A Double Barreled Detective Story, by Mark Twain. Part II.

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1:00Spring weekends are all about family, sunshine, and enjoying the season together. Before everyone arrives, I stop by my local Total Wine and More to grab a great bottle. Maybe a favorite we already know and love are something new to try with the meal. With so many bottles to choose from, it's easy to discover, something amazing, and the lowest prices make it easy to grab an extra bottle for everyone. Find what you love and love what you find only at Total Wine and More. Curbside pickup and delivery available in most areas. Visit TotalWine.com to learn more. Spirits not sold in Virginia and North Carolina drink responsibly B-21. This is part two chapter one of a double-barrel detective story. This Liebervox recording is in the public domain. A double-barrel detective story by Mark Twain, part two chapter one. The next afternoon, the village was electrified with an immense sensation, a grave and dignified foreigner of distinguished bearing and appearance had arrived at the tavern and entered this formidable name upon the register. Sherlock Holmes.

2:00The news buzzed from cabin to cabin, from claim to claim. Tools were dropped, and the town swarmed toward the center of interest. A man passing out at the northern end of the village shouted it to Pat Riley, whose claim was the next one to Flint Buckners. At that time, Fetlock Jones seemed to turn sick. He muttered to himself, Uncle Sherlock, the mean luck of it, that he should come just when he dropped into a reverie and presently said to himself, but what's the use of being afraid of him? Anybody that knows him the way I do knows he can't detect a crime except where he plans it all out beforehand, and arranges the clues and hires some fellow to commit it according to instructions. Now there ain't going to be any clues this time, so what show has he got? None at all. No sir, everything's ready. If I was to risk putting it off, no, I won't run any risk like that. Flint Buckner goes out of this world too night for sure.

3:03Then another trouble presented itself. Uncle Sherlock will be wanting to talk home matters with me this evening, and how am I going to get rid of him where I've got to be at my cabin a minute or two about eight o'clock? This was an awkward matter, and cost him much thought. But he found a way to beat the difficulty. We'll go for a walk, and I'll leave him in the road a minute, so he won't see what it is I do. The best way to throw a detective off the track anyway is to have him along when you're preparing the thing. Yes, that's the safest. I'll take him with me. Meantime, the road in front of the tavern was blocked with villagers, waiting and hoping for a glimpse of the great man. But he kept his room, and did not appear. None but Ferguson, Jake Parker, the blacksmith, and Ham Sandwich had any luck. These enthusiastic admirers of the great scientific detective hired the taverns detained baggage lock-up, which looked into the detective's room across a little alleyway ten or twelve feet wide.

4:04Ambushed themselves in it, and cut some peepholes in the window-blind. Mr. Holmes' blinds were down, but by and by he raised them. It gave the spies a hair-lifting, but pleasurable thrill to find themselves face-to-face with the extraordinary man, who had filled the world with the fame of his more than human ingenuities. There he sat, not a myth, not a shadow, but real, alive, compact of substance, and almost within touching distance with the hand. "'Look at that head,' said Ferguson, in an odd voice, by gracious that's a head. "'You bet,' said the blacksmith, with deep reverence. "'Look at his nose! Look at his eyes! Intellect! Just a battery of it!' "'And that paleness,' said Ham Sandwich, "'comes from thought. That's what it comes from. "'Hell! Duffers like us don't know what real thought is. "'No more we don't,' said Ferguson. "'What we take for thinking is just blumber and slush.

5:06Right you are, Wells Fargo, and look at that frown! That's deep thinking, away down, down forty, fathom into the bowels of things. He's on the track of something. "'Well, he is, and don't you forget it. Say, look at that awful gravity. Look at that pallid solomness. There ain't any corpse can lay over it. No, sir, not for dollars. And it's his and by hereditary rights, too. He's been dead four times already, and there's history for it. Three times natural once by accident. I've heard say he smells damp and cold, like a grave, and he shh! "'Watch him! "'There he's got his thumb on the bump on the near corner of his forehead, and his forefinger on the off-win. His think-works is just a grinding now. You bet your other shirt. That's so. And now he's gazing up toward heaven, and stroking his mustache slow. And now he has rose upstanding, and is putting his clues together on his left fingers

6:06with his right finger. See? He touches the forefinger, now middle finger, now ring finger. Stuck. Look at him scowl. He can't seem to make out that clue. So he seems smile, like a tiger, and tally off the other fingers like nothing. He's got it, boys. He's got it, sure. Well, I should say, I'd hate to be in that man's place that he's after. Mr. Holmes drew a table to the window, sat down with his back to the spies, and proceeded to write. The spies withdrew their eyes from the peepholes, lit their pipes, and settled themselves for a comfortable smoke and talk. Ferguson said, with conviction, boys, it's no use talking. He's a wonder. He's got the signs of it all over him. They'd never said a true word in that, Wells Fargo, said Jake Parker. Say, wouldn't it have been nuts if he'd have been here last night? Oh, by George,

7:06but wouldn't it, said Ferguson? Then we'd have seen the scientific work, intellect just pure, intellect away up on the upper levels, don't you know? Archie is all right, and it don't become anybody to belittle him, I can tell you, but his gift is only just eyesight, sharp as an owl's. As near as I can make it out, just a grand, natural, animal talent, no more, no less, and prime as far as it goes, but no intellect in it, and for awfulness and marvelousness, no more to be compared to what this man does, then, then, well, let me tell you what he'd have done. He'd have stepped over to Hogan's and glanced, just glance, that's all, at the premises, and that's enough. See everything? Yes, sir, to the last little detail, and he'd know more about that place than the Hogan's would know in seven years. Next, he would sit down on the bunk, just as calm, and say to Mrs. Hogan, say, ham,

8:07consider that you were Mrs. Hogan, I'll ask the questions, you answer them. All right, go on. Madam, if you please, attention, do not let your mind wander, now, then, sex of the child. Female, Your Honor. Female. Very good, very good. Age? Turn six, Your Honor. Young, weak, two miles. Weirdness will overtake it, then. It will sink down and sleep. We shall find it two miles away, or less. Teeth? Five, Your Honor, and one coming. Very good. Very good. Very good, indeed. You see, boys, he knows a clue when he sees it. When it wouldn't mean a darn thing to anybody else. Stockings, Madam. Shoes? Yes, Your Honor, both. Yarn, perhaps. Morocco. Yarn, Your Honor, and Kip. Kip. This complicates the matter. However, let it go. We shall manage.

9:08Religion? Catholic, Your Honor. Very good. Snip me a bit from the bed blanket, please. Thanks. Part will, far and make. Very well. A snip from some garment of the child's please. Thanks. Cotton. Shoes where. An excellent clue, excellent. Pass me a pellet of the floor, dirt, if you'll be so kind. Thanks, many thanks. Ah, admirable, admirable. Now we know where we are, I think. You see, boys, he's gone all the clues he wants now. He don't need anything more. Now then, what does this extraordinary man do? He lays those snips in that dirt out on the table and leans over them on his elbows and puts them together side by side and studies them, mumbles to himself. Female changes them around, mumbles six years old. Changes them this way and that. Again, mumbles. Five teeth. One coming. Catholic. Yarn.

10:08Cotton. Kip. Damn that Kip. Then he straightens up and gazes toward heaven and plows his hands through his hair. Plows and plows muttering. Damn that Kip. Then he stands up and frowns and begins to tally off his clues on his fingers and gets stuck at the ring finger. But only just a minute, then his face clears all up in a smile like a house of fire. And he straightens up stately and majestic and says to the crowd, take a lantern, a couple of you, and go down to engine billies and fetch the child. The rest of you go on the home to bed. Good night, madam. Good night, gents. And he bows like the matterhorn and pulls out for the tavern. That's his style and the only scientific intellectual. All over in fifteen minutes, no poking around all over the sagebrush range an hour and a half and a masked meeting crowd for him, boys. Hear me? By Jackson. It's grand, said Ham sandwich. Well, Fargo, you got him down to a dot.

11:10He ain't painted up any exacter to the life in the books. By George, I can just see him. Can't you, boys? You bet you. It's just a photograph. That's what it is. Ferguson was profoundly pleased with his success. And grateful. He sat silently enjoying his happiness a little while. Then he murmured with a deep awe in his voice. I wonder if God made him. There was no response for a moment. Then Ham sandwich said reverently, not all at one time, I reckon. End of part two, chapter one. This is part two, chapter two of a double-barreled detective story. This Liebervox recording is in the public domain. A double-barreled detective story by Mark Twain, part two, chapter two. At eight o'clock that evening, two persons were groping their way past Flint Buckner's cabin in the frosty gloom. They were Sherlock Holmes and his nephew.

12:11Stop here in the road a moment, Uncle. Said Fetlock. Well, I run to my cabin. I won't be gone a minute. He asked for something. The Uncle furnished it. Then he disappeared in the darkness, but soon returned. And the talking walk was resumed. By nine o'clock they had wandered back to the tavern. They worked their way through the billiard room, where a crowd had gathered in the hope of getting a glimpse of the extraordinary man. A royal cheer was raised. Mr. Holmes acknowledged the compliment with a series of courtly bows. And as he was passing out, his nephew said to the assemblage, Uncle Sherlock's got some work to do, gentlemen. That'll keep him till twelve or one. But he'll be down again then, or earlier, if he can, and hope some of you'll be left to take a drink with him. By charge he's just a duke, boys. Three cheers for Sherlock Holmes. The greatest man that ever lived. Shattered Ferguson. Hip, hip, hip. Hooray! Hooray! Hooray! Tiger! The uproar shook the building. So hearty was the feeling the boys put into their welcome.

13:14Upstairs, the uncle reproached the nephew gently, saying, what did you get me into that engagement for? I reckon you don't want to be unpopular, do you, Uncle? Well, then, don't you put on any exclusiveness in a mining camp? That's all. The boy is admire you. But if you was to leave without taking a drink with him, they'd set you down for a snob. And besides, you said you had home talk enough, and stocked to keep us up and add it half the night. The boy was right, and wise, the uncle acknowledged it. The boy was wise in another detail, which he did not mention, except to himself. Uncle and the others will come handy in the way of nailing an alibi where it can't be budged. He and his uncle talked diligently about three hours. Then about midnight, Fetlock stepped down stairs, and took a position in the dark, a dozen steps from the tavern, and waited. Five minutes later, Flint Buckner came rocking out of the billiard room, and almost brushed him as he passed. I've got him, mutter the boy.

14:15He continued to himself, looking after the shadowy form. Goodbye. Goodbye for good, Flint Buckner. You called my mother a— Well, never mind what. It's all right now. You're taking your last walk, friend. You went musing back into the tavern. From now till one is an hour, we'll spend it with the boys. It's good for the alibi. He brought Sherlock Holmes to the billiard room, which was jammed with eager and admiring minors. The guest called the drinks, and the fun began. Everybody was happy. Everybody was complimentary. The ice was soon broken. Songs, anecdotes, and more drinks followed. And the pregnant minutes flew. At six minutes to one, when the jolly tea was at its highest, boom! There was silence instantly. The deep sound came rolling and rumbling from peak to peak up the gorge, then died down and ceased. The spell broke, then, and the man made a rush for the door, saying,

15:15something's blown up! Outside a voice in the darkness said, It's a way down the gorge! I saw the flash! The crowd poured down the canyon, Holmes, Fetlock, Archie Stillman, everybody. They made the mile in a few minutes. By the light of a lantern, they found the smooth and solid dirt floor of Flint Buckner's cabin. Of the cabin itself, not a vestige remained, not a rag nor a splinter, nor any sign of Flint. Search parties sought here and there and yonder, and presently a cry went up. Here he is! It was true. Fifty yards down the gorge, they had found him. That is, they had found a crushed and lifeless mass, which represented him. Fetlock Jones hurried thither with the others and looked. The inquest was a fifteen-minute affair. Ham sandwich, foreman of the jury, handed up the verdict, which was phrased with a certain unstudied literary grace, and closed with this finding to it, that deceased came to his death by his own act,

16:20or some other person, or persons unknown to this jury, not leaving any family, or similar effects behind, but his cabin, which was blown away, and God have mercy on his soul, amen. Then the impatient jury rejoined the main crowd, for the storm-center of interest was there, Sherlock Holmes. The miners stood silent and reverent, and a half-circle in closing a large vacant space, which included the front exposure of the sight of the lake premises. In this considerable space, the extraordinary man was moving about, attended by his nephew with a lantern. With a tape he took measurements of the cabin sight, of the distance from the wall of Chaperale to the road, of the height of the Chaperale bushes, also various other measurements. He gathered a rag here, a splinter there, and a pinch of earth yonder, inspected them profoundly and preserved them. He took the lay of the place with a pocket compass, allowing two seconds for magnetic variation.

17:22He took the time, Pacific, by his watch, correcting it for local time. He paced off the distance from the cabin sight to the corpse, and corrected that for tidal differentiation. He took the altitude with a pocket aneroid, and the temperature with a pocket thermometer. Finally, he said, with a state they bow, it is finished. Shall we return, gentlemen? He took up the line of march for the tavern, and the crowd fell into his wake, earnestly discussing and admiring the extraordinary man, and interlarding guesses as to the origin of the tragedy, and who the author of it might be. My, but it's grand luck having him here, hey boys, said Ferguson. It's the biggest thing of the century, said Ham Sandwich. It'll go all over the world, you mark my words. You bet," said Jake Parker, the blacksmith. It'll boom this camp, ain't it so well, Spargo? Well, as you want my opinion, if it's any sign of how I think about it, I can tell you this, yesterday I was holding the straight flush claim

18:24two dollars a foot. I'd like to see the man that can get it at sixteen today. Right you are, Wells Fargo. It's the grandest luck a new camp ever struck. Say, you see him collar them little rags and dirt and things? What an eye! He just can't overlook a clue, taint in him. That's so, and they wouldn't mean a thing to anybody else. But to him, why? They're just a book, large print of that. Sure as you're born, them odds and ends have got their little old secret, and they think there ain't anybody can pull it, but land, when he sets his grip there, they've got to squeal, and don't you forget it. Boys, I ain't sorry now that he wasn't here to rouse down to child. This is a bigger thing by a long sight. Yes, sir, and more tangled up in scientific and intellectual. I reckon we're all of us glad it's turned out this way. Glad, George, it ain't any name for it. And don't you know, Archie could have learned something if he'd had the new to stand by and take notice of how that man works the system.

19:27But no, he went poking up into the chapel and just missed the whole thing. It's true as gospel I've seen at myself. Well, Archie's young. You'll know better one of these days. Say, boys, who do you reckon done it? That was a difficult question, and brought out a world of unsatisfying conjecture. Various men were mentioned as possibilities, but one by one they were discarded as not being eligible. No one but young Hilier had been intimate with Flint Buckner. No one had really had a quarrel with him. He had a front at every man who had tried to make up to him, although not quite offensively enough to require bloodshed. There was one name that was upon every tongue from the start, but it was the last to get utterance. Fetlock Jones. It was Pat Riley that mentioned it. Oh, well, the boy said. Of course, we've all thought of him, because he had a million rights to kill Flint Buckner, and it was just his plain duty to do it. But all the same, there's two things we can't get around.

20:29For one thing, he hasn't got the sand, and for another, he wasn't anywhere near the place when it happened. I know it, said Pat. He was there in the billiard room with us when it happened. Yes, and was there all the time for an hour before it happened. It's so lucky for him, too. He'd have been suspected in a minute if it hadn't been for that. End of Part 2, Chapter 2 This is Part 2, Chapter 3 of a double-barrel detective story. This Liebervox recording is in the public domain. A double-barrel detective story by Mark Twain, Part 2, Chapter 3. The tavern dining room had been cleared of all its furniture, save one six-foot pine table in a chair. This table was against one end of the room. The chair was on it. Sherlock Holmes, stately imposing, impressive, sat in the chair. The public stood. The room was full.

21:32The tobacco smoke was dense. The stillness profound. The extraordinary man raised his hand to command additional silence. Held it in the air a few moments. Then, in brief, crisp terms, he put forward question after question and noted the answers with, nods of the head and so on. By this process, he learned all about Flint Buckner, his character, conduct, and habits that the people were able to tell him. It thus transpired that the extraordinary man's nephew was the only person in the camp who had a killing grudge against Flint Buckner. Mr. Holmes smiled compassionately upon the witness and asked, languidly, do any of you gentlemen chance to know where the lad Fetlock Jones was at the time of the explosion? A thunderous response followed. In the billiard room of this house! And had he just come in?

22:33Been there all of an hour? Ah, it is about, about, well, about how far might it be to the scene of the explosions? All of a mile? Ah, it isn't much of an alibi, it is true, but a storm burst of laughter mingled with shouts of, by Jiminy, but he's chained lightning. And, ain't you sorry you spoke, Sandy? Shut off the rest of the sentence, and the crushed witness drooped his blushing face in pathetic shame. The inquisitor resumed. The lad Jones is somewhat distant connection with the case, laughter, having been disposed of, let us now call the eyewitnesses of the tragedy, and listen to what they have to say. He got out his fragmentary clues and arranged them on a sheet of cardboard on his knee. The house held its breath and watched. We have, the longitude and the latitude, corrected for magnetic variation, and this gives us the exact location of the tragedy.

23:34We have the altitude, the temperature, and the degree of humidity prevailing, inestimably valuable since they enable us to estimate with precision the degree of influence which they would exercise upon the mood and disposition of the assassin at that time of the night. Buzz of admiration muttered remark by George, but he's deep. He fingered his clues, and now let us ask these mute witnesses to speak to us. Here we have an empty linen shot bag. What is its message? This, that robbery was the motive not revenge. What is its further message? This, that the assassin was of inferior intelligence, shall we say, light-witted, or perhaps approaching that? How do we know this? Because a person of sound intelligence would not have proposed to rob the man Buckner, who never had much money with him. But the assassin might have been a stranger?

24:35Let the bag speak again. I take from it this article. It is a bit of silver-bearing quartz. It is peculiar. Examinate, please, you, and you, and you. Now pass it back, please. There is but one load on this coast which produces just that character and color of quartz, and that is a load which crops out for nearly two miles on a stretch, and in my opinion is destined, at no distant day, to confer upon its locality a globe-girdling celebrity, and upon its two hundred owners, riches beyond the dreams of avarice. Name that load, please. The consolidated Christian science and Marianne was the prompt response. A wild crash of her eyes followed, and every man reached for his neighbor's hand and rung it with tears in his eyes, and Wells Fargo Ferguson shouted, with straight flushes on the load, and up she goes to a 150-foot view. You hear me! When quiet fell, Mr. Holmes resumed. We perceive, then, that three facts are

25:42established to it. The assassin was approximately light-witted. He was not a stranger. His motive was robbery, not revenge. Let us proceed. I hold in my hand a small fragment of fuse, with the recent smell of fire upon it. What is its testimony? Taken with the corroborative evidence of the quarts, it reveals to us that the assassin was a minor. What does it tell us further? This, gentlemen, that the assassination was consummated by means of an explosion. What else does it say? This. That the explosive was located against the side of the cabin nearest the road, the frontside, for within six feet of that spot I found it. I hold in my fingers a burnt Swedish match, the kind one rubs on a safety box. I found it in the road 622 feet from the abolished cabin. What does it say? This. That the train was fired from that point.

26:48What further does it tell us? This. That the assassin was left-handed. How do I know this? I should not be able to explain to you, gentlemen, how I know it, the signs being so subtle that only long experience and deep study can enable one to detect them. But the signs are here, and they are reinforced by a fact which you must have often noticed in the great detective narratives that all assassins are left-handed. By Jackson, that's so!" said Ham sandwich, bringing his great hand down with a resounding slap upon his thigh, waned if I ever thought of it before. Nor I! Nor I! cried several. Oh, there can't anything escape him! Look at his eye! Gentlemen, distant as the murderer was from his doomed victim, he did not wholly escape injury. This fragment of wood which I now exhibit to you struck him. It drew blood. Wherever he is, he bears the telltale mark. I picked it up

27:52where he stood when he fired the fatal train. He looked out over the house from his high perch, and his countenance began to darken. He slowly raised his hand and pointed, there stands the assassin. For a moment the house was paralyzed with amazement. Then twenty voices burst out with, Sammy Hillia! Oh, hell no! Him! It's pure foolishness! Take care, gentlemen, be not hasty. Observe! He has the bloodmark on his brow. Hillia turned white with fright. He was near to crying. He turned this way in that, appealing to every face for help and sympathy, and held out his supplicating hands toward homes and began to plead, don't you- oh, don't! I never did it! I give my word! I never did it! The way I got this hurt on my forehead was arrest him, constable, cried homes. I will swear out the warrant. The constable moved reluctantly forward, hesitated, stopped. Hillia broke out with another

28:54appeal. Oh, Archie! Don't let them do it! It would kill a mother! Oh, you know how I got the hurt, tell them, and save me, Archie! Save me! Stillman worked his way to the front and said, yes, I'll save you! Don't be afraid! Then he said to the house, never mind how he got the hurt. It hasn't anything to do with this case, and it isn't of any consequence. God bless you, Archie, for a true friend! A rar for Archie! Go in, boy, and play him a knock-down flush to their two-parent Ajak! shouted the house, pride in their home talent and a patriotic sentiment of loyalty to it, rising suddenly in the public heart, and changing the whole attitude of the situation. Young Stillman waited for the noise to cease, then he said, I will ask Tom Jeffries to stand by that door yonder, and constable Harris to stand by the other one here, and not let anybody leave the room. Said and done, go on, old man! The criminal is present, I believe. I will show him to you before long, in case I am right in my guess. Now I will tell you

30:00all about the tragedy from start to finish. The motive wasn't robbery, it was revenge. The murderer wasn't light-witted. He didn't stand six hundred and twenty-two feet away. He didn't get hit with a piece of wood. He didn't place the explosive against the cabin. He didn't bring a shot bag with him, and he wasn't left-handed. With the exception of these errors, the distinguished guest statement of the case is substantially correct. A comfortable laugh rippled over the house. Friend nodded to friend, as much as to say, that's the word, with a bark on it! Good lad, good boy! He ain't lower in his flag any! The guest's serenity was not disturbed. Stillman resumed. I also have some witnesses, and I will presently tell you where you can find some more. He held up a piece of coarse wire, the crowd cramed their necks to see. It has a smooth coating of melted tallow on it, and here is a candle which is burned halfway down. The remaining

31:01half of it has marks cut upon it an inch apart. Soon I will tell you where I found these things. I will now put aside reasonings, guesses, the impressive hitchings of odds and ends of clues together, and the other showy theatricals of the detective trade and tell you in a plane, straightforward way, just how this dismal thing happened. He paused a moment for effect, to allow silence and suspense to intensify and concentrate the house's interest, then he went on. The assassin studied out his plan with a good deal of pains. It was a good plan, very ingenious, and showed an intelligent mind, not a feeble one. It was a plan which was well calculated to ward off all suspicion from its inventor. In the first place he marked a candle into spaces an inch apart and lit it and timed it. He found it took three hours to burn four inches of it. I tried it myself for half an hour a while ago, upstairs here, while the inquiry into

32:04Flint Buckner's character and ways was being conducted in this room, and I arrived in that way at the rate of a candle's consumption when sheltered from the wind. Having proved his trial candles' rate, he blew it out. I have already shown it to you, and put his inch marks on a fresh one. He put the fresh one into a tin candlestick, then at the five-hour mark he bored a hole through the candle with a red hot wire. I have already shown you the wire, with a smooth coat of tallow on it. Tallow that had been melted and had cooled. With labor, very hard labor, I should say, he struggled up through the stiff chaperelle that closed the steep hillside back of Flint Buckner's place, tidying an empty flower barrel with him. He placed it in that absolutely secure hiding place, and in the bottom of it he set the candlestick. Then he measured off about thirty-five feet of fuse. The barrel's distance from the back of the cabin. He bored a hole in the side of the

33:06barrel. Here is the large gimlet he did it with. He went on and finished his work, and when it was done, one end of the fuse was in Buckner's cabin, and the other end, with a notch chipped in it to expose the powder, was in the hole in the candle. Timed to blow the place up at one o'clock this morning, provided the candle was lit about eight o'clock yesterday evening, which I am betting it was, and provided there was an explosive in the cabin and connected with that end of the fuse, which I am also betting there was, though I can't prove it. Boys, the barrel is there in the chaperelle. The candles remain, are in it in the tin stick. The burnt out fuse is in the gimlet hole. The other end is down the hill, where the late cabin stood. I saw them all an hour or two ago, when the professor here was measuring off unimplicated vacancies and collecting relics that hadn't anything to do with the case. He paused. The house drew a long, deep breath, shook its strained

34:11cords and muscles free and burst into cheers. Dang him, said Ham sandwich. That's why he was snooping around in the chaperelle, instead of picking up points out of the professor's game. Look here, he ate no fool, boys! No, sir! Why, great scot! But stillman was resuming. While we were out yonder an hour or two ago, the owner of the gimlet and the trial candle took them from a place where he had concealed them. It was not a good place, and carried them to what he probably thought was a better one. Two hundred yards up in the pine woods, and hid them there, covering them over with pine needles. It was there that I found them. The gimlet exactly fits the hole in the barrel. And now, the extraordinary man interrupted him. He said sarcastically, we have had a very pretty fairy tale gentleman, very pretty indeed. Now I would like to ask this young man a question or two. Some of the boys winced, and Ferguson said, I'm afraid Archi is going to catch

35:14it now. The others lost their smiles and sobered down, Mr. Holmes said. Let us proceed to examine into this fairy tale in a consecutive and orderly way, by geometrical progression, so to speak, linking detail to detail in a steadily advancing and remorselously consistent and unassailable march upon this tinsel toy fortress of error. The dream fabric of a calo imagination. To begin with, young sir, I desired to ask you, but three questions at present, at present. Did I understand you to say it was your opinion that the supposititious candle was lighted at about eight o'clock yesterday evening? Yes, sir, about eight. Could you say exactly eight? Well, no, I couldn't be that exact. If a person had been passing along there just about that time, he would have been almost sure to encounter that assassin, do you think? Yes, I should think so. Thank you, that is all.

36:15For the present. I say, all for the present. Dern him, he's laying for Archi, said Ferguson. It's so, said Ham sandwich. I don't like the look of it. Stillman said, glancing at the guest, I was along there myself at half past eight. No, about nine. Indeed. This is interesting. This is very interesting. Perhaps you encountered the assassin yourself. No, I encountered no one. Ah, then if you will excuse the remark, I do not quite see the relevancy of the information. It has none at present. I say it has none at present. He paused. Presently he resumed. I did not encounter the assassin, but I am on his track. I am sure. For I believe he is in this room. I will ask you all to pass one by one in front of me, here, where there is a good light, so that I can see your feet. A buzz of excitement swept the place, and the march began. The guest looking on with an iron-attempted gravity, which was not an unqualified success.

37:20Stillman stooped, shaded his eyes with his hand, and gazed down intently at each pair of feet as it passed. Fifty men tramped monotonously by, with no result. Sixty. Seventy. The thing was beginning to look absurd. The guest remarked with swive irony. Assassins appeared to be scarce this evening. The house saw the humor of it, and refreshed itself with a cordial laugh. Ten or twelve more candidates tramped by, no danced by, with airy and ridiculous capers, which convulsed the spectators. Then suddenly Stillman put out his hand and said, this is the assassin. Fetlock Jones, by the great Sanhedrin, roared the crowd, and at once let fly a pyrotechnic explosion and dazzle and confusion of stirring remarks inspired by the situation. At the height of the turmoil the guests stretched out his hand commanding peace. The authority of a great name and a great personality laid its mysterious compulsion upon the house, and it obeyed.

38:24Out of the panting calm which succeeded, the guests spoke, saying with dignity and feeling, this is serious. It strikes at an innocent life. Innocent beyond suspicion. Innocent beyond per-adventure. Hear me prove it. Observe how simple a fact can brush out of existence this witless lie. Listen, my friends, that lad was never out of my sight yesterday evening at any time. It made a deep impression. Men turned their eyes upon Stillman with grave inquiry in them. His face brightened, and he said, I knew there was another one. He stepped briskly to the table and glanced at the guest-feet, then up at his face and said, you were with him. You were not fifty steps from him when he lit the candle that by and by fired the powder. Sensation. And what is more, you furnished the matches yourself. Plainly the guests seemed hit. It looked so to the public. He opened his mouth to speak.

39:25The words did not come freely. This, ugh, this is insanity. This, Stillman pressed his evident advantage home. He held up a charred match. Here is one of them. I found it in the barrel, and there's another one there. The guest found his voice at once. Yes, and put them there yourself. It was recognized as a good shot. Stillman retorted. It is wax, a breed unknown to this camp. I am ready to be searched for the box. Are you? The guest was staggered this time. The dullest eye could see it. He fumbled with his hands. Once or twice his lips moved, but the words did not come. The house waited and watched. Intense suspense. The stillness adding effect to the situation. Presently, Stillman said gently, we are waiting for your decision. There was silence again during several moments. Then the guest answered in a low voice. I refused to be searched.

40:25There was no noisy demonstration, but all about the house one voice after another muttered, that settles it. He's Archie's meat. What to do now? Nobody seemed to know. It was an embarrassing situation for the moment. Merely, of course, because matters had taken such a sudden and unexpected turn that these unpracticed minds were not prepared for it and had come to a standstill, like a stopped clock under the shock. But after a little, the machinery began to work again tentatively, and by twos and threes, the men put their heads together and privately buzzed over this and that and the other proposition. One of these propositions met with much favor, it was, to confer upon the assassin a vote of thanks for removing Flint Buckner and let him go. But the cooler heads opposed it, pointing out that addled brains in the eastern states would pronounce it a scandal and make no end of foolish noise about it. In the end, the cool heads got the upper hand and obtained general consent to a proposition of their own, and their leader then

41:30called the house to order and stated it to this effect. That fetlocked zones be jailed and put upon trial. The motion was carried. Apparently there was nothing further to do now, and the people were glad, for, privately, they were impatient to get out and rush to the scene of the tragedy, and see whether that barrel and the other things were really there or not. But no, the breakup got a check. The surprises were not over yet. For a while, fetlocked zones had been silently sobbing, unnoticed in the absorbing excitement which had been following one another so persistently for some time. But when his arrest and trial were decreed, he broke out despairingly and said, no, it's no use. I don't want any jail. I don't want any trial. I've had all the hard luck I want and all the miseries. Hang me now and let me out. It would all come out anyway. There couldn't anything save me. He has told it all just as if he'd been with me and seen it. I don't know how

42:32he found out, and you'll find the barrel and things, and then I wouldn't have any chance anymore. I killed him, and you'd have done it, too, if he'd treated you like a dog, and you only a boy, and weak and poor, and not a friend to help you. And served in damn well right, broken ham sandwich. Look at here, boys, from the Constable Order! Order, gentlemen, a voice. Did your uncle know what you was up to? No, he didn't. Did he give you the matches, sure enough? Yes, did. But he didn't know what I wanted them for. When you was out on such a business as that, how did you venture to the risk having him along and him a detective? How's that? The boy hesitated, fumbled with his buttons in an embarrassed way, then said shyly. I know about detectives on account of having them in the family, and if you don't want them to find out about a thing, it's best to have them around when you do it. The cyclone of laughter, which greeted this naive discharge of wisdom, did not modify

43:34the poor little waste embarrassment in any large degree. End of Part 2, Chapter 3 This is Part 2, Chapter 4 and 5 of a double-barrel detective story. This Libravox recording is in the public domain. A double-barrel detective story by Mark Twain, Part 2, Chapter 4, from a letter to Mrs. Stilman dated merely Tuesday. Fetlock Jones was put under lock and key in an unoccupied log cabin and left there to await his trial. Constable Harris provided him with a couple of days' rations, instructed him to keep a good guard over himself, and promised to look in on him as soon as further supplies should be due. Next morning, a score of us went with Hillier out of friendship, and helped him bury his late relative, the unlemented Buckner, and I acted as first assistant Paul Bearer, Hillier acting as chief. Just as we had finished our labors, a ragged and melancholy

44:40stranger carrying an old handbag, limped by with his head down, and I caught the scent I had chased around the globe. It was the odor of paradise to my perishing hope. In a moment, I was at his side, and had laid a gentle hand upon his shoulder. He slumped to the ground as if a stroke of lightning had withered him in his tracks, and as the boys came running, he struggled to his knees, and put up his pleading hands to me, and out of his chattering jaws, he begged me to persecute him no more, and said, You have hunted me around the world, Sherlock Holmes, yet God is my witness, I have never done any man harm. A glance at his wild eyes showed us that he was insane. That was my work, mother. The tidings of your death can someday repeat the misery I felt in that moment, but nothing else can ever do it. The boys lifted him up and gathered about him, and were full of pity of him, and said the gentlest and touchingest things to him,

45:45and said cheer up, and don't be troubled. He was among friends now, and they would take care of him, and protect him, and hang any man that laid a hand on him. They are just like so many mothers, the rough mining camp boys are, when you wake up the south side of their hearts. Yes, and just like so many reckless and unreasoning children, when you wake up the opposite of that muscle, they did everything they could think of to comfort him, but nothing succeeded until Wells Fargo Ferguson, who was a clever strategist, said, If it's only Sherlock Holmes that it's troubling you, you didn't worry anymore. Why ask the four-learn lunatic eagerly? Because he's dead again. Dead. Dead? Oh, don't trifle with a poor wreck like me. Is he dead? On honor now, is he telling me true boys? True as you're a standin' there," said Ham Sandwich, and they all backed up the statement in a body. They hung him in San Bernardino last week,

46:45had it Ferguson, clinching the matter, whilst he was searching around after you, mistook him for another man. They're sorry, but they can't help it now. They're building him a monument, said Ham Sandwich, with the air of a person who had contributed to it and knew. James Walker drew a deep sigh, evidently a sigh of relief, and said nothing. But his eyes lost something of their wildness, his countenance cleared visibly, and its drawn look relaxed a little. We all went to our cabin, and the boys cooked him the best dinner the camp could furnish the materials for, and while they were about it, Hillier and I outfitted him from hat to shoe leather, with new clothes of ours, and made a comely and presentable old gentleman of him. Old is the right word, and a pity too, old by the droop of him, and the frost upon his hair, and the marks which sorrow and distress have left upon his face. Though he is only in his prime in the matter of years,

47:47while he ate we smoked and chatted, and when he was finishing he found his voice at last, and of his own accord broke out with his personal history. I cannot furnish his exact words, but I will come as near as I can. The wrong man's story. It happened like this. I was in Denver. I had been there many years, sometimes I remember how many, sometimes I don't, but it isn't any matter. All of a sudden I got a notice to leave, or I would be exposed for a horrible crime committed long before, years and years before, in the east. I knew about that crime, but I was not the criminal. It was a cousin of mine of the same name. What should I better do? My head was all disordered by fear, and I didn't know. I was allowed very little time, only one day, I think it was. I would be ruined if I was published, and the people would lynch me, and not believe what I said. It is always the

48:48way with lynchings. When they find out it is a mistake they are sorry, but it is too late, the same as it was with Mr. Holmes, you see. So I said I would sell out and get money to live on, and run away until it blew over, and I could come back with my proofs. Then I escaped in the night, and went a long way off in the mountains somewhere, and lived disguised, and had a false name. I got more and more troubled and worried, and my troubles made me see spirits and hear voices, and I could not think straight and clear on any subject, but got confused and involved, and had to give it up because my head hurts so. It got to be worse and worse, more spirits and more voices. They were about me all the time, at first only in the night, then in a day, too. They were always whispering around my bed, and plopping against me, and it broke my sleep, and kept me fagged out, because I got no good rest, and then came the worst. One night,

49:49the whispers said, we will never manage, because we can't see him, and so can't point him out to the people. They sighed. Then one said, we must bring Sherlock Holmes. He can be here in twelve days. They all agreed, and whispered and jibbered with joy, but my heart broke, for I had read about that man, and knew what it would be to have him upon my track, with his superhuman penetration and tireless energies. The spirits went away to fetch him, and I got up at once, in the middle of the night, and fled away, carrying nothing but the handbag that had my money in it—thirty thousand dollars. Two-thirds of it are in the bag there yet. It was forty days before that man caught up on my track. I just escaped. From habit he had written his real name on a tavern register, but had scratched it out and written, bagged barkly in the place of it. But fear gives you a watchful eye and keen,

50:51and I read the true name through the scratches and fled like a deer. He has hunted me all over this world for three years and a half—the Pacific States, Australasia, India, everywhere you can think of, then back to Mexico, and up to California again, giving me hardly any rest. But that name on the registers always saved me, and what is left of me is alive yet, and I am so tired. A cruel time he has given me, yet I give you my honor. I have never harmed him nor any man. That was the end of the story, and it stirred those boys to blood heap, be sure of it, as for me each word burnt a hole in me where it struck. We voted that the old man should bunk with us, and be my guest and hilliers. I shall keep my own counsel naturally, but as soon as he is well-rested and nourished, I shall take him to Denver and rehabilitate his fortunes.

51:53The boys gave the old fellow the bone-mashing good fellowship handshake of the minds, and then scattered away to spread the news. At dawn next morning, Wells Fargo Ferguson and Ham Sandwich called us softly out and said privately, that news about the way that old stranger has been treated as spread all round, and the camps are up. They are piling in from everywhere, and are going to lynch the Professor. Constable Harris is in a dead funk and his telephone to sheriff. Come along! We started on a run. The others were privileged to feel as they chose, but in my heart's privacy I hoped the sheriff would arrive in time, for I had small desire that Sherlock Holmes should hang for my deeds, as you can easily believe. I had heard a good deal about the sheriff, but for reassurances sake I asked, can he stop a mob? Can he stop a mob? Can Jack Fairfax stop a mob? Well, I should smile. X Desperado, 19 scalps on his string,

52:54canny, how I say. As we tore up the gulch, distant cries and shouts and yells rose faintly on the still air, and grew steadily in strength as we raced along. Roar after roar burst out stronger and stronger, nearer and nearer, and at last when we closed up upon the multitude masked in the open area in front of the tavern, the crash of sound was deafening. Some brutal ruffs from daily's gorge had homes in their grip, and he was the calmest man there. A contemptuous smile played about his lips, and if any fear of death was in his British heart, his iron personality was master of it, and no sign of it was allowed to appear. Come draw a vote, man! This from one of the daily gang, Shadbelly Higgins, quick, is it hang or shoot? Neither, shot at one of his comrades, he'll be alive again in a week, burning's the only permanency for him. The gangs from all the outlying camps burst out in the thunder crash of approval, and went struggling and surging

53:59toward the prisoner and closed around him shouting, fire, fires the ticket! They dragged him to the horse-post, backed him against it, chained him to it, and piled wood and pine cones around him, waist deep. Still the strong face did not blench, and still the scornful smile played about the thin lips. A match! Fetch a match! Shadbelly struck it, shaded it with his hand, stooped, and held it under a pine cone. A deep silence fell upon the mob. The cone caught a tiny flame flickered about it a moment or two. I seemed to catch the sound of distant hoofs. It grew more distinct. Still more and more distinct, more and more definite, but the absorbed crowd did not appear to notice it. The match went out. The man struck another, stooped, and again the flame rose. This time it took hold and began to spread. Here and there men turned away their faces. The executioner stood with the charred match in his fingers, watching his work. The hoofbeats turned

55:01a projecting crag, and now they came thundering down upon us. Almost the next moment there was a shout, the sheriff! And straight away he came tearing into the midst, stood his horse almost on his hind feet and said, Fall back, you gutter-snipes! He was a bade, by all but their leader. He stood his ground, and his hand went to his revolver. The sheriff covered him promptly and said, Drop your hand, you parlor disparado! Kick the fire away! Now, unchain the stranger! The parlor disparado obeyed. Then the sheriff made a speech, sitting his horse at martial ease, and not warming his words with any touch of fire, but delivering them in a measured and deliberate way, and in a tone which harmonized with their character and made them impressively disrespectful. You're a nice lot now, ain't you? Just about eligible to travel with this billk here, Shadbelly Higgins, this loud mouse sneak that shoots people in the back and calls himself a desparado.

56:04If there's anything I do particularly despise, it's a lynching mob. I've never seen one that had a man in it. It has to tally up a hundred against one before it can pump up pluck enough to tackle a sick tailor. It's made up of cowards, and so is the community that breeds it. And ninety-nine times out of a hundred the sheriff's another one. He paused, apparently to turn that last idea over in his mind and taste the juice of it. Then he went on. The sheriff that lets a mob take a prisoner away from him is the lowest-down coward there is. By the statistics there was a hundred and eighty-two of them drawing sneak pay in America last year. By the way, it's going, pretty soon there'll be a new disease in Dr. Books Sheriff complaint. That idea pleased him, anyone could see it. People will say, Sheriff's sick again.

57:04Yes, got the same old thing. And next there'll be a new title. People won't say he's running for sheriff or Rapaho County. For instance, they'll say, he's running for coward of Rapaho. Lord, the idea of a grown-up person being afraid of a lynch mob. He turned an eye on the captive and said, Stranger, who are you and what have you been doing? My name is Sherlock Holmes, and I have not been doing anything. It was wonderful the impression which the sound of that name made on the sheriff. Notwithstanding he must have come posted, he spoke up with feeling and said it was a blot on the country, but a man whose marvelous exploits had filled the world with their fame and their ingenuity, and whose histories of them had won every reader's heart by the brilliancy and charm of their literary setting should be visited under the stars and stripes by an outrage like this. He apologized in the name of the whole nation and made Holmes a most handsome bow and told Constable Harris to see him to his quarters

58:07and hold himself personally responsible if he was molested again. Then he turned to the mob and said, Hunt your holes, you scum, which they did. Then he said, Follow me, Shadbelly, I'll take care of your case myself. No, keep your popcorn. Whenever I see the day that I'll be afraid to have you behind me with that thing, it'll be time for me to join last year's 182, and he rode off in a walk Shadbelly following. When we were on our way back to our cabin toward breakfast time, we ran upon the news that Fetlock Jones had escaped from his lock-up in the night and is gone. Nobody is sorry. Let his uncle track him out if he likes. It is, in his line, the camp is not interested. End of Part 2, Chapter 4 This is Part 2, Chapter 5 of a double-barrel detective story. Ten days later. James Walker is all right in body now, and his mind shows improvement, too. I start with him for Denver tomorrow

59:12morning. Next night, brief note mailed at a way station. As we were starting this morning, Hillier whispered to me, Keep this news from Walker until you think it's safe and not likely to disturb his mind and check his improvement. The ancient crime he spoke of was really committed, and by his cousin, as he said. We buried the real criminal the other day, the unhappiest man that has lived in a century, Flint Buckner. His real name was Jacob Fuller. There, mother, by help of me an unwitting mourner, your husband and my father is in his grave. Let him rest. End of Part 2, Chapter 5 End of a double-barrel detective story, read by John Greenman Spring weekends are all about family, sunshine, and evenings on the patio. Before the barbecue starts, I like to stop by my local total wine and more to pick up a great bourbon. Maybe a single

1:00:16barrel I already love, or something new to try with dinner. With so many bottles to choose from, it's easy to discover a favorite or something new for everyone to enjoy. Find what you love and love what you find, only a total wine and more. Curbside pick up and delivery available in most areas, visit TotalWine.com to learn more. Spirits not sold in Virginia and North Carolina, drink responsibly B-21.