All its life it had been asleep, but now it hardly got a chance for a nod, so swiftly did big events and crashing surprises come along in one another’s wake:  Friday morning, first glimpse of Real Nobility, also grand reception at Aunt Patsy Cooper’s, also great robber raid; Friday evening, dramatic kicking of the heir of the chief citizen in presence of four hundred people; Saturday morning, emergence as practicing lawyer of the long-submerged Pudd’nhead Wilson; Saturday night, duel between chief citizen and titled stranger.

The people took more pride in the duel than in all the other events put together, perhaps.  It was a glory to their town to have such a thing happen there.  In their eyes the principals had reached the summit of human honor.  Everybody paid homage to their names; their praises were in all mouths.  Even the duelists’ subordinates came in for a handsome share of the public approbation:  wherefore Pudd’nhead Wilson was suddenly become a man of consequence.  When asked to run for the mayoralty Saturday night, he was risking defeat, but Sunday morning found him a made man and his success assured.

The twins were prodigiously great now; the town took them to its bosom with enthusiasm.  Day after day, and night after night, they went dining and visiting from house to house, making friends, enlarging and solidifying their popularity, and charming and surprising all with their musical prodigies, and now and then heightening the effects with samples of what they could do in other directions, out of their stock of rare and curious accomplishments.  They were so pleased that they gave the regulation thirty days’ notice, the required preparation for citizenship, and resolved to finish their days in this pleasant place.  That was the climax.  The delighted community rose as one man and applauded; and when the twins were asked to stand for seats in the forthcoming aldermanic board, and consented, the public contentment was rounded and complete.

Tom Driscoll was not happy over these things; they sunk deep, and hurt all the way down.  He hated the one twin for kicking him, and the other one for being the kicker’s brother.

Now and then the people wondered why nothing was heard of the raider, or of the stolen knife or the other plunder, but nobody was able to throw any light on that matter.  Nearly a week had drifted by, and still the thing remained a vexed mystery.

On Sunday Constable Blake and Pudd’nhead Wilson met on the street, and Tom Driscoll joined them in time to open their conversation for them.  He said to Blake:  “You are not looking well, Blake; you seem to be annoyed about something.  Has anything gone wrong in the detective business?  I believe you fairly and justifiably claim to have a pretty good reputation in that line, isn’t it so?”—­which made Blake feel good, and look it; but Tom added, “for a country detective”—­which made Blake feel the other way, and not only look it, but betray it in his voice.