Propelled by an athletic young fellow."Propelled by an athletic young fellow."
"Propelled by an athletic young fellow."
We were all sitting, I remember, on the riverbank, watching the countless craft go past, and enjoying that pleasant industrious indolence which is one of the chief charms of life on the Thames. A punt had just skimmed by, propelled by an athletic young fellow in boating costume. SuddenlyHolesspoke.
"It is strange," he said, "that the man should be still at large."
"What man? Where? How?" we all exclaimed breathlessly.
"The young puntsman," saidHoles, with an almost aggravating coolness. "He is a bigamist, and has murdered his great aunt."
"It cannot be," said Mr.Silver, with evident distress. "I know the lad well, and a better fellow never breathed."
"I speak the truth," saidHoles, unemotionally. "The induction is perfect. He is wearing a red tie. That tie was not always red. It was, therefore, stained by something. Blood is red. It was, therefore, stained by blood. Now it is well known that the blood of great aunts is of a lighter shade, and the colour of that tie has a lighter shade. The blood that stained it was, therefore, the blood of his great aunt. As for the bigamy, you will have noticed that as he passed he blew two rings of cigarette-smoke, and they both floated in the airat the same time. A ring is a symbol of matrimony. Two rings together mean bigamy. He is, therefore, a bigamist."
For a moment we were silent, struck with horror at this dreadful, this convincing revelation of criminal infamy. Then I broke out:
"Holes," I said, "you deserve the thanks of the whole community. You will of course communicate with the police."
"No," saidHoles, "they are fools, and I do not care to mix myself up with them. Besides, I have other fish to fry."
Saying this, he led me to a secluded part of the grounds, and whispered in my ear.
"Not a word of what I am about to tell you. There will be a burglary here to-night."
"But,Holes," I said, startled in spite of myself at the calm omniscience of my friend, "had we not better do something; arm the servants, warn the police, bolt the doors and bar the windows, and sit up with blunderbusses—anything would be better than this state of dreadful expectancy. May I not tell Mr.Silver?"
"Potson, you are amiable, but you will never learn my methods." And with that enigmatic reply I had to be content in the meantime.
The evening had passed as pleasantly as evenings at Umbrosa always pass. There had been music; the Umbrosa choir, composed of members of the family and guests, had performed in the drawing-room, andPeterhad drawn tears from the eyes of every one by his touching rendering of the well-known songs of "The Dutiful Son" and "The Cartridge-bearer." Shortly afterwards, the ladies retired to bed, and the gentlemen, after the customary interval in the smoking-room, followed. We were in high good-humour, and had made many plans for the morrow. OnlyHolesseemed pre-occupied. Once I heard him muttering to himself, "It's bound to come off properly; never failed yet. They wired to say they'd be here by the late train. Well, let them come. I shall be ready for them." I did not venture at the time to ask him the meaning of these mysterious words.
I had been sleeping for about an hour, when I was suddenly awakened with a start. In the passage outside I heard the voices of the youngestSilverboy and ofPeter.
"Peter, old chap," saidJohnny Silver, "I believe there's burglars in the house. Isn't it a lark?"
"Ripping," saidPeter. "Have you told your people?"
"Oh, it's no use waking the governor and the mater; we'll do the job ourselves. I told the girls, and they've all locked themselves in and got under their beds, so they're safe. Are you ready?"
"Yes."
"Come on then."
With that they went along the passage and down the stairs. My mind was made up, and my trousers and boots were on in less time than it takes to tell it. I went toHoles'sroom and entered. He was lying on his bed, fully awake, dressed in his best detective suit, with his fingers meditatively extended, and touching one another.
"They're here," I said.
"Who?"
"The burglars."
"As I thought," saidHoles, selecting his best basket-hilted life-preserver from a heap in the middle of the room. "Follow me silently."
I did so. No sooner had we reached the landing, however, than the silence was broken by a series of blood-curdling screams.
"Good Heavens!" was all I could say.
"Hush," saidHoles. I obeyed him. The screams subsided, and I heard the voices of my two young friends, evidently in great triumph.
"Lie still, you brute," saidPeter, "or I'll punch your blooming head. Give the rope another twist,Johnny. That's it. Now you cut and tell your governor and oldHolesthat we've nabbed the beggar."
By this time the household was thoroughly roused. Agitated females and inquisitive males streamed downstairs. Lights were lit, and a remarkable sight met our eyes. In the middle of the drawing-room lay an undersized burglar, securely bound, withPetersitting on his head.
"Johnnyand I collared the beggar," saidPeter, "and bowled him over. Thanks, I think I could do a ginger-beer."
The man was of course tried and convicted, andHoles, who had explained how he had been certain that the burglary was contemplated and had taken his measures accordingly, received the thanks of the County Council.
"That fellow," said the great detective to me, "was the best and cleverest of my tame team of country-house burglars. Through him and his associates I have fostered and foiled more thefts than I care to count. Those infernal boys nearly spoilt everything.Potson, take my advice, never attempt a master-stroke in a house full of boys. They can't understand scientific induction. Had they not interfered I should have caught the fellow myself. He had wired to tell me where I should find him."
Precept and Practice.—It's not sufficiently recognised that a Bishop is bound to side with the masters, as by the terms of his contract he engages to be "no striker."
"How To Make England Sober."—"It can't be done," says the Bishop ofChester, "sans Jayne."
A Striking Headline(all rights reserved).—Loch Out in Matabeleland!
A Jingo Paradox.—We pot the natives to preserve ourselves.
Darlings, I am growing old,Silver threads among the gold.Cannot see beyond my nose,Must have glasses I suppose.At the fair I bought a pair,Golden rimmed, of pebbles rare,Paid the money then and there,Glad my spectacles to wear.But, how strange! I could not seeWhat was just in front of me!Took them off and rubbed them well;Cleaned they seemed; but, strange to tell,When I put them on againEverything was plain as plain,But reflected from behind!Then I found that tho' so blind,Many little things I sawWhich I had not seen before.First, my page, of doubtful age,Put me in a dreadful rage;Dipped his fingers in the cream;(Turned and faced him—made him scream!)Dropped the pot, upset a lot—Caught it from me pretty hot.Next the footman kicked my catSleeping on its lamb's-wool mat.Loosed my dicky from its cage(Shall deduct this from his wage).When the housemaid scrubbed the floor,Watched her through the open doorAt my eldest making eyes.Packed her off to her surprise,Heeding not her tears and cries.Truly blindness makes one wise!Then I caught my little sonPutting mustard in a bun;Going to give it to the pug.Seized him by the nearest lug,Boxed it hard. He howled with pain;Never teased the dog again.Saw my girl of twenty-threeKiss the curate, after tea.Sent the pair to right about.(Wondered how I found them out!)So, you see, I really findMuch amusement of a kind.Eyes before and eyes behind,Is there anyone would mindBeing just a little blind?
Darlings, I am growing old,Silver threads among the gold.Cannot see beyond my nose,Must have glasses I suppose.At the fair I bought a pair,Golden rimmed, of pebbles rare,Paid the money then and there,Glad my spectacles to wear.But, how strange! I could not seeWhat was just in front of me!Took them off and rubbed them well;Cleaned they seemed; but, strange to tell,When I put them on againEverything was plain as plain,But reflected from behind!Then I found that tho' so blind,Many little things I sawWhich I had not seen before.First, my page, of doubtful age,Put me in a dreadful rage;Dipped his fingers in the cream;(Turned and faced him—made him scream!)Dropped the pot, upset a lot—Caught it from me pretty hot.Next the footman kicked my catSleeping on its lamb's-wool mat.Loosed my dicky from its cage(Shall deduct this from his wage).When the housemaid scrubbed the floor,Watched her through the open doorAt my eldest making eyes.Packed her off to her surprise,Heeding not her tears and cries.Truly blindness makes one wise!Then I caught my little sonPutting mustard in a bun;Going to give it to the pug.Seized him by the nearest lug,Boxed it hard. He howled with pain;Never teased the dog again.Saw my girl of twenty-threeKiss the curate, after tea.Sent the pair to right about.(Wondered how I found them out!)So, you see, I really findMuch amusement of a kind.Eyes before and eyes behind,Is there anyone would mindBeing just a little blind?
Darlings, I am growing old,
Silver threads among the gold.
Cannot see beyond my nose,
Must have glasses I suppose.
At the fair I bought a pair,
Golden rimmed, of pebbles rare,
Paid the money then and there,
Glad my spectacles to wear.
But, how strange! I could not see
What was just in front of me!
Took them off and rubbed them well;
Cleaned they seemed; but, strange to tell,
When I put them on again
Everything was plain as plain,
But reflected from behind!
Then I found that tho' so blind,
Many little things I saw
Which I had not seen before.
First, my page, of doubtful age,
Put me in a dreadful rage;
Dipped his fingers in the cream;
(Turned and faced him—made him scream!)
Dropped the pot, upset a lot—
Caught it from me pretty hot.
Next the footman kicked my cat
Sleeping on its lamb's-wool mat.
Loosed my dicky from its cage
(Shall deduct this from his wage).
When the housemaid scrubbed the floor,
Watched her through the open door
At my eldest making eyes.
Packed her off to her surprise,
Heeding not her tears and cries.
Truly blindness makes one wise!
Then I caught my little son
Putting mustard in a bun;
Going to give it to the pug.
Seized him by the nearest lug,
Boxed it hard. He howled with pain;
Never teased the dog again.
Saw my girl of twenty-three
Kiss the curate, after tea.
Sent the pair to right about.
(Wondered how I found them out!)
So, you see, I really find
Much amusement of a kind.
Eyes before and eyes behind,
Is there anyone would mind
Being just a little blind?
TRUE COMPUNCTION.TRUE COMPUNCTION.Young Hopeful(who has been celebrating, not wisely but too well, the last day of his Exam.). "Look here, Major!IfYoudon't tell my Father of my D'sgrasheful Conduck,Ishall!"
Young Hopeful(who has been celebrating, not wisely but too well, the last day of his Exam.). "Look here, Major!IfYoudon't tell my Father of my D'sgrasheful Conduck,Ishall!"
[In the "Report of the Royal Commission on Labour" it is said that "domestic economy is not now practised among the Scotch peasants with such closeness as formerly; wives have ceased to use oatmeal and other simple fare, and buy from the passing cart inferior goods which they could very well prepare at home." The married labourer's clothing is "finer, but less durable," and he himself is "less unknown in places of amusement."]
[In the "Report of the Royal Commission on Labour" it is said that "domestic economy is not now practised among the Scotch peasants with such closeness as formerly; wives have ceased to use oatmeal and other simple fare, and buy from the passing cart inferior goods which they could very well prepare at home." The married labourer's clothing is "finer, but less durable," and he himself is "less unknown in places of amusement."]
Scots, wha hae on parritch fed!Scots, in thrifty habits bred!Air ye leavin' barley bread,And frugality?Now's the day, much more the night,For stickin' to your bawbees tight!See approach proud Fashion's might,Chains o' luxury!Wha will to the flesher's wend,Buy thin breeks that will na mend,Wha sae base as saxpence spendOn an evenin' spree?Wha for Scotland's knitted hose,Oaten cakes and homespun clo'es,Now will deal some auld-warld blows?He will live,notdee!By each braw and kilted laddie,Gudeman douce, and gude-boy caddie,Ye may weel at once eradi--cate frivolity!Strike, and break amusement's yoke,Or your ainsells may be broke!Siller's saved in every strokeOf economy!
Scots, wha hae on parritch fed!Scots, in thrifty habits bred!Air ye leavin' barley bread,And frugality?
Scots, wha hae on parritch fed!
Scots, in thrifty habits bred!
Air ye leavin' barley bread,
And frugality?
Now's the day, much more the night,For stickin' to your bawbees tight!See approach proud Fashion's might,Chains o' luxury!
Now's the day, much more the night,
For stickin' to your bawbees tight!
See approach proud Fashion's might,
Chains o' luxury!
Wha will to the flesher's wend,Buy thin breeks that will na mend,Wha sae base as saxpence spendOn an evenin' spree?
Wha will to the flesher's wend,
Buy thin breeks that will na mend,
Wha sae base as saxpence spend
On an evenin' spree?
Wha for Scotland's knitted hose,Oaten cakes and homespun clo'es,Now will deal some auld-warld blows?He will live,notdee!
Wha for Scotland's knitted hose,
Oaten cakes and homespun clo'es,
Now will deal some auld-warld blows?
He will live,notdee!
By each braw and kilted laddie,Gudeman douce, and gude-boy caddie,Ye may weel at once eradi--cate frivolity!
By each braw and kilted laddie,
Gudeman douce, and gude-boy caddie,
Ye may weel at once eradi-
-cate frivolity!
Strike, and break amusement's yoke,Or your ainsells may be broke!Siller's saved in every strokeOf economy!
Strike, and break amusement's yoke,
Or your ainsells may be broke!
Siller's saved in every stroke
Of economy!
First-rate Foreign Advertisement for a Medical Friend of Ours.—Every dinner in France is now served "à la Roose."
The Cottage, Burrow-in-the-Corner, Devon.
Veryawkward to have missed the Post; being Saturday night means delay of twenty-four hours.
"Seen the postman?" I asked Old Gentleman.
"Seed ee two minits ago. Gone up the hill. I'll call him back."
New idea this. Never remember when just too late for last pillar-box clearance in London suburb running after postman, bringing him back, and getting him to make special clearance. Old Gentleman evidently thought nothing of it; skipped out of garden with remarkable agility; in middle of road in a twinkling; shouting "Hi! hi!" and waving green umbrella wildly over his narrow-brimmed top hat, round which the rime of age modestly lurked. Postman did not seem at all annoyed; came back promptly, unlocked box, and trudged off again on his rounds.
Here's where my misfortune began. Way back clear by the road I had come; inviting lane passed Old Gentleman's house; was there anyway along it to Burrow-in-the-Corner? "Why, yes," said Old Gentleman, whose desire to accommodate was illimitable. "Follow this lane till you come to four cross roads, then turn to left, and keep on." Nothing plainer than this: getting used to four cross roads in these parts; came upon this particular assortment after quarter of an hour's walk; a sign-post too; so thoughtful; no difficulty about four cross roads when there's a sign-post. Walked up to it and round it; not a single letter remaining intact of the direction. Sign-post older than Old Gentleman with the umbrella, and not nearly in such state of preservation. Not a soul in sight; "no footfall breaking silence of closing day." Old Gentleman said turn to left; so left must be right; take it, and walk on.
Pretty broad highway; must be main road leading somewhere. Why not to Burrow-in-the-Corner? Quarter mile off come upon bifurcation. Which is main road? Instincts of trapper assert themselves; carefully examine which way traffic mostly goes; not many cart-ruts, but majority turn to left; that must be the way to Burrow-in-the-Corner. Take it; find it a ditch between lofty hedges going up a hill, and then, like the late Duke of York, going down again. Half a mile of this; then another bifurcation; a gentle curve, insidious, but unmistakable, one horn of my dilemma leading to right, the other to left. Take the right this time, by way of change; leads into a road running at right angles. Should I turn right or left? Do a little of both in succession; can see nothing of the lay of country, by reason of wall-like hedges; presently come to gate in field; country chillingly unfamiliar.
Situation beginning to grow serious; dusk closing in apace. In spite of it I see my mistake; took the wrong turning when I examined the traffic-mark; must turn back there, and peg along the other road; get into narrow lane again; this time, varying manœuvre of Duke of York, go down a hill, and then go up again.
LIKA JOKO'S JOTTINGS.—No. 3. STAG HUNTING.LIKA JOKO'S JOTTINGS.—No. 3. STAG HUNTING.
Trapper instinct, before alluded to, made me note heap of broken stones at this particular bifurcation. Here it is; no mistake about that; take other turning, and press on full speed; can't be more than two miles now; straight road, and there you are. Can do it under half-an-hour. Nothing so delightful as walk in country lane in cool of evening. This particular lane rather long; roads and lanes cutting off to right and left; at least no bifurcation. Not a house in sight; every soul in the country apparently turned in. Cottar's Saturday night, of course; should have thought of that before; explains everything.
Apparently no end to this road; suddenly seems to disappear; only a dip down a hill; think at first, from steepness, it must be road into Tipperton; but Tipperton is miles away. Getting on for dinner-time; better run down hill; do so; see light flickering at end; probably The Cottage windows; hum "A light in the window for me"; find I've no breath to spare for musical entertainments; shut up, and run. Light comes from farm-house; enter yard cautiously in case of another dog being there. In the twilight see second Old Gentleman; this time in his shirt-sleeves, sitting meditatively on an upturned bucket set on a barn floor. "Is this the way to Burrow-in-the-Corner?" I ask, a little out of breath. Old Gentleman stares; perhaps he is deaf; looks deaf, but find he is only chuckling; repeat question louder. "No," says he, "but that be;" and he waves a horny hand up the wall of a hill down which I had scrambled.
For the last twenty minutes I'd been running away from Burrow-in-the-Corner as if we didn't dine at 7.30.
Old Gentleman not accustomed to seeing joke; made most of this; when he recovered I learned that if I walked back up hill a mile, and took first turning to right, I should be on the road to Burrow-in-the-Corner. Nice pull up hill; kept keen look out for turn to right; after quarter of hour's rapid walking passed on left openings of two lanes in close contiguity. Through one I had forty minutes earlier walked on to this very road. If I had then turned to left instead of going back I should have been at The Cottage by this time—supposing, of course, the road leads thither.
No use repining; must get on; feeling peckish; walk in middle of road to make most of twilight shut out by hedges; can't see time by watch; doing something more than four miles an hour. At end of what seems half-hour am apparently no forrader; no house; no passer-by; no friendly light over ghostly expanse peeped at through occasional gates.
Begin to think of story heard the other day. Belated parson went to take evening service for friend at church close by post-office where I made acquaintance of first Old Gentleman. Only three miles from his own house; after sermon set off to walk home; thinking of many things, turned off at wrong point; knew country pretty well, but darkness came on; hopelessly lost; found forlornly sitting on a gate at eleven o'clock by farmer's son fortuitously delayed on his return home; took stranger home with him; woke up family, and gave him shakedown for night.
"It was bad enough,Toby," rev. gentleman said, "and might have been worse. But what rankles most bitterly in my breast at present day is remark of farmer's wife when her son shouted up at open window that he had brought home a clergyman who had lost his way and wanted a bed. 'Clergyman!' she cried, with cruel scorn. 'Get away with you. No clergyman would be out at this time of night.'"
One comfort it's not raining; rained in torrents when my friend the parson had his Sunday night out. Road evidently not leading towards The Cottage; suppose that once more I am walking away from it! Trapper instincts already alluded to have evolved a plan which I hold in reserve. Remember (or think I remember) the turns on the way back to post-office where I made acquaintance of first Old Gentleman; terrible trudge, but better than sleeping in ditch or shed; shall turn back and face it. Halt and hesitate; no sign of Cottage or other light; hedges are black shadows; a few feet in front and an equal distance behind is wall of darkness; decide to take a hundred paces forward. If then no sign of habitation shall turn back and grope way by post-office.
At eightieth pace a turn in the road; a light across the roadway; then The Cottage, and through the open window, into the dark still night, floats the music ofSchumann's"Frühlingsnacht." It is the Cook singing, while the Housemaid spreads the cloth for dinner.
WIREPROOF.WIREPROOF.Sir Harry Hardman, mounted on "Behemoth," created rather a stir at the Meet. He said he didn't care a hang for the Barbed or any other kind of Wire.
Sir Harry Hardman, mounted on "Behemoth," created rather a stir at the Meet. He said he didn't care a hang for the Barbed or any other kind of Wire.
["The custom of dancing, I am informed on good authority, has of late years lost its popularity with our gilded youth!"—Mr. James Payn.]
["The custom of dancing, I am informed on good authority, has of late years lost its popularity with our gilded youth!"—Mr. James Payn.]
A Singing-birdwhich will not sing, a watch that will not go,A working-man who scorns to work, a needle that won't sew,Are things whose inutility are obvious at a glance,But whatarethey compared with "gilded youth" who do not dance?
A Singing-birdwhich will not sing, a watch that will not go,A working-man who scorns to work, a needle that won't sew,Are things whose inutility are obvious at a glance,But whatarethey compared with "gilded youth" who do not dance?
A Singing-birdwhich will not sing, a watch that will not go,
A working-man who scorns to work, a needle that won't sew,
Are things whose inutility are obvious at a glance,
But whatarethey compared with "gilded youth" who do not dance?
Mystified.—Somebody at Mrs. R.'s was saying that a certain friend of theirs, a well-known Queen's Counsel, was a first-rate pianist. "By the way," inquired a young barrister, "doesn't he usually practice in Mr. JusticeRomer'scourt?" Mrs. R. held up her hands in amazement. "Well," she exclaimed; "I had no idea that music was allowed in a law court. But I suppose it's in the interval, while the Judge is at luncheon."
(On the recent revision of "The Tempter.")
Mr. Tree, whathaveyou done?Hang it all! there's no exemptingYou from blame for risks we runWithThe Tempteryet more tempting.
Mr. Tree, whathaveyou done?Hang it all! there's no exemptingYou from blame for risks we runWithThe Tempteryet more tempting.
Mr. Tree, whathaveyou done?
Hang it all! there's no exempting
You from blame for risks we run
WithThe Tempteryet more tempting.
Query.—Has the want of rain this summer, and consequent failure of the hay crops, affected the market for Grass Widows?