e front door and left it
unlocked," said Mr. Wittaker.

"Exactly!" said Mr. Griscom. "So the first thing we thought was
'Burglars!' and the first place my wife looked was the sideboard, in
the dining-room, and there--"

"Yes," said Mr. Wittaker. "There, on the sideboard, were a dozen solid
silver spoons you had never seen before."

"And marked with my wife's initials--understand!" said Mr. Griscom.
"And the cellar window--the one on the east side of the house--had
been broken out of."

"Why not broken into?" asked the Marshal.

"Well, I'm not quite a fool," said Mr. Griscom with some heat. "I know
because of the marks his jimmy made on the sill."

"Some one has been playing a joke on you," said Mr. Wittaker. "You
wait, and you'll see. You won't be offended if I ask you a question?"

"My wife knows no more about it than I do," said Mr. Griscom hotly.

"Now, now," said Mr. Wittaker soothingly. "I didn't mean that. What
are your own spoons, solid or plated?"

"Plated," said Mr. Griscom.

"Well," said Mr. Wittaker, "there's where to look for the joke. Try to
think who would consider it a joke to send you solid silver spoons."

"Billy Getz!" exclaimed Mr. Griscom, mentioning the town joker.

"That's the man I had in mind," said Mr. Wittaker. "Now, I guess you
can handle this alone, Mr. Griscom."

"I guess I can," agreed Mr. Griscom. And he went out.

The Marshal chuckled.

"Un-burgled!" he said to himself. "That's a new one for sure! That's
the sort of burglary to set Philo Gubb, the un-detective, on."

He was still grinning as he went out, but he tried to hide the grin
when he met Billy Getz on Main Street. Billy uttered a hasty "Can't
stop now, Wittaker!" but the head of the Riverbank police grasped his
arm.

"What's your rush? I've got some fun for you," said Wittaker.

"Some other time," said Billy. "I just borrowed this from Doc Mortimer
and promised to take it back quick."

"What is it?" asked the Marshal, gazing at the curious affair Billy
had in his hands. It looked very much like a coffeepot, and on the lid
was a wheel, like a small tin windmill. Just below the lid, and above
the spout, was a hole as large as a dime.

"Lung-tester," said Billy, trying to pull away. "Let me go, will you,
Wittaker? I'm in a hurry. Just borrowed it to settle a bet with Sam
Simmons. I show two pounds more lung pressure than he does. Twenty-six
pounds."

"You?" scoffed Wittaker. "I bet I can show twenty-eight,