Before I could reply, Mr. Clemens spoke. “Well, we sure don’t have any more business here, on account of we’ve finished what we came for. And we’ll be gone just as soon as our driver shows up, so you don’t have to fret about that, either.”
“Think you’re smart, do you?” said the fellow. From his accent he was an Englishman, of the educated classes—as his garb had suggested. He brandished his stick menacingly, and took a step toward me.
“I think you should keep your distance,” I said. “We’re minding our own business here, and you’d be best advised to leave us alone.” He wasn’t a big fellow, but he would be a real danger to me or to Mr. Clemens, if he began swinging his cane with intent to do harm.
“I’ve had about enough cheek from you,” he bellowed, and rushed me, with the stick raised.
Almost by instinct I found myself ducking under the stick and taking him with a football tackle about the thighs. He let out a loud “Oof!” as he struck the pavement, but he held on to his stick and landed a blow across my back.
My football training did not extend to disarming the opponent, and there was no referee with a whistle to blow the play dead. So I knew I had to get the stick away from him before he could improve his aim, and I reached up blindly with my right hand, hoping to grasp his wrist. He took another wild swing with the stick, landing a glancing blow on my buttocks. I held him tight, thinking that as long as I could keep him down, he would be no threat to Mr. Clemens. Perhaps if I could pin his arms . . . if I could figure out how to do it without exposing myself to a direct blow to the head. I lurched forward, and got my upper body across his chest. I felt the air go out of him then, and it was only a moment more before I had his arms pinned. He tried again to hit me, but now there was no force in it. “Drop the stick,” I said.
He cursed me in reply, and tried to wriggle out of my grasp, but I had both the superior position and a weight advantage. I was still trying to decide exactly what I was going to do with those advantages—I had no desire to injure this fellow, but I had no reason to believe he wouldn’t renew his attack the minute I let go his arms—when a woman’s voice behind me called out shrilly, “Tony! Stop that this instant! Behave yourself!”
It was Miss Donning, I realized as I heard the cane clatter to the ground. I turned my head to see my employer pick it up. “I’ve got it, Wentworth,” Mr. Clemens said. “Let him up and let’s find out what’s going on here.”
“Don’t try anything else,” I growled, taking my weight off the other fellow’s chest. I got to my feet, then reached a hand to help my opponent to a standing position. He looked distinctly winded as he came up, but there was still fire in his eye, and I stood on my guard, ready to deal with any further attack. I sincerely hoped it wouldn’t be necessary. It also occurred to me for the first time that the stick might not be his only weapon, and I felt a chill thinking of what I had just risked for my employer’s sake.
“Tony, I never thought I’d find you brawling in the streets like a common ruffian,” said Miss Donning, who stood beside my employer, a very stem look on her face. From the open doorway to her house I could see the maid peeping out, not making any particular effort to be inconspicuous. There were faces at two of the neighboring houses’ windows, as well. And, to complete the scene, our carriage pulled around the corner, just a little too late to be of any help.
“You may call it brawling,” said the young man, who I now realized must be Anthony Parkhurst, the murdered doctor’s son. “I call it defending my family from police snoops.”
“Mr. Clemens has nothing to do with the police,” said Miss Donning. “He is an American who happened to be present when your father was killed. Really, Tony, you ought to learn what you are about before you set off on some lunatic escapade.”
“Is that true?” said young Parkhurst, turning to Mr. Clemens. “Are you an American?”
“Yes, I am,” said Mr. Clemens. “I’m Sam Clemens, and this fellow here with me is my secretary, Wentworth Cabot. We’re trying to find out who killed your father”—so he had come to the same conclusion as I had—“and if we can do it without you two starting another rasslin’ match, I’d like to talk to you about it. What do you say?”
“Oh, well, if you’re not police then that’s all right,” said Parkhurst, with a shrug. “What do you need to talk about, and why with me? My aunt says you were there, so I guess you know more than I do about the whole business.”
“Well, I don’t want to talk about anything in the middle of the street with half the neighbors eavesdropping,” said my employer, looking around at the nearby houses. “And I’ve already talked to Miss Donning, so I don’t need to take up any more of her time. Do you know anywhere close where we can sit and have a smoke, and maybe a glass of something while we talk quietly? We can ride there unless it’s right around the corner.” He gestured toward the carriage, which had stopped in front of Miss Donning’s home.
“That I do,” said the young man, nodding. To hear his slurred speech, I was
