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 law-
yer." Just under the head was a broad silver band nearly an inch
across. "To James Mortimer, M.R.C.S., from his friends of the
C.C.H.," 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 unfortunate 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
him this mark of their appreciation."
"Good!" said Holmes. "Excellent!"
"I think also that the probability is in favour 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 that 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 C.C.H.' I should
guess that to be the 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
words gave me keen pleasure, for I had often been piqued by his
indifference to my admiration and to the attempts which I had
made to give publicity to his methods. I was proud, too, to think
that I had so far mastered his system as to apply it in a way
which earned his approval. He now took the stick from my hands
and examined it for a few minutes with his naked eyes. Then
with an expression of interest he laid down his cigarette, and
carrying the cane to the window, he looked over it again with a
convex lens.
"Interesting, though elementary," said he as he returned to
his favourite corner of the settee. "There are certainly one or
two indications upon the stick. It gives us the basis for several
deductions."
"Has anything escaped me?" I asked with some self-
importance. "I trust that there is nothing of consequence which I
have overlooked?"
"I am afraid, my dear Watson, that most of your conclusions
were erroneous. When I said that you stimulated me I meant, to
be frank, that in noting your fallacies I was occasionally guided
towards the truth. Not that you are entirely wrong in this in-
stance. The man is certainly a country practitioner. And he walks
a good deal."
"Then I was right."
"To that extent."
"But that was all."
"No, no, my dear Watson, not all -- by no means all. I would
suggest, for example, that a presentation to a doctor is more
likely to come from a hospital than from a hunt, and that when
the initials 'C.C.' are placed before that hospital the words
'Charing Cross' very naturally suggest themselves."
"You may be right."
"The probability lies in that direction. And if we take this as a
working hypothesis we have a fresh basis from which to start our
construction of this unknown visitor."
"Well, then, supposing that 'C.C.H.' does stand for 'Charing
Cross Hospital,' what further inferences may we draw?"
"Do none suggest themselves? You know my methods. Apply
them!"
"I can only think of the obvious conclusion that the man has
practised in town before going to the country."
"I think that we might venture a little farther than this. Look
at it in this light. On what occasion would it be most probable
that such a presentation would be made? When would his friends
unite to give him a pledge of their good will? Obviously at the
moment when Dr. Mortimer withdrew from the service of the
hospital in order to start in practice for himself. We know there
has been a presentation. We believe there has been a change
from a town hospital to a country practice. Is it, then, stretching
our inference too far to say that the presentation was on the
occasion of the change?"
"It certainly seems probable."
"Now, you will observe that he could not have been on the
staff of ohe hospital, since only a man well-established in a
London practice could hold such a position, and such a one
would not drift into the country. What was he, then? If he was in
the hospital and yet not on the staff he could only have been a
house-surpeon or a house-physician -- little more than a senior
student. And he left five years ago -- the date is on the stick. So
your grave, middle-aged family practitioner vanishes into thin
air, my dear Watson, and there emerges a young fellow under
thirty, amiable, unambitious, absent-minded, and the possessor
of a favourite dog, which I should describe roughly as being
larger than a terrier and smaller than a mastiff."
I laughed incredulously as Sherlock Holmes leaned back in his
settee and blew little wavering rings of smoke up to the ceiling.
"As to the latter part, I have no means of checking you," said
I, "but at least it is not difficult to find out a few particulars
about the man's age and professional career." From my small
medical shelf I took down the Medical Directory and turned up
the name. There were several Mortimers, but only one who
could be our visitor. I read his record aloud.
"Mortimer, James, M.R.C.S., 1882, Grimpen, Dartmoor,
Devon. House-surgeon, from 1882 to 1884, at Charing
Cross Hospital. Winner of the Jackson prize for Compara-
tive Pathology, with essay entitled 'Is Disease a Reversion?'
Corresponding member of the Swedish Pathological Soci-
ety. Author of 'Some Freaks of Atavism' (Lancet 1882).
'Do We Progress?' (Journal of Psychology, March, 1883).
Medical Officer for the parishes of Grimpen, Thorsley, and
High Barrow."
"No mention of that local hunt, Watson," said Holmes with a
mischievous smile, "but a country doctor, as you very astutely
observed. I think that I am fairly justified in my inferences. As
to the adjectives, I said, if I remember right, amiable, unambi-
tious, and absent-minded. It is my experience that it is only an
amiable man in this world who receives testimonials, only an
unambitious one who abandons a London career for the country,
and only an absent-minded one who leaves his stick and not his
visiting-card after waiting an hour in your room."
"And the dog?"
"Has been in the habit of carrying this stick behind his
master. Being a heavy stick the dog has held it tightly by the
middle, and the marks of his teeth are very plainly visible. The
dog's jaw, as shown in the space between these marks, is too
broad in my opinion for a terrier and not broad enough for a
mastiff. It may have been -- yes, by Jove, it is a curly-haired
spaniel."
He had risen and paced the room as he spoke. Now he halted
in the recess of the window. There was such a ring of conviction
in his voice that I glanced up in surprise.
"My dear fellow, how can you possibly be so sure of that?"
"For the very simple reason that I see the dog himself on our
very door-step, and there is the ring of its owner. Don't move, I
beg you, Watson. He is a professional brother of yours, and your
presence may be of assistance to me. Now is the dramatic
moment of fate, Watson, when you hear a step upon the stair
which is walking into your life, and you know not whether for
good or ill. What does Dr. James Mortimer, the man of science,
ask of Sherlock Holmes, the specialist in crime? Come in!"
The appearance of our visitor was a surprise to me, since I
had expected a typical country practitioner. He was a very tall,
thin man, with a long nose like a beak, which jutted out between
two keen, gray eyes, set closely together and sparkling brightly
from behind a pair of gold-rimmed glasses. He was clad in a
professional but rather slovenly fashion, for his frock-coat was
dingy and his trousers frayed. Though young, his long back was
already bowed, and he walked with a forward thrust of his head
and a general air of peering benevolence. As he entered his eyes
fell upon the stick in Holmes's hand, and he ran towards it with
an exclamation of joy. "I am so very glad," said he. "I was not
sure whether I had left it here or in the Shipping Office. I would
not lose that stick for the world."
"A presentation, I see," said Holmes.
"Yes, sir."
"From Charing Cross Hospital?"
"From one or two friends there on the occasion of my
marriage."
"Dear, dear, that's bad!" said Holmes, shaking his head.
Dr. Mortimer blinked through his glasses in mild astonishment.
"Why was it bad?"
"Only that you have disarranged our little deductions. Your
marriage, you say?"
"Yes, sir. I married, and so left the hospital, and with it all
hopes of a consulting practice. It was necessary to make a home
of my own."
"Come, come, we are not so far wrong, after all," said
Holmes. "And now, Dr. James Mortimer --"
"Mister, sir, Mister -- a humble M.R.C.S."
"And a man of precise mind, evidently."
"A dabbler in science, Mr. Holmes, a picker up of shells on
the shores of the great unknown ocean. I presume that it is Mr.
Sherlock Holmes whom I am addressing and not --"
"No, this is my friend Dr. Watson."
"Glad to meet you, sir. I have heard your name mentioned in
connection with that of your friend. You interest me very much,
Mr. Holmes. I had hardly expected so dolichocephalic a skull or
such well-marked supra-orbital development. Would you have
any objection to my running my finger along your parietal
fissure? A cast of your skull, sir, until the original is available,
would be an ornament to any anthropological museum. It is not
my intention to be fulsome, but I confess that I covet your
skull."
Sherlock Holmes waved our strange visitor into a chair. "You
are an enthusiast in your line of thought, I perceive, sir, as I am
in mine," said he. "I observe from your forefinger that you
make your own cigarettes. Have no hesitation in lighting one."
The man drew out paper and tobacco and twirled the one up in
the other with surprising dexterity. He had long, quivering fin-
gers as agile and restless as the antennae of an insect.
Holmes was silent, but his little darting glances showed me
the interest which he took in our curious companion.
"I presume, sir," said he at last, "that it was not merely for
the purpose of examining my skull that you have done me the
honour to call here last night and again to-day?"
"No, sir, no; though I am happy to have had the opportunity
of doing that as well. I came to you, Mr. Holmes, because I
recognized that I am myself an unpractical man and because I am
suddenly confronted with a most serious and extraordinary prob-
lem. Recognizing, as I do, that you are the second highest expert
in Europe --"
"Indeed, sir! May I inquire who has the honour to be the
first?" asked Holmes with some asperity.
"To the man of precisely scientific mind the work of Mon-
sieur Bertillon must always appeal strongly."
"Then had you not better consult him?"
"I said, sir, to the precisely scientific mind. But as a practical
man of affairs it is acknowledged that you stand alone. I trust,
sir, that I have not inadvertently --"
"Just a little," said Holmes. "I think, Dr. Mortimer, you
would do wisely if without more ado you would kindly tell me
plainly what the exact nature of the problem is in which you
demand my assistance."
Chapter 2
The Curse of the Baskervilles
"I have in my pocket a manuscript," said Dr. James Mortimer.
"I observed it as you entered the room," said Holmes.
"It is an old manuscript."
"Early eighteenth century, unless it is a forgery."
"How can you say that, sir?"
"You have presented an inch or two of it to my examination
all the time that you have been talking. It would be a poor expert
who could not give the date of a document within a decade or so.
You may possibly have read my little monograph upon the
subject. I put that at 1730."
"The exact date is 1742." Dr. Mortimer drew it from his
breast-pocket. "This family paper was committed to my care by
Sir Charles Baskerville, whose sudden and tragic death some
three months ago created so much excitement in Devonshire. I
may say that I was his personal friend as well as his medical
attendant. He was a strong-minded man, sir, shrewd, practical,
and as unimaginative as I am myself. Yet he took this document
very seriously, and his mind was prepared for just such an end as
did eventually overtake him."
Holmes stretched out his hand for the manuscript and flattened
it upon his knee.
"You will observe, Watson, the alternative use of the long s
and the short. It is one of several indications which enabled me
to fix the date."
I looked over his shoulder at the yellow paper and the faded
script. At the head was written: "Baskerville Hall," and below
in large, scrawling figures: "1742."
"It appears to be a statement of some sort."
"Yes, it is a statement of a certain legend which runs in the
Baskerville family."
"But I understand that it is something more modern and
practical upon which you wish to consult me?"
"Most modern. A most practical, pressing matter, which must
be decided within twenty-four hours. But the manuscript is short
and is intimately connected with the affair. With your permission
I will read it to you."
Holmes leaned back in his chair, placed his finger-tips to-
gether, and closed his eyes, with an air of resignation. Dr.
Mortimer turned the manuscript to the light and read in a high,
cracking voice the following curious, old-world narrative:
"Of the origin of the Hound of the Baskervilles there
have been many statements, yet as I come in a direct line
from Hugo Baskerville, and as I had the story from my
father, who also had it from his, I have set it down with all
belief that it occurred even as is here set forth. And I would
have you believe, my sons, that the same Justice which
punishes sin may also most graciously forgive it, and that
no ban is so heavy but that by prayer and repentance it may
be removed. Learn then from this story not to fear the fruits
of the past, but rather to be circumspect in the future, that
those foul passions whereby our family has suffered so
grievously may not again be loosed to our undoing.
"Know then that in the time of the Great Rebellion (the
history of which by the learned Lord Clarendon I most
earnestly commend to your attention) this Manor of Basker-
ville was held by Hugo of that name, nor can it be gainsaid
that he was a most wild, profane, and godless man. This, in
truth, his neighbours might have pardoned, seeing that saints
have never flourished in those parts, but there was in him a
certain wanton and cruel humour which made his name a by-
word through the West. It chanced that this Hugo came to
love (if, indeed, so dark a passion may be known under so
bright a name) the daughter of a yeoman who held lands
near the Baskerville estate. But the young maiden, being
discreet and of good repute, would ever avoid him, for she
feared his evil name. So it came to pass that one Michaelmas
this Hugo, with five or six of his idle and wicked compan-
ions, stole down upon the farm and carried off the maiden,
her father and brothers being from home, as he well knew.
When they had brought her to the Hall the maiden was
placed in an upper chamber, while Hugo and his friends sat
down to a long carouse, as was their nightly custom. Now,
the poor lass upstairs was like to have her wits turned at the
singing and shouting and terrible oaths which came up to
her from below, for they say that the words used by Hugo
Baskerville, when he was in wine, were such as might blast
the man who said them. At last in the stress of her fear she
did that which might have daunted the bravest or most
active man, for by the aid of the growth of ivy which
covered (and still covers) the south wall she came down
from under the eaves, and so homeward across the moor,
there being three leagues betwixt the Hall and her father's
farm.
"It chanced that some little time later Hugo left his
guests to carry food and drink -- with other worse things,
perchance -- to his captive, and so found the cage empty and
the bird escaped. Then, as it would seem, he became as one
that hath a devil, for, rushing down the stairs into the
dining-hall, he sprang upon the great table, flagons and
trenchers flying before him, and he cried aloud before all
the company that he would that very night render his body
and soul to the Powers of Evil if he might but overtake the
wench. And while the revellers stood aghast at the fury of
the man, one more wicked or, it may be, more drunken than
the rest, cried out that they should put the hounds upon her
Whereat Hugo ran from the house, crying to his grooms
that they should saddle his mare and unkennel the pack, and
giving the hounds a kerchief of the maid's, he swung them
to the line, and so off full cry in the moonlight over the
moor.
"Now, for some space the revellers stood agape, unable
to understand all that had been done in such haste. But anon
their bemused wits awoke to the nature of the deed which
was like to be done upon the moorlands. Everything was
now in an uproar, some calling for their pistols, some for
their horses, and some for another flask of wine. But at
length some sense came back to their crazed minds, and the
whole of them, thirteen in number, took horse and started in
pursuit. The moon shone clear above them, and they rode
swiftly abreast, taking that course which the maid must
needs have taken if she were to reach her own home.
"They had gone a mile or two when they passed one of
the night shepherds upon the moorlands, and they cried to
him to know if he had seen the hunt. And the man, as the
story goes, was so crazed with fear that he could scarce
speak, but at last he said that he had indeed seen the
unhappy maiden, with the hounds upon her track. 'But I
have seen more than that,' said he, 'for Hugo Baskerville
passed me upon his black mare, and there ran mute behind
him such a hound of hell as God forbid should ever be at
my heels.' So the drunken squires cursed the shepherd and
rode onward. But soon their skins turned cold, for there
came a galloping across the moor