Suddenly Chow forced his opponent’s arm to the table and crowed in triumph, “Gotcha, Dude!”
“Okay, cowboy-you win.”
Just then Chow caught sight of Tom and Bud. “Hi, buckaroos!” he bellowed.
“Step up an’ meet Dude Tyler, former Indian-rasslin’ champ o’ Brazos County, Texas!”
Grinning, the boys shook hands with the mustached man.
“But-er-what about that fellow you wanted me to see, Chow?” Tom inquired.
Chow gave an embarrassed chuckle. “It was jest my ole range pal, Dude, only I didn’t reco’nize him behind them cheaters-an’ also he’s growed a mustache since I seen him last.”
As the crowd returned to their tables, Tom and Bud found chairs and sat down with Chow, Dude Tyler, and Dude’s two companions, one of whom turned out to be Mrs. Tyler. Chow produced an
CHOW WINKLER, DETECTIVE 29
empty matchbook bearing the Trianon Restaurant’s imprint, and began explaining his mistake.
“Found this matchbook in the lab while you was eatin’ breakfast,” Chow told the boys. “Later I figgered that fake reporter Ames was talkin’ about must ‘a’
dropped it an’ I-well-I felt so low-down over bein’ took in by that sidewinder that I decided to-”
“-to play private eye.” Bud winked at Tom.
“Yup, I figgered he might hang out at this caf-fay,” Chow admitted sheepishly. “Thought I had him spotted, but it turned out to be jest Dude.”
“The matchbook might be a lead at that, though there’s not much chance of getting prints off it now.” Tom slipped it into his pocket and added with a chuckle, “Great try, old-timer, but after this maybe you’d better leave the detecting to Harlan Ames.”
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