Transcript of The Hound of the Baskervilles
Chapter 1 of The Hound of the Baskervilles. Mr. Sherlock Holmes Mr. Sherlock Holmes, who was usually very late in the mornings, save upon those not infrequent occasions when he was up all night, was seated at the breakfast table. I stood upon the hearth -rug and picked up the stick which our visitor had left behind him the night before. It was a fine, thick piece of wood, bulbous -headed, of the sort which is known as a Penang lawyer. Just under the head was a broad silver band, nearly an inch across. To James Mortimer, MRCS, from his friends of the CCH, was engraved upon it. With the date 1884, it was just such a stick as the old -fashioned family practitioner used to carry, dignified, solid and reassuring. Well, Watson, what do you make of it? Holmes was sitting with his back to me, and I had given him no sign of my occupation. How did you know what I was doing? I believe you have eyes in the back of your head. I have, at least, a well -polished silver -plated coffee -pot in front of me, said he. But tell me, Watson, what do you make of our visitor's stick? Since we have been so fortunate as to miss him and have no notion of his errand, this accidental souvenir becomes of importance. Let me hear you reconstruct the man by an examination of it. I think, said I, following as far as I could the methods of my companion, that Dr. Mortimer is a successful elderly medical man, well esteemed since those who know him give this mark of their appreciation. Good, said Holmes. Excellent. I think also that the probability is in favor of his being a country practitioner who does a great deal of his visiting on foot. Why so? Because this stick, though originally a very handsome one, has been so knocked about I can hardly imagine a town practitioner carrying it. The thick iron ferrule is worn down, so it is evident that he has done a great amount of walking with it. Perfectly sound, said Holmes. And then again there is the friends of the CCH. I should guess that to be the Something -Something Hunt, the local hunt to whose members he has possibly given some surgical assistance and which has made him a small presentation in return. Really, Watson, you excel yourself, said Holmes, pushing back his chair and lighting a cigarette. I am bound to say that in all the accounts which you have been so good as to give, of my own small achievements you have habitually underrated your own abilities. It may be that you are not yourself luminous, but you are a conductor of light. Some people without possessing genius have a remarkable power of stimulating it. I confess, my dear fellow, that I am very much in your debt. He had never said as much before, and I must admit that his