Sherlock Holmes Great War Parodies and Pastiches I: 1910-1914

By Bill Peschel

Welcome to 223B Baker Street

The debut of Sherlock Holmes in the pages of The Strand magazine introduced one of fiction’s most memorable heroes. Arthur Conan Doyle’s spellbinding tales of mystery and detection, along with Holmes’ deep friendship with Doctor Watson, touched the hearts of fans worldwide, and inspired imitations, parodies, songs, art, even erotica, that continues to this very day.

“Sherlock Holmes Great War Parodies and Pastiches I: 1910-1914” collects 43 pieces — short stories, poems, and cartoons — published during this stage of Conan Doyle’s literary career. Also included are much of the original art and more than 340 footnotes identifying obscure words, historical figures, and events that readers were familiar with at the time.

Peschel Press’ 223B Casebook series — named because they’re “next door” to the original stories — is dedicated to publishing the fanfiction created by amateur and professional writers during Conan Doyle’s lifetime. Each book covers an era, publication, or writer, and includes lively mini-essays containing insights into the work, Conan Doyle, and those who were inspired by him.

The book also contains "Our Man in Tangier," a Sherlock Holmes pastiche by Bill Peschel featuring Mark Twain and Mycroft in Morocco.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Peschel Press
• Release date: Jul 15, 2019
• ISBN: 9780463076552

Bill Peschel

Bill Peschel is a recovering journalist who shares a Pulitzer Prize with the staff of The Patriot-News in Harrisburg, Pa. He also is mystery fan who has run the Wimsey Annotations at www.planetpeschel.com for nearly two decades. He is the author of the 223B series of Sherlock Holmes parodies and pastiches, "The Complete, Annotated Mysterious Affair at Styles," "The Complete, Annotated Secret Adversary" and "The Complete, Annotated Whose Body?" as well as "Writers Gone Wild" (Penguin Books). He lives in Hershey, where the air really does smell like chocolate.

Book preview

Introduction

The title of this collection is something of a dodge. The Edwardian period ended with the death of King Edward VII, Bertie to his friends and many mistresses, in 1910. His brother George V succeeded him, but nobody calls this the Georgian period. The Great War appears only in the last year of this volume—the last five months to be precise—so it could more accurately be called the Edwardian III book. But I hate that it spoils the symmetry of the series, and wars do not begin from an isolated point, but build up over years until a spark sets the powder keg alight. Europe was preparing for the next war by this time, and Conan Doyle rang the alarm to get his country’s military to adopt the new technologies of airships and submarines, as well as his own ideas. War was in the air, so for that reason and my desire for symmetry, I chose to call this the first Great War volume.

This book represents the end of an era. After this, to the usual parade of crimes and domestic concerns, Holmes and Watson will confront the war, from conscription and food rationing on the home front to trench fighting and prisoner-of-war camps. It will take many years for many writers to forget the horror and stresses of those times; some never will.

How the Book Was Organized

The 223B Casebook Series has two goals: To reprint the majority of the parodies and pastiches published in Conan Doyle’s lifetime, especially rare items not readily available, and stories collected about a single subject, such as The Early Punch Parodies of Sherlock Holmes.

The stories in the chronological books appear in the order in which readers of the time would have seen them. This way, we can see how writers changed their perception of Sherlock as the canonical stories were published. Stories for which dates could not be found, such as those published in books, were moved to the back of the year.

Each chapter begins with a description of Conan Doyle’s activities that year. I tried to keep the essays self-contained, but some events, such as Conan Doyle’s longtime relationship with Jean Leckie, span years, and you may need to read the essays in previous books in the series to fully understand them.

The stories were reprinted as accurately as possible. No attempt was made to standardize British and American spelling. Some words have undergone changes over the years—Shakespere instead of Shakespeare and to-morrow for tomorrow—they were left alone. Obvious mistakes of spelling and grammar were silently corrected, except in certain stated cases, and solid blocks of paragraphs were broken up to aid readability.

Acknowledgements

As each volume went to press, I’m reminded again of how many people helped make this series larger and better than I could have done alone. Research assistant Scott Harkless provided rare and crucial stories. Denise Phillips at Hershey Public Library worked hard to acquire the books and articles I asked for. Peter Blau generously shared the fruits of his researches. Charles Press provided me with a shopping list from his Parodies and Pastiches Buzzing ’Round Sir Arthur Conan Doyle, and happily filled in the gaps with extremely rare items from his researches.

Adrian Nebbett supplied a clean typescript and art for The Adventure of the Lost Baby.

Then there are the writers whose books led the way: Otto Penzler for The Big Book of Sherlock Holmes Stories; Bill Blackbeard for Sherlock Holmes in America; Frederic Dannay and Manfred Lee (Ellery Queen) for their ill-fated The Misadventures of Sherlock Holmes; Philip K. Jones for his massive (10,000 entries!) database of Sherlockian pastiches, parodies, and related fiction; John Gibson and Richard Lancelyn Green for My Evening With Sherlock Holmes and The Uncollected Sherlock Holmes; Paul D. Herbert for The Sincerest Form of Flattery; Peter Ridgway Watt and Joseph Green for The Alternative Sherlock Holmes: Pastiches, Parodies and Copies; The Sciolist Press, Donald K. Pollock, and the other editors behind The Baker Street Miscellanea.

By digitizing the nation’s newspapers and making them searchable, The National Library of Australia enabled me to find previously unknown parodies and research their local references so we can appreciate what was going on in New South Wales, Mudgee, and Perth.

A great effort was made to determine the copyright status of these pieces and obtain permission to publish from the rightful copyright holders. If I have made a mistake, please contact me so that I may rectify the error.

Finally, my love to Teresa, wielder of the red pen and owner of my heart.

Got parody?: If you have an uncollected Sherlock Holmes story that was published between 1888 and 1930, please let me know the title and author. If I don’t have it and can use it, you’ll earn a free trade paperback of the book it’ll appear in plus an acknowledgement inside! Email me at [e-mail] or write to Peschel Press, P.O. Box 132, Hershey, PA 17033-0132.

Get the newsletter: If you want to learn more about my books, my researches and the media I eat, sign up for the Peschel Press newsletter. You’ll get a chatty letter occasionally about what we’re publishing plus a glimpse behind the scenes at a growing publishing house. Visit either www.planetpeschel.com or www.peschelpress.com and look for the sign-up box.

Image No. 2

Arthur Conan Doyle in 1910.

1910

At 50, Sir Arthur Conan Doyle was as energetic and active as when he was a young doctor at Southsea. He was happily married to his 35-year-old second wife, Jean. They had already begun his second family in March 1909 with the birth of Denis, and would add his brother, Adrian, in November 1910. After having to keep their relationship a secret for nearly a dozen years, Conan Doyle must have felt invigorated at these signs of a new life.

The only reminders of his past were the children from his first marriage, and they were kept away from Windlesham as much as feasible. Approaching twenty-one, Mary was in Dresden studying music and singing, while Kingsley was educated at Eton with an eye toward a career in medicine. In the coming years, they would be reminded frequently that their father’s attitude towards them depended much on their stepmother. It is Jean and not Daddy with whom I shall have to reckon with, Mary wrote to her brother.

Meanwhile, Conan Doyle kept up his public campaigns against the atrocities in the Belgian Congo and for reforms in divorce law. He also became a theatre impresario. After The Fires of Fate failed in 1909, he couldn’t find a manger to take on his play, The House of Temperley, which demanded 43 actors, multiple sets, and a long bare-knuckle boxing match. So Conan Doyle took a six-month lease of the Adelphi Theatre and financed it himself. His investment ran into the thousands of pounds. He bought antique furniture and props from the Regency period. To make the fighting as realistic as possible, he hired a military boxing instructor to coach the actors, one of whom lost a tooth and broke a finger and a rib during the run.

The play opened on Feb. 10 to a curious and packed house. The audience sat quietly through the love story involving Sir Charles Temperley, the gambler who bets his fortune and honor on the climactic boxing match. Conan Doyle was worried until the boxing match electrified the crowd, and one reviewer noted the play obtained the heartiest first-night reception of any of the year. When a beaming Conan Doyle appeared for the ovation, he was certain he had another success.

But attendance dropped off once word spread of the realistic in-ring violence. Ladies were afraid to come, Conan Doyle wrote, and imagined it would be a brutal spectacle. To fix the problem, Conan Doyle added a one-act curtain-raiser. A Pot of Caviare was a grim ironic tale of a group of Europeans besieged by rebellious Chinese Boxers. One of its members, believing that the relief force in the distance would not arrive in time, poisons the delicacy to preserve their women’s dignity, only to see rescue arriving after all.

Hoping to attract women to a violent boxing play by adding a downer opener about the threat of rape during wartime is a curious gamble that failed. Then King Edward VII died on May 6. Bertie had spent most of his life as a pleasure-seeking prince. Queen Victoria believed he was unfit to rule, but he proved to be a surprisingly capable ruler. In his nine years on the throne, he lent his name to a style of dress and a historical era.

With the theatres closed during the funeral and month-long mourning period, Conan Doyle had to think fast and work hard to fix what he called a difficult—almost a desperate—situation.

In the meantime, he agreed to report on Bertie’s funeral for the Daily Mail and The New York Times. Unbeknownst to everyone, it turned out to be the last gathering of the old order. Nine kings attended, plus dozens of princes and princesses. Conan Doyle watched them ride to Paddington Station to take the train for the funeral service at Windsor. The parade of royalty was led by two of Queen Victoria’s grandchildren: George V and his cousin, the German Kaiser Wilhelm II.

Also there was former president Theodore Roosevelt, who had been appointed special ambassador to represent the U.S. Conan Doyle later spent time with the boisterous Teddy, a very loud hearty man with a peculiar wild-beast toothy grin who was also a Sherlock Holmes fan. At Teddy’s speech at London’s Guildhall, he heard him lecture Britain on its need to maintain control of its colonial empire as a major source of international stability. As he worked his way through the crowds afterwards, he spotted Conan Doyle and shouted: I say, I let them have it that time, didn’t I! Conan Doyle agreed. A calculated indiscretion, he wrote later, and very welcome.

When he wasn’t enjoying Teddy’s company, Conan Doyle was furiously working on salvaging his investment. In a few weeks, he wrote and cast a new play, this time starring his reliable money-maker, Holmes. He called it The Stonor Case, but he was persuaded to change it to a more popular title. When the curtain rose June 4, The Speckled Band debuted. Conan Doyle was unhappy with the play. He had created a villain that outshone Holmes, and he had trouble finding a serpent, real or mechanical, that suited him. But the play recovered the £5,000 he had lost on Temperley, and a success was a success. He also learned his lesson: The best way to invest in the theatre, he advised a friend, was with someone else’s money.

Publications: Holmes stories: The Adventure of the Devil’s Foot (Dec.). Other: The Marriage of the Brigadier (last Gerard story; Sept.)

Image No. 3

Newspaper illustration showing scenes from The Speckled Band.

Sherlock Bones, Editor

He Applies Deduction to Manuscripts and Surprises Watson

Anonymous

Many writers wonder what makes an editor prefer one short-story over another. Is it the length? The reputation of the writer? The quality of the paper it’s printed on? Whatever standards editors use, I’m sure they do not follow the method as explained by managing editor Sherlock Bones to his literary editor Watson. This story is from the New York Sun newspaper of Jan. 16.

I hardly find it necessary to read a manuscript now, at least in the first instance, said Sherlock Bones, who had taken to editing a magazine. Somehow by the look, I might almost say the touch of a manuscript, I can judge of its suitability for our magazine. Briefly, I call it intuition. Much in the same way that a bank cashier can detect a false bill passing through his hands, an editor should instinctively feel the wrong note in a manuscript as applied to his particular publication.

Just then the literary editor entered with a contribution. Mr. Bones had been engaged in studying a manuscript folder through a pocket lens. He glanced in the literary editor’s direction.

I see, Watson, he remarked, our contributor follows the rules, also that the entry clerk is becoming negligent.

An expression of surprise swept over the literary editor’s face.

Why, how do you know that, Mr. Bones? he asked.

Mr. Bones tossed the lens on the desk and leaning back in his chair joined the fingertips of both hands together.

Briefly, Watson, in the simplest manner possible. When you entered, a two-cent stamp dropped to the floor. It was undoubtedly attached to the manuscript. That proves the contributor understands the rules. That it was not removed by the entry clerk also, I am afraid, proves a certain slackness in the staff.

The literary editor smiled faintly.

We have a new contributor here, remarked the literary editor, placing the manuscript in the managing editor’s hand. I think he’s worth encouraging.

The managing editor barely ran his fingers through the sheets, looked sharply at the last page, and after passing the manuscript before his face returned it to the literary editor.

On the contrary, Watson, the usual printed slip will, I hope, discourage him. The hero of the story is, I presume, a rollicking fellow.

Why, yes, somewhat so, but—

"Always smoking fine cigars, riding in automobiles, and dining at expensive cafes?" said the managing editor.

But how in the world could you know that, Mr. Bones, when you hardly glanced at the manuscript?

My dear Watson, said the managing editor, "how often must I impress upon you the value of observation and deduction in literary decisions? Here is a manuscript on the best quality of paper typed by an expensive machine. It carries a pronounced odor of tobacco—cigars at two for a quarter, I judge.

"On the top left hand corner of the back page there is a slight discoloration made by some cordial. A chemical test would reveal which cordial, but we need not go to that trouble.

"I have no doubt if I applied my lens to the envelope I should discover traces of the inner pocket of an automobile coat. Deduction—an author in prosperous circumstances, somewhat indulgent of the good things of life, who is pretty certain to follow the same course with his hero. As rollicking heroes are not at present suitable to the literary policy of our magazine a printed slip will suffice in this case, Watson."

Really, Mr. Bones, said the literary editor, I begin to think you are a magician.

Not at all, Watson, the managing editor protested. "Merely the development of intuition as applied to manuscript decisions. For example, I see another manuscript in your pocket. From that, I gather the manuscript is worth consideration, otherwise it would not be in your pocket.

But there are points about it which have caused you to hesitate in forming an opinion or you would have handed it to me before this. You need not feel uneasy, Watson; I have already accepted the manuscript.

Great Scott! exclaimed the literary editor.

Nothing to be surprised at, Watson, if you could only grasp the elements of my method. To begin with, the crumpled appearance of the manuscript is encouraging. It has evidently been to many places and rejected on the absurd old-fashioned plan of reading. By the way, did you notice the clip on the manuscript?

Honestly, I can’t say I did.

Really, Watson, you surprise me. The author made it himself out of a hairpin. That shows constructive ingenuity of a distinctly novel character. The story has a clever twist if I mistake not.

Yes, it certainly has a surprise at the end, but the style—

And a faint odor of kerosene, I think, Watson. I am sure I can detect it even from this distance.

The literary editor handed over the manuscript in despair.

I am utterly unable to follow your literary analysis, Mr. Bones.

The managing editor smiled indulgently.

"Precisely! A little keener scent, Watson, and you could catch a whiff of the midnight oil this poor fellow has burned over his work. Hastily typewritten, I see. That spells inspiration.

I note he has forgotten to sign his name at the end. Excellent! He was too absorbed in the story to remember such a trivial detail. An earnest, struggling author of an ingenious mind, and an earnest, struggling hero who accomplishes something worthwhile, aye, Watson?

Yes, there is no fault to find with the hero.

Capital, Watson! He will work hard to suit our requirements. Send him a voucher with a request for more contributions. It is quite unnecessary for me to read the manuscript. The twisted hairpin for a clip stamped the whole story as just what we want.

Detective Work on the Ferry

Herlock Sholmes

Behind this humorous letter lies a serious story of corruption, thievery, and assassination. For decades, the Democratic Party’s corrupt Tammany Hall organization held a stranglehold on New York City, stealing millions from the taxpayers and placing its supporters in low-work city jobs. When it engineered the mayoral election of 1910 in favor of William Gaynor, they expected that it would be business as usual. But Gaynor was a man with a reformist streak. He filled high-level posts with experts and refused to let nepotism or favoritism influence his decisions.

Among his targets was the ferry service, then notorious for its corruption. Tammany placed many more ticket-takers there than were needed. Workers conspired to fudge the account books, while others fished sold tickets out of supposedly inaccessible boxes with wire and resold them, pocketing the difference. The ferry commissioner pledged an overhaul of the service. The day before this letter appeared, he called in 26 employees to face a civil trial on charges of corruption.

Gaynor’s attempts at change came at a personal cost. Two months before, a discharged dock worker shot the mayor in the throat. Gaynor recovered and returned to work. In 1913, Tammany refused to run him for re-election, but an independent group convinced him to run anyway. Six days later, he died of a heart attack.

"He might as well have tried to make the stockyards of Chicago smell like a field of asphodel, critic H.L. Mencken wrote years later. In the end, worn out and embittered by the struggle, he died unlamented, and today political historians scarcely mention him."

Sept. 28, 1910

To the Editor of The New York Times:

Referring to the investigation now being conducted by the Department of Docks and Ferries, relative to conditions in the Municipal Ferry services. It would, perhaps, be well to also consider the probability of grafting by others than the employees, i.e., families and friends of employees, small politicians, &c.

This was suggested to me upon observing in the Brooklyn Terminal of the Thirty-ninth Street Ferry that the brass hook attached to one end of the steel chain which is stretched across the passageway beside the turnstile was in a highly polished condition, denoting that it is handled many times daily. Of course, policemen and firemen in uniform are entitled to use this means of gaining entrance to the waiting room, but the brilliancy of the brass hook is in such marked contrast to that of the brass turnstile beside it, one cannot help but feel that its use may partly account for the falling off in receipts.

HERLOCK SHOLMES

Sherlock Holmes

Uncle Walt (Walt Mason)

Walt Mason (1862-1939) was a Canadian-born American newspaper columnist. After working at a number of newspapers, he ended up at the Emporia Gazette in Kansas, edited by the iconic Progressive advocate William Allen White. There, Uncle Walt created his Rippling Rhymes column. Its syndication across the country turned Mason into the nation’s most popular columnist. Written in the form of an article, it wasn’t until you began reading it that you realize the sentences rhymed, such as this example that appeared below in Uncle Walt: The Poet Philosopher.

The Great Detective had returned; he’d been some years away, and I supposed that he was dead, and sleeping ’neath the clay. Ah, ne’er shall I forget the joy it gave me thus to greet the king of all detectives in my rooms in Baker street!

I notice, Watson, Sherlock said, with smile serene and wide, that since I left you, months ago, you’ve found yourself a bride.

I had not spoken of the fact, so how did Sherlock know? I tumbled from my rocking chair, his knowledge jarred me so.

It’s easy, Watson, said the sleuth; deduction makes it plain; you ate an egg for breakfast and your chin still wears the stain; you haven’t shaved for half a week—the stubble’s growing blue—your pants are baggy at the knees, your necktie’s on askew; your vest is buttoned crooked and your shirt is out of plumb; your hat has been in contact with a wad of chewing gum. You were something of a dandy in the good old days of yore—pass the dope, my dearest Watson; what’s the use of saying more?

Sherlock Holmes Redivivus

A. Cannon Doily

Disputes between universities and the towns they’re set in can be fraught with peril. In the Middle Ages, scholars in Paris and Oxford frequently took to the streets to battle residents. But town-gown clashes can take place on a more refined level, as in this article that appeared in the April 1st issue of The Townsman of Wellesley, Mass. The writer’s complaints about the amount of trash found on the campus of Wellesley University struck home. Two weeks later, the College News’ article on Sherlock Holmes Redivivus commented that although the condition depicted in the article was probably exaggerated, yet it is doubtless true that we are very careless about littering … and we can never be too careful that the reputation of our college should not suffer from an individual thoughtlessness. Redivivus, by the way, is a literary adjective meaning reborn or brought back to life.

Sherlock Holmes, who had just returned from an extended tour of the globe, met Dr. Watson by appointment at the Wellesley Inn.

After lunch the two old friends started for a walk about the village, renewing acquaintance after their long separation. Sherlock Holmes at once fell into his former habits of observation and investigation, stopping to pick up all sorts of objects that attracted his attention as he walked along. The friends had turned into the college grounds and had reached the borders of the lake before Holmes suggested resting for a few moments while he sorted out his collection.

I am glad to note, said Dr. Watson, that you have abandoned the use of your hypodermic. Do you find your faculties of close observation and intuitive reasoning in any measure impaired in consequence?

Holmes did not answer the question, but remarked, as he looked up at the college buildings, I was never in Wellesley before. I observe that it is a woman’s college.

What led you to that conclusion? asked the doctor.

Sherlock Holmes selected from his collection three hair pins that he picked up in his walk from the Inn, remarking as he placed them in the doctor’s hand, Watson, why don’t you put that mind of yours to the task of why women who jab these pins in their head with such ferocity, do not get them in far enough to stay put?

Dr. Watson entered a memorandum in his note book.

It was said of Thoreau, continued Holmes, "that in his walks along the shores of his beloved Walden Pond he could at any moment uncover an Indian arrowhead with a random kick of the soil. Some future Thoreau will uncover hair pins by the dozen anywhere within the Wellesley village limits in the same way."

I also observe, said Holmes, "that the young men who visit the college prefer the ‘Mecca’ brand of cigarettes, though the ‘Sweet Caporal’ and ‘Turkish Trophies’ have their advocates."

Before Dr. Watson could express his surprise at the great detective’ s wonderful powers of divination, Holmes handed him half a dozen empty cigarette wrappers from his collection made in this brief morning walk.

But there is a coarser streak in some of the men, said Holmes sententiously, as he passed the doctor a soiled Sensible Chewing Plug wrapper.

"I thought college girls preferred Page and Shaw’s confections, remarked Sherlock a moment later. My collection indicates, though, Somerset and Shrafft’s are close second and Peter’s Milk Chocolate seem to be neck and neck in the race," and he handed to the doctor an assortment of wrappers of various forms and colors.

Dr. Watson was so amazed at these exhibitions of his friend’s wonderful powers he could hardly speak as he watched the world’s greatest detective continue the work of sorting out the results of his morning’s walk.

Watson, the girls out here haven’t learned that it is an exploded idea that fish is a brain food, continued Holmes as he handed the doctor an empty tin can stamped Parsifal Brand, Norway and Scottish Fish. "But they do accept your theory, doctor, that the grained and shredded breakfast foods, that must be thoroughly masticulated, are to be preferred to those that are swallowed whole as they come from the double boiler, and Holmes produced a pasteboard box that had once contained a dozen Shredded Wheat" Biscuits.

Sherlock Holmes was in a seriously thoughtful mood as he selected the remnants of soiled paper bags and pasteboard boxes from his collection and asked the doctor if he wondered that the students sometimes broke down in their efforts to assimilate so much cake and fudge and so many éclairs and doughnuts with philosophy and psychology and ancient history and what not.

The great detective had that faraway look in his eyes as he took in the broad expanse of the lake and was about to continue his walk when he picked up a little blue box which he handed to the doctor with the remark, "I had overlooked this Parlor Safety Match box. It is a delusion, Watson, there is no safety in any kind of match."

Poor Sherlock Holmes! He had become a Pessimist during his wanderings abroad.

Dr. Watson, however laughed uproariously for he had contracted a happy marriage during his old friend’s absence in foreign countries. But what a conglomerate mess must litter the streets of Wellesley to produce such results in a short morning walk.

Surelock Homes’ Waterloo

George M. Johnson

The term pulp fiction was coined to reflect the cheap paper the stories were printed on. Later, it was applied to the stories that were seen as formulaic, sloppily written, and hackneyed power fantasies. Yet pulp fiction, with its disreputable cousin comic books, created a pantheon of hero and heroines such as Conan, Tarzan, Sam Spade, Wonder Woman, and others that serve as our modern mythology.

This appeared in the Oct. 15 issue of Top-Notch magazine, one of the biggest publishers of pulp fiction between 1910 and 1937. Early in its run, it focused on sports stories for teenagers such as the Frank Merriwell series. It’s most famous contributors included Jack London and Bertram Atkey (whose own parody appears in the 1905-1909 volume). In the 1930s, it focused on adventure stories with contributions from Robert E. Howard, L. Ron Hubbard, Lester Dent, and Harry Stephen Keeler.

George M. Johnson (1885-1965) was born in Yankton, South Dakota. His family moved to New Haven, Connecticut, where George attended Yale. Two years after he graduated, he began his pulp fiction career with this story. Between 1910 and 1949, he published five novels as George Metcalf and more than a hundred short stories for pulp magazines such as Argosy All-Story Weekly, Thrilling Ranch Stories, The Open Road for Boys, and Street and Smith’s Love Story Magazine.

It was with no small exultation that Joe Whalley learned that the cub reporter on the New York Whoop had been selected from all the men on its staff for the assignment of getting an interview with the world-famous detective, Mr. Surelock Homes, of Baker Street, London. The editor in chief had been booming the Sunday edition by featuring a series of red-hot stories on renowned detectives and the criminals they had caught.

There had been no faking about these articles, and expense had not been considered in securing information.

This was Whalley’s first really important piece of work, and he felt that it was to be a determining point in his newspaper career. He went at once to Adams, the assignment editor, for instructions. His remarks were brief:

"You’re to write an article on Surelock Homes at work. Get in with him somehow, and see how he follows out a case. Here’s an order on the cashier for five hundred dollars. If you need more, cable. The Princess Victoria sails at noon to-morrow. Take her."

I am to have a free hand in— Whalley began.

Adams waved him away.

Beg, borrow, or steal, but get the stuff, and he turned back to his desk as a sign that he was through with the matter.

"Whalley at once called up the steamship company, and engaged a berth that by good fortune had been reserved and just given up. Then he went to his lodging and packed up the stuff necessary for an ocean voyage.

Once safely embarked, he began to consider how to get access to Mr. Homes, and could conceive of no better plan than to take an original case to him for solution. A careful perusal of the articles written by Homes’ colleague, Doctor Swatsem, showed that something bizarre and striking was needed to arouse the great detective’s interest.

Finally he hit upon an idea which he was sure would appeal to him, provided its very foolishness did not give it away. He might have spared himself any fears concerning this, however, as subsequent events proved them to have been absolutely groundless.

The first few days after his arrival in London were spent in making himself familiar with the town. Besides, it was necessary to give his case time to develop. It would be embarrassing, to say the least, should Homes discover that he had been in London but a couple of days, after telling him of events, which had taken a week to happen.

Whalley rumpled his hair, disarranged his necktie, and tried to look worried as he rang the bell of the Baker Street lodging about eight o’clock one evening. A maid took up his card, and, returning, said that Mr. Homes would see him.

Whalley’s knees were a trifle shaky as he pounded the stairs, but he conquered his nervousness and went on.

As the door opened there came from within the most doleful sounds imaginable, and entering, the reporter saw two men in the room. "It was easy to recognize one of them as no less a personage than the great detective himself. He was gently sawing at an enormous bass viol, which accounted for the doleful noise mentioned, though doleful hardly describes the heart-rending sounds he was extracting from the awful instrument.

The eyes of the second man were fixed on Homes with a look of rapt admiration and love. This look resembled, more than anything else, that which a faithful dog bestows on an adored but irascible master, from whom he hopes to receive a caress; yet being at the same time prepared to dodge a kick. Homes rose, extending his hand.

"Glad to have the pleasure of making your acquaintance, Mr. Whalley.

This is my friend and colleague, Doctor Swatsem. Swatsem, shake hands with Mr. Whalley."

The world owes much to you, Doctor, Whalley said fervidly, as they clasped hands.

"Yes, Swatsem makes a tolerable Boswell," Homes said, without giving the doctor a chance to put in a word.

Whalley knew that Homes was in the habit of giving a little exhibition of his powers on clients who came to consult him, and wondered if he would do the same by him. He didn’t have long to wait. Almost as soon as Homes first words of greeting were over, he said casually:

I see, Mr. Whalley, that you have recently had a death in your family and that you keep a dog. I trust you enjoyed your recent little shooting trip into the Highlands.

The doctor seized a notebook and began writing rapidly. Presently he stopped, glancing up inquiringly. Homes, perceiving this, went on:

I might also add that you play billiards and are of a generous and forgiving disposition, and he rubbed his hands in satisfaction over his astuteness.

Marvelous, rumbled Doctor Swatsem, in a deep, awed voice, and again began to write.

For Heaven’s sake, Mr. Homes, Whalley cried, where did you get all that?" There was not a word of truth in anything he had said, with the possible exception, Whalley told himself fondly, of his remarks about his disposition.

He waved his hand patronizingly.

It is merely a matter of deduction. That is, a process of attaining a conclusion by means of a series of steps which follow each other naturally, as for example, in demonstrating a proposition in geometry. However, by remarkable power of insight, I am able to pass over the intermediate steps so rapidly that I appear to arrive at my conclusion instantaneously. But I take it that you wish to consult me about something.

Yes, Mr. Homes, I do, was the reply. Since you appear to know all about—me, it is unnecessary to go into any detailed explanations, and so I will simply say that since my arrival in London certain things have happened which it is impossible to ignore, and which worry and puzzle me in the highest degree. I am not nervous and am strictly temperate, yet from the second day of my sojourn here I have had the strange and uncomfortable feeling of being shadowed. Wherever I go I feel sure that someone is dogging my footsteps and spying on me.

As he paused to get a fresh grip on his tale, the doctor, showing lively interest, opened his mouth for the first time since he had entered the room.

I once— he began.

Shut up, Swatsem! interrupted Homes. Go on, Mr. Whalley.

The doctor meekly subsided, and the visitor continued:

"Things went on in this way for several days, and it was not especially pleasant, I assure you. The affair came to a culmination last night, when I went to the theatre. All through the performance I felt some invisible eyes, boring into my helpless body, and I had a premonition of impending disaster. After the show, to a slight headache, I decided to walk back to my hotel for the benefit of the fresh air.

Suddenly I heard rapid footsteps behind me and a man ran past, giving me a sharp glance as he did so. Some distance farther on, as I was passing a dark alley, three men leaped out. I defended myself for a moment, but they overpowered me and succeeded in putting a sponge saturated with chloroform under my nose. I came to at five o’clock this morning, and found myself lying on a park bench, fully a mile from the place of attack.

Whalley paused again. Doctor Swatsem rose from his chair excitedly.

Robbery! Did—

Shut up, Swatsem! snapped Homes, savagely. If it was mere robbery, it would have been a case for those bunglers at Scotland Yard, not for me.

You are right, as usual, Mr. Homes, the interviewer said. "Though I had more than twenty pounds in my purse, that, as well as my watch, was untouched. Still, the rascals did take something, or rather do something, but it seems