“Yes—but he’s scientifical, Mr. Holmes is. He would of had a spyin’ glass handy in his pocket to look at the marks with, and right off he’d of seen by the spread from claw to claw that they had been made by a mighty big bear. He would study over that a few minutes, somethin’ like this: A bear with paws as big as what these must of been must be an uncommon big bear; and heavy—four or five hundred pounds in weight, maybe, in the fall of the year; and so he would just naturally make deeper tracks than these here; and a bear as big as what he must be to own these paws and claws would be too darned big to get through that little window without spreadin’ the side of the camp or bustin’ himself or somethin’. So he would up and say, quick but quiet, ‘This thief is a lamb in a wolf’s clothes’—or somethin’ like that. He would know it wasn’t a bear, anyway. That’s how Mr. Holmes would of figgered it out, I guess.”
Andy withdrew his pipe from his mouth and slowly straightened himself in his chair.
“Sufferin’ cats!” he exclaimed. “It don’t sound altogether human comin’ like that from a young feller who ain’t been to school nowhere but down to the Bend. Where’d ye get the trick of it from, Young Dan? Not from yer Pa nor yer Ma, I’ll swear an Alfy Davy!”
“That was easy, workin’ it out after I knew, the way I did,” replied Young Dan, modestly. “If I had worked it out that way before I knew—well, that would of been pretty slick work. That would of been scientifical.”
“If Gover’ment hears about it you’ll be one o’ these here boss policemen some day,” said Andy.
“I guess not,” retorted Young Dan, with a slight curl of the lips that was foreign to his character.
He already shared Sherlock Holmes’ opinion of the mental equipment of that stalwart and imperturbable force.
He reopened the book and took up the story at the point of his partner’s interruption. He read a paragraph, his voice skidding now and then on a word of formidable proportions. He read a page, warming to his work and tearing the big words to pieces without so much as a hitch in his stride. Two pages—and still not a peep out of Andy Mace. He ceased reading and looked up inquiringly, and beheld his aged partner slouched in the chair and sunk deep in slumber, his shoulders hunched high, his chin tucked in and his grey beard rising and falling peacefully on his breast.
Young Dan was up as early as usual next morning. He lit the lantern and then the fire in the stove; and it was not until then that he heard any signs of life from his partner’s bunk.
“Sufferin’ cant-dogs!” exclaimed Andy. “Warm up the b’ar’s grease for me, pardner. This here right leg o’ mine’s stiffer’n King Pharaoh’s neck. Must of give it a twist yesterday.”