praise indeed from Holmes, I plunged ahead. "Is there
not an expression com mon in America,
'riding the rods'?"
"Relates
to traveling hobos."
"Quite.
Could not the two men you picture have been
hidden under the boxcar before the engine assumed motion?"
"A
possibility. How they would manage to crawl from
their place of concealment and gain the roof eludes
me, but the inventiveness of the homo sapiens
is limitless."
"The
only other thought that comes to mind is that the thieves hid
themselves within the boxcar, but that idea is self-defeating as they
would have been unable to get out of the
securely locked carrier."
"Your
first thought is the one that will bear investigation, good fellow."
At
this point Mrs. Hudson made her presence known.
It was time for dinner. This was the day of a most
important social gathering, the meeting of the Marylebone
Sewing Circle. While the event did not warrant
a squib in the Evening Chronicle , it was dear to our landlady's heart.
To make amends for her absence from the
premises, Mrs. Hudson fairly outdid herself. We were served consomm é Marie Stuart and filets
de sole Carlton . Then we had thick mutton chops, their ends curled around a
broiled kidney and affixed with a
toothpick. This led my mind to the
subject of claret and I brought forth a bottle of Château
Lafitte '68, which I had been saving. By
the time we dealt with a toothsome souffl é aux p ê ches à 1'Orientale , the evening, in my mind, was a merry occasion indeed.
Following
our repast, it was my thought to peruse
an article in the latest Lancet , but I soon found myself nodding over
the medical journal. With apologies to
Holmes, I soon made my way to bed and
promptly fell into a deep sleep. On this night, with a nod no doubt to the Château
Lafitte, bottled on the estate, I had no
dreams of great trains hurtling through the night to their doom. The
next thing I knew there was a shaking of my shoulder. As my eyes
reluctantly blinked open, I beheld
Sherlock Holmes leaning over my bed with a
half smile on his lips. It was a new day.
"Come,
old chap, if you would be part of the opening act of this drama we
have become entangled in."
Despite
a delightful lassitude, the coldness of the room
and the floorboards, and the reticence of protesting
bones to assume motion, I mumbled something
to my intimate friend and made haste to perform
my morning ablutions and struggle into clothes. In our sitting room,
the smell of Holmes' pipe was
everywhere. I gave it scant heed as I eagerly
seized the cup of coffee he poured from the great
silver urn and then applied myself to that mainstay
of the empire, a stout English breakfast. The sleuth might have been
up all night for all I knew, though I
noted no clues as to the presence of others.
As I wolfed kippers and eggs, he was going over
a sheaf of papers that had the appearance of a business
report.
When
I poured myself a second cup of coffee and ignited
a morning cigarette, Holmes tossed the document
on the desk surface and joined me.
"My
brother is a most meticulous man," he commented, "and
despite his bulk, fast-moving. I cabled
him last night for a report on recent transac tions
on the gold market, and early this morning a complete
dossier came to our doorstep. I some times
wonder when he sleeps."
"A
thought that has bothered me at times rela tive
to you," I replied, downing the last of my repast.
"The
normal human requires sleep to oil the mechanism and food to fuel it,
old friend," stated Holmes. "A thinking machine does not
operate in that fashion."
Holmes
often declared that he was a walking brain,
since thinking was his sole reason for being, and I humored him by
pretending acceptance. The fact that he
was a superb fencer and the finest amateur
boxer I had ever seen prompted me to adopt
a different view, though I was the first to agree
that he wasn't normal.
He
did not seem disposed to divulge any results of
the past evening, so I posed an obvious question.
not an expression com mon in America,
'riding the rods'?"
"Relates
to traveling hobos."
"Quite.
Could not the two men you picture have been
hidden under the boxcar before the engine assumed motion?"
"A
possibility. How they would manage to crawl from
their place of concealment and gain the roof eludes
me, but the inventiveness of the homo sapiens
is limitless."
"The
only other thought that comes to mind is that the thieves hid
themselves within the boxcar, but that idea is self-defeating as they
would have been unable to get out of the
securely locked carrier."
"Your
first thought is the one that will bear investigation, good fellow."
At
this point Mrs. Hudson made her presence known.
It was time for dinner. This was the day of a most
important social gathering, the meeting of the Marylebone
Sewing Circle. While the event did not warrant
a squib in the Evening Chronicle , it was dear to our landlady's heart.
To make amends for her absence from the
premises, Mrs. Hudson fairly outdid herself. We were served consomm é Marie Stuart and filets
de sole Carlton . Then we had thick mutton chops, their ends curled around a
broiled kidney and affixed with a
toothpick. This led my mind to the
subject of claret and I brought forth a bottle of Château
Lafitte '68, which I had been saving. By
the time we dealt with a toothsome souffl é aux p ê ches à 1'Orientale , the evening, in my mind, was a merry occasion indeed.
Following
our repast, it was my thought to peruse
an article in the latest Lancet , but I soon found myself nodding over
the medical journal. With apologies to
Holmes, I soon made my way to bed and
promptly fell into a deep sleep. On this night, with a nod no doubt to the Château
Lafitte, bottled on the estate, I had no
dreams of great trains hurtling through the night to their doom. The
next thing I knew there was a shaking of my shoulder. As my eyes
reluctantly blinked open, I beheld
Sherlock Holmes leaning over my bed with a
half smile on his lips. It was a new day.
"Come,
old chap, if you would be part of the opening act of this drama we
have become entangled in."
Despite
a delightful lassitude, the coldness of the room
and the floorboards, and the reticence of protesting
bones to assume motion, I mumbled something
to my intimate friend and made haste to perform
my morning ablutions and struggle into clothes. In our sitting room,
the smell of Holmes' pipe was
everywhere. I gave it scant heed as I eagerly
seized the cup of coffee he poured from the great
silver urn and then applied myself to that mainstay
of the empire, a stout English breakfast. The sleuth might have been
up all night for all I knew, though I
noted no clues as to the presence of others.
As I wolfed kippers and eggs, he was going over
a sheaf of papers that had the appearance of a business
report.
When
I poured myself a second cup of coffee and ignited
a morning cigarette, Holmes tossed the document
on the desk surface and joined me.
"My
brother is a most meticulous man," he commented, "and
despite his bulk, fast-moving. I cabled
him last night for a report on recent transac tions
on the gold market, and early this morning a complete
dossier came to our doorstep. I some times
wonder when he sleeps."
"A
thought that has bothered me at times rela tive
to you," I replied, downing the last of my repast.
"The
normal human requires sleep to oil the mechanism and food to fuel it,
old friend," stated Holmes. "A thinking machine does not
operate in that fashion."
Holmes
often declared that he was a walking brain,
since thinking was his sole reason for being, and I humored him by
pretending acceptance. The fact that he
was a superb fencer and the finest amateur
boxer I had ever seen prompted me to adopt
a different view, though I was the first to agree
that he wasn't normal.
He
did not seem disposed to divulge any results of
the past evening, so I posed an obvious question.
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