to kill us and steal the knife on account of the fortune encrusted
on its sheath, without a doubt. Luigi had it under his pillow;
we were in bed together. There was a dim night-light burning.
I was asleep, but Luigi was awake, and he thought he detected a
vague form nearing the bed. He slipped the knife out of the sheath
and was ready and unembarrassed by hampering bedclothes,
for the weather was hot and we hadn’t any. Suddenly that native rose
at the bedside, and bent over me with his right hand lifted and a
dirk in it aimed at my throat; but Luigi grabbed his wrist,
pulled him downward, and drove his own knife into the man’s neck.
That is the whole story.”
Wilson and Tom drew deep breaths, and after some general chat
about the tragedy, Pudd’nhead said, taking Tom’s hand:
“Now, Tom, I’ve never had a look at your palms, as it happens;
perhaps you’ve got some little questionable privacies that need–hel-lo!”
Tom had snatched away his hand, and was looking a good deal confused.
“Why, he’s blushing!” said Luigi.
Tom darted an ugly look at him, and said sharply:
“Well, if I am, it ain’t because I’m a murderer!” Luigi’s dark
face flushed, but before he could speak or move, Tom added with
anxious haste: “Oh, I beg a thousand pardons. I didn’t mean that;
it was out before I thought, and I’m very, very sorry–you must forgive me!”
Wilson came to the rescue, and smoothed things down as well as he could;
and in fact was entirely successful as far as the twins were concerned,
for they felt sorrier for the affront put upon him by his guest’s
outburst of ill manners than for the insult offered to Luigi.
But the success was not so pronounced with the offender. Tom tried to
seem at his ease, and he went through the motions fairly well,
but at bottom he felt resentful toward all the three witnesses of
his exhibition; in fact, he felt so annoyed at them for having
witnessed it and noticed it that he almost forgot to feel annoyed
at himself for placing it before them. However, something presently
happened which made him almost comfortable, and brought him nearly back
to a state of charity and friendliness. This was a little spat between
the twins; not much of a spat, but still a spat; and before they got
far with it, they were in a decided condition of irritation while
pretending to be actuated by more respectable motives. By his help
the fire got warmed up to the blazing point, and he might have had the
happiness of seeing the flames show up in another moment, but for the
interruption of a knock on the door–an interruption which fretted him
as much as it gratified Wilson. Wilson opened the door.
The visitor was a good-natured, ignorant, energetic middle-aged
Irishman named John Buckstone, who was a great politician in a
small way, and always took a large share in public matters of
every sort. One of the town’s chief excitements, just now, was over
the matter of rum. There was a strong rum party and a strong
anti-rum party. Buckstone was training with the rum party, and he
had been sent to hunt up the twins and invite them to attend a
mass meeting of that faction. He delivered his errand, and said
the clans were already gathering in the big hall over the market house.
Luigi accepted the invitation cordially. Angelo less cordially,
since he disliked crowds, and did not drink the powerful intoxicants
of America. In fact, he was even a teetotaler sometimes–
when it was judicious to be one.
The twins left with Buckstone, and Tom Driscoll joined the
company with them uninvited.
In the distance, one could see a long wavering line of
torches drifting down the main street, and could hear the
throbbing of the bass drum, the clash of cymbals, the squeaking
of a fife or two, and the faint roar of remote hurrahs. The tail
end of this procession was climbing the market house stairs when
the twins arrived in its neighborhood; when they reached the hall,