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Chapter 6 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 The news buzzed from cabin to cabin, from claim to claim; tools were dropped, and the town swarmed toward the centre 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 whats the use of being afraid of him? Anybody that knows him the way I do knows he cant detect a crime except where he plans it all out beforehand and arranges the clews and hires some fellow to commit it according to instructions. Now there aint going to be any clews this timeso, what show has he got? None at all. No, sir; everythings ready. If I was to risk putting it off No, I wont run any risk like that. Flint Buckner goes out of this world to-night, for sure. Then another trouble presented itself. Uncle Sherlock ll be wanting to talk home matters with me this evening, and how am I going to get rid of him? for Ive got to be at my cabin a minute or two about eight oclock. This was an awkward matter, and cost him much thought. But he found a way to beat the difficulty. Well go for a walk, and Ill leave him in the road a minute, so that he wont see what it is I do: the best way to throw a detective off the track, anyway, is to have him along when you are preparing the thing. Yes, thats the safestIll 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 lockup, which looked into the detectives room across a little alleyway ten or twelve feet wide, ambushed themselves in it, and cut some peep-holes in the window-blind. Mr. Holmess 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 satnot 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 awed voice. By gracious! thats 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 thoughtthats what it comes from. Hell! duffers like us dont know what real thought is. No more we dont, said Ferguson. What we take for thinking is just blubber-and-slush. Right you are, Wells-Fargo. And look at that frownthats deep thinkingaway down, down, forty fathom into the bowels of things. Hes on the track of something. Well, he is, and dont you forget it. Saylook at that awful gravitylook at that pallid solemnnessthere aint any corpse can lay over it. No, sir, not for dollars! And its hisn by hereditary rights, too; hes been dead four times aready, and theres history for it. Three times natural, once by accident. Ive heard say he smells damp and cold, like a grave. And he |
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