practicing lawyer of the long-submerged Pudd’nhead Wilson;
Saturday night, duel between chief citizen and titled stranger.
The people took more pride in the duel than in all the other
events put together, perhaps. It was a glory to their town to have
such a thing happen there. In their eyes the principals had reached
the summit of human honor. Everybody paid homage to their names;
their praises were in all mouths. Even the duelists’ subordinates
came in for a handsome share of the public approbation:
wherefore Pudd’nhead Wilson was suddenly become a man of consequence.
When asked to run for the mayoralty Saturday night, he was risking defeat,
but Sunday morning found him a made man and his success assured.
The twins were prodigiously great now; the town took them to its bosom
with enthusiasm. Day after day, and night after night,
they went dining and visiting from house to house, making friends,
enlarging and solidifying their popularity, and charming and surprising
all with their musical prodigies, and now and then heightening the
effects with samples of what they could do in other directions,
out of their stock of rare and curious accomplishments. They were
so pleased that they gave the regulation thirty days’ notice,
the required preparation for citizenship, and resolved to finish
their days in this pleasant place. That was the climax.
The delighted community rose as one man and applauded; and when
the twins were asked to stand for seats in the forthcoming
aldermanic board, and consented, the public contentment was
rounded and complete.
Tom Driscoll was not happy over these things; they sunk deep,
and hurt all the way down. He hated the one twin for kicking him,
and the other one for being the kicker’s brother.
Now and then the people wondered why nothing was heard of the raider,
or of the stolen knife or the other plunder, but nobody was able
to throw any light on that matter. Nearly a week had drifted by,
and still the thing remained a vexed mystery.
On Sunday Constable Blake and Pudd’nhead Wilson met on the street,
and Tom Driscoll joined them in time to open their conversation for them.
He said to Blake: “You are not looking well, Blake; you seem to be
annoyed about something. Has anything gone wrong in the
detective business? I believe you fairly and justifiably claim
to have a pretty good reputation in that line, isn’t it so?”–
which made Blake feel good, and look it; but Tom added,
“for a country detective”–which made Blake feel the other way,
and not only look it, but betray it in his voice.
“Yes, sir, I _have_ got a reputation; and it’s as good as
anybody’s in the profession, too, country or no country.”
“Oh, I beg pardon; I didn’t mean any offense. What I started out
to ask was only about the old woman that raided the town–
the stoop-shouldered old woman, you know, that you said you were going
to catch; and I knew you would, too, because you have the reputation
of never boasting, and–well, you–you’ve caught the old woman?”
“Damn the old woman!”
“Why, sho! you don’t mean to say you haven’t caught her?”
“No, I haven’t caught her. If anybody could have caught her,
I could; but nobody couldn’t, I don’t care who he is.”
I am sorry, real sorry–for your sake; because, when it gets around
that a detective has expressed himself confidently, and then–”
“Don’t you worry, that’s all–don’t you worry; and as for the town,
the town needn’t worry either. She’s my meat–make yourself easy
about that. I’m on her track; I’ve got clues that–”
“That’s good! Now if you could get an old veteran detective down from
St. Louis to help you find out what the clues mean, and where
they lead to, and then–”
“I’m plenty veteran enough myself, and I don’t need anybody’s help.
I’ll have her inside of a we–inside of a month. That I’ll swear to!”
Tom said carelessly:
“I suppose that will answer–yes, that will answer. But I reckon
she is pretty old, and old people don’t often outlive the
cautious pace of the professional detective when he has got his
clues together and is out on his still-hunt.”