Thus Mr. Wollaston grimly, with his pores stopped up with iron-fillings,—­a person to whom it would come quite easy to knock any one on the head for a slight difference of opinion.  He amused Mr. Taggett in his present humor.

No, he wasn’t aware that Shackford had had trouble with any particular individual; believed he did have a difficulty once with Slocum, the marble man; but he was always fetching suits against the town and shying lawyers at the mill directors,—­a disagreeable old cuss altogether.  Adopted his cousin, one time, but made the house so hot for him that the lad ran off to sea, and since then had had nothing to do with the old bilk.

Indeed!  What sort of fellow was young Shackford?  Mr. Wollaston could not say of his own knowledge; thought him a plucky chap; he had put a big Italian named Torrini out of the yard, one day, for talking back.  Who was Torrini?  The man that got hurt last week in the Dana Mill.  Who were Richard Shackford’s intimates?  Couldn’t say; had seen him with Mr. Pinkham, the school-master, and Mr. Craggie,—­went with the upper crust generally.  Was going to be partner in the marble yard and marry Slocum’s daughter.  Will Durgin knew him.  They lived together one time.  He, Wollaston, was going to turn in now.

Several of these facts were not new to Mr. Taggett, but Mr. Wollaston’s presentation of them threw Mr. Taggett into a reverie.

The next evening he got Durgin alone in a corner of the bar-room.  With two or three potations Durgin became autobiographical.  Was he acquainted with Mr. Shackford outside the yard?  Rather.  Dick Shackford?  His (Durgin’s) mother had kept Dick from starving when he was a baby,—­and no thanks for it.  Went to school with him, and knew all about his running off to sea.  Was near going with him.  Old man Shackford never liked Dick, who was a proud beggar; they couldn’t pull together, down to the last,—­both of a piece.  They had a jolly rumpus a little while before the old man was fixed.

Mr. Taggett pricked up his ears at this.

A rumpus?  How did Durgin know that?  A girl told him.  What girl?  A girl he was sweet on.  What was her name?  Well, he didn’t mind telling her name; it was Molly Hennessey.  She was going through Welch’s Court one forenoon,—­may be it was three days before the strike,—­and saw Dick Shackford bolt out of the house, swinging his arms and swearing to himself at an awful rate.  Was Durgin certain that Molly Hennessey had told him this?  Yes, he was ready to take his oath on it.

Here, at last, was something that looked like a glimmer of daylight.

It was possible that Durgin or the girl had lied; but the story had an air of truth to it.  If it were a fact that there had recently been a quarrel between these cousins, whose uncousinly attitude towards each other was fast becoming clear to Mr. Taggett, then here was a conceivable key to an enigma which had puzzled him.