among a pa.s.sing throng, Sam stopped and pretended to pick up a small copper-colored medal appended to a bit of soiled ribbon. He halted and ostentatiously displayed it, turning it over and over in his hands while examining it. It attracted the attention of an Italian nearby, who at once claimed the medal.

"If it is yours, no doubt you can describe certain marks which appear on its surface?"

"I don-a have to. Eets a Garibaldi! Giv-a da me!"

"What else?" Sam pressed for more definite information, for he immediately became convinced that this claimant was not the real owner.

The word Garibaldi attracted a second Italian, a short, fat man, with huge, flat face, who was at once apprised of the find. He asked Sam to let him have it for examination.

Sam refused to let it pa.s.s from his hands, explaining that this man had claimed it, but seemingly was unable to identify it. "I will deliver it to the officer," and he beckoned a policeman to approach.

There followed instantly a lively colloquy between the two Italians, the second one declaring it belonged to Giuseppe--for he had seen him with it, and he turned to Sam.

"That man," indicating the fruit vendor, on express wagon license number 346, "is own it. I'm sure he will it tell-a you so," and he shouted, "Giuseppe!"

Giuseppe heard and shouted back, "Ta-rah-rah!"

As they moved toward him the short man continued to address Sam. "His fadder was wit Garibaldi at Palestrino."

"Giuseppe, have you lost your fadder's medal?"

Giuseppe had stepped from his wagon to the curb. With a surprised look he instantly replied, "No! Eesa len eem to deeza fren."

"When you len eem?" the short, fat man asked.

"Eesa bout five-six day. Why for youse-a ax deeze-a question?"

There was no mistaking the fact that Giuseppe's frank response conveyed the truth.

Sam believed him.

The short man again spoke. "This man pick eem up there. It belong to you. Ask eem for it."

"Geeve it-a da me, boss."

"This man has claimed it as his. Yet he cannot identify it," replied Sam. "Now, to prove it is yours, tell me its size, and the letters on its two sides."

"Eesa bout as big as-a deeze." And Giuseppe produced an American quarter dollar. "Look-a da close. Eesa one-a da side 'Emanual Rex.'

Below eet a Garibaldi. In-a da middle eesa solidar holding a flag."

"So far, good!" exclaimed Sam, eyeing the man searchingly and committing to memory his every lineament.

Giuseppe continued, "Eesa da odder side, 'Palestrino, MDCCCXLIX.' In a da middle, 'Liber.'"

"Correct!" said Sam.

"What color is the bit of ribbon?" asked the policeman.

"Eesa be da red. A leetle-a da faded," was the answer.

Sam was convinced that Giuseppe was the real owner of the medal. A possible important discovery. And he smiled as their eyes met full, face to face. And the Italian smiled at Sam's open-faced frankness; but utterly unsuspecting the splendidly concealed satisfaction that prompted the smile from Sam.

"Where does the man live to whom you loaned this?" asked Sam.

Giuseppe appeared puzzled. He looked up the street, then down the street, but finally said, "I dunno, eesa move away las week."

"Where did he live?"

"In-a da cabin--odder side Nort Pacific Mill, at-a da Giles lak."

"What is his name?"

"George-a da Golda!"

Sam was careful to appear unconcerned, and, to avoid questions that might arouse suspicions of something "crooked"--"Well," he continued, "I have no doubt the medal is yours, but it is a valuable souvenir, and as Mr. Golda may have something to say, I shall leave my address with this officer." He thereupon handed the officer a card, remarking, "Please file it at your headquarters."

Then again turning to Giuseppe, Sam continued, "You notify Mr. Golda to call at the police station and put in his claim and I will be on hand with the medal at any time the authorities apprise me of Mr.

Golda's arrival."

The Italian's disgust was plain and he e.j.a.c.u.l.a.t.ed, "Sacre da-be d.a.m.n!

Eesa mak George-a Golda fetch eem back. Garibaldi geeve eet-a ma fadder."

Without further question, Sam proceeded on his way to Simm's office.

That Giuseppe was not the man Sam was after, appeared certain, but that he was well acquainted with the fellow, there seemed no doubt.

Giuseppe must be watched, for he would find Golda to get the medal back, as it was evident Giuseppe treasured it as an heirloom.

While deeply engrossed on this line of thought, Sam was starting down Third street on his way to Detective Simms' office, and had nearly reached Alder street when his reverie was interrupted by a familiar voice, exclaiming, "Good marnin', sor!"

"How are you?" responded Sam, recognizing Smith.

"Sure, I'm failin' foine, axcipt"--and a wistful look came into his eyes--"axcipt for a sore spot in me heart. G.o.d s.h.i.+eld her!" and he bent his head reverently.

Sam knew full well the object of Smith's allusion, and said sympathetically, "You share in the sorrow of your house?"

"Indade: I do, sor! Tin years ave I known her swate disposition. Sure, didn't I drive her coach to the church whin she married him? And she was kind to my poor wife, too, whin she suffered betimes wid brankites. G.o.d rest her soule! She's wid the angels now! But I see yeese do be hurted!"

"A bruise! An accident last night, but it's nothing, I guess! Are you out for a bracer this morning?"

"Just a little sthrole, wid me eye open for signs."

"Signs of what?"

"Oh, the dinsity of the cratchur! Sure, I do be always lookin' fer the little wan."

"Why don't you search the river?" suggested Sam significantly; "her mother says she is drowned."