Mr. Sherlock Holmes

           Mr.SherlockHolmes,whowasusuallyverylateinthemornings,saveuponthosenotinfrequentoccasionswhenhewasupallnight,wasseatedatthebreakfasttable. Istooduponthehearth-rugandpickedupthestickwhichourvisitorhadleftbehindhimthenightbefore. Itwasafine,thickpieceofwood,bulbous-headed,ofthesortwhichisknownasa"Penanglawyer." Justundertheheadwasabroadsilverbandnearlyaninchacross. "ToJamesMortimer,M.R.C.S.,fromhisfriendsoftheC.C.H.,"wasengraveduponit,withthedate"1884." Itwasjustsuchastickastheold-fashionedfamilypractitionerusedtocarry—dignified,solid,andreassuring. 

           "Well,Watson,whatdoyoumakeofit?" 

           Holmeswassittingwithhisbacktome,andIhadgivenhimnosignofmyoccupation. 

           "HowdidyouknowwhatIwasdoing?Ibelieveyouhaveeyesinthebackofyourhead." 

           "Ihave,atleast,awell-polished,silver-platedcoffee-potinfrontofme,"saidhe. "But,tellme,Watson,whatdoyoumakeofourvisitor’sstick?Sincewehavebeensounfortunateastomisshimandhavenonotionofhiserrand,thisaccidentalsouvenirbecomesofimportance. Letmehearyoureconstructthemanbyanexaminationofit." 

           "Ithink,"saidI,followingasfarasIcouldthemethodsofmycompanion, "thatDr.Mortimerisasuccessful,elderlymedicalman,well-esteemedsincethosewhoknowhimgivehimthismarkoftheirappreciation." 

           "Good!"saidHolmes."Excellent!"