Tom Sawyer, Detective

It was always nuts for Tom Sawyer–a mystery was.  If you’d lay out a
mystery and a pie before me and him, you wouldn’t have to say take your
choice; it was a thing that would regulate itself.  Because in my nature
I have always run to pie, whilst in his nature he has always run to
mystery. People are made different.  And it is the best way. Tom says to
the waiter:

“What’s the man’s name?”

“Phillips.”

“Where’d he come aboard?”

“I think he got aboard at Elexandria, up on the Iowa line.”

“What do you reckon he’s a-playing?”

“I hain’t any notion–I never thought of it.”

I says to myself, here’s another one that runs to pie.

“Anything peculiar about him?–the way he acts or talks?”

“No–nothing, except he seems so scary, and keeps his doors locked night
and day both, and when you knock he won’t let you in till he opens the
door a crack and sees who it is.”

“By jimminy, it’s int’resting! I’d like to get a look at him.  Say–the
next time you’re going in there, don’t you reckon you could spread the
door and–”

“No, indeedy! He’s always behind it.  He would block that game.”

Tom studied over it, and then he says:

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