The Stillwater Tragedy | Page 6

in South Millville
now bore testimony.
"I haven't been cutting down the population _much,"_ said Blufton,
with his wholesome laugh.
Thomas Blufton was well known and esteemed in Stillwater, but if the
crime had fastened itself upon him it would have given something like
popular satisfaction.
In the course of the ensuing forty-eight hours four or five tramps were
overhauled as having been in the neighborhood at the time of the
tragedy; but they each had a clean story, and were let go. Then one
Durgin, a workman at Slocum's Yard, was called upon to explain some
half-washed-out red stains on his overalls, which he did. He had
tightened the hoops on a salt-pork barrel for Mr. Shackford several
days previous; the red paint on the head of the barrel was fresh, and had
come off on his clothes. Dr. Weld examined the spots under a
microscope, and pronounced them paint. It was manifest that Mr.
Taggett meant to go to the bottom of things.

The bar-room of the Stillwater hotel was a center of interest these
nights; not only the bar-room proper, but the adjoining apartment,
where the more exclusive guests took their seltzer-water and looked
over the metropolitan newspapers. Twice a week a social club met here,
having among its members Mr. Craggie, the postmaster, who was
supposed to have a great political future, Mr. Pinkham, Lawyer Perkins,
Mr. Whidden, and other respectable persons. The room was at all times
in some sense private, with a separate entrance from the street, though
another door, which usually stood open, connected it with the main
salon. In this was a long mahogany counter, one section of which was
covered with a sheet of zinc perforated like a sieve, and kept constantly
bright by restless caravans of lager-beer glasses. Directly behind that
end of the counter stood a Gothic brass-mounted beer-pump, at whose
faucets Mr. Snelling, the landlord, flooded you five or six mugs in the
twinkling of an eye, and raised the vague expectation that he was about
to grind out some popular operatic air. At the left of the pump stretched
a narrow mirror, reflecting he gaily-colored wine-glasses and decanters
which stood on each other's shoulders, and held up lemons, and
performed various acrobatic feats on a shelf in front of it.
The fourth night after the funeral of Mr. Shackford, a dismal southeast
storm caused an unusual influx of idlers in both rooms. With the rain
splashing against the casements and the wind slamming the blinds, the
respective groups sat discussing in a desultory way the only topic
which could be discussed at present. There had been a general strike
among the workmen a fortnight before; but even that had grown cold as
a topic.
"That was hard on Tom Blufton," said Stevens, emptying the ashes out
of his long-stemmed clay pipe, and refilling the bowl with cut
cavendish from a jar on a shelf over his head.
Michael Hennessey sat down his beer-mug with an air of argumentative
disgust, and drew one sleeve across his glistening beard.
"Stevens, you've as many minds as a weather-cock, jist! Didn't ye say
yerself it looked mighty black for the lad when he was took?"
"I might have said something of the sort," Stevens admitted reluctantly,
after a pause. "His driving round at daybreak with an empty cart did
have an ugly look at first."
"Indade, then."

"Not to anybody who knew Tom Blufton," interrupted Samuel Piggott,
Blufton's brother-in-law. "The boy hasn't a bad streak in him. It was an
outrage. Might as well have suspected Parson Langly or Father
O'Meara."
"If this kind of thing goes on," remarked a man in the corner with a
patch over one eye, "both of them reverend gents will be hauled up, I
shouldn't wonder."
"That's so, Mr. Peters," responded Durgin. "If my respectability didn't
save me, who's safe?"
"Durgin is talking about his respectability! He's joking."
"Look here, Dexter," said Durgin, turning quickly on the speaker,
"when I want to joke, I talk about your intelligence."
"What kind of man is Taggett, anyhow?" asked Piggott. "You saw him,
Durgin."
"I believe he was at Justice Beemis's office the day Blufton and I was
there; but I didn't make him out in the crowd. Shouldn't know him from
Adam."
"Stillwater's a healthy place for tramps jest about this time," suggested
somebody. "Three on 'em snaked in to-day."
"I think, gentlemen, that Mr. Taggett is on the right track there,"
observed Mr. Snelling, in the act of mixing another Old Holland for Mr.
Peters. "Not too sweet, you said? I feel it in my bones that it was a
tramp, and that Mr. Taggett will bring him yet."
"He won't find him on the highway yonder," said a tgall, swarthy man
named Torrini, an Italian. Nationalities clash