The tavern dining-room had been cleared of all its furniture save one
six-foot pine table and 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. The
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 “Um-ums,”
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?”