"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 ejaculated, "Sacre da-be damn! Eesa mak George-a Golda fetch eem back. Garibaldi geeve eet-a ma fadder."