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.
“Stop here in the road a moment, uncle,” said Fetlock, “while 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
hopes some of you'll be left to take a drink with him.”
“By George, he's just a duke, boys! Three cheers for Sherlock Holmes,
the greatest man that ever lived!” shouted Ferguson. “Hip, hip, hip--”
“Hurrah! hurrah! hurrah! Tiger!”
The uproar shook the building, so hearty was the feeling the boys put
into their welcome. Upstairs 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
boys admire you; but if you was to leave without taking a drink with
them, they'd set you down for a snob. And, besides, you said you had home
talk enough in stock to keep us up and at 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!” muttered the boy. He continued to himself, looking after
the shadowy form: “Good-by--good-by 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.”
He 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 miners; 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 jollity was at
its highest--