The thin Santa Claus seemed provoked.

“Now, look here!” he said.  “You may think this is funny, but it isn’t.  I have got to catch that chicken thief or I’ll lose my job, and I can’t catch him unless I have some clues to catch him with.  Now, didn’t you have some chickens stolen last night?”

“Chickens?” asked Mrs. Gratz.  “No, I didn’t have chickens stolen.  Such toober-chlosis bugs eat them.  With fedders, too.  And bones.  Right off the hoofs, ain’t it a pity?”

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?”