“You did, Doctor, but none the less you must come round tomy view, for otherwise I shall keep on piling fact upon fact on youuntil your reason breaks down under them and acknowledges meto be right. Now, Mr. Jabez Wilson here has been good enoughto call upon me this morning, and to begin a narrative whichpromises to be one of the most singular which I have listenedto for some time. You have heard me remark that the strangestand most unique things are very often connected not with thelarger but with the smaller crimes, and occasionally, indeed, wherethere is room for doubt whether any positive crime has beencommitted. As far as I have heard, it is impossible for me to saywhether the present case is an instance of crime or not, but thecourse of events is certainly among the most singular that I haveever listened to. Perhaps, Mr. Wilson, you would have the greatkindness to recommence your narrative. I ask you not merelybecause my friend Dr. Watson has not heard the opening part butalso because the peculiar nature of the story makes me anxious tohave every possible detail from your lips. As a rule, when I haveheard some slight indication of the course of events, I am able toguide myself by the thousands of other similar cases which occurto my memory. In the present instance I am forced to admit thatthe facts are, to the best of my belief, unique.”
The portly client puffed out his chest with an appearanceof some little pride and pulled a dirty and wrinkled newspaperfrom the inside pocket of his greatcoat. As he glanced down theadvertisement column, with his head thrust forward and thepaper flattened out upon his knee, I took a good look at the manand endeavoured, after the fashion of my companion, to read theindications which might be presented by his dress or appearance.
I did not gain very much, however, by my inspection. Ourvisitor bore every mark of being an average commonplace Britishtradesman, obese, pompous, and slow. He wore rather baggy greyshepherd’s check trousers, a not over-clean black frock-coat,unbuttoned in the front, and a drab waistcoat with a heavy brassyAlbert chain, and a square pierced bit of metal dangling down asan ornament. A frayed top-hat and a faded brown overcoat witha wrinkled velvet collar lay upon a chair beside him. Altogether,look as I would, there was nothing remarkable about the man savehis blazing red head, and the expression of extreme chagrin anddiscontent upon his features.
Sherlock Holmes’ quick eye took in my occupation, and heshook his head with a smile as he noticed my questioning glances.
“Beyond the obvious facts that he has at some time done manuallabour, that he takes snuff, that he is a Freemason, that he hasbeen in China, and that he has done a considerable amount ofwriting lately, I can deduce nothing else.”
Mr. Jabez Wilson started up in his chair, with his forefingerupon the paper, but his eyes upon my companion.
“How, in the name of good-fortune, did you know all that,Mr. Holmes?” he asked. “How did you know, for example, thatI did manual labour. It’s as true as gospel, for I began as a ship’scarpenter.”
“Your hands, my dear sir. Your right hand is quite a size largerthan your left. You have worked with it, and the muscles are moredeveloped.”
“Well, the snuff, then, and the Freemasonry?”
“I won’t insult your intelligence by telling you how I read that,especially as, rather against the strict rules of your order, you usean arc-and-compass breastpin.”
“Ah, of course, I forgot that. But the writing?”
“What else can be indicated by that right cuff so very shiny forfive inches, and the left one with the smooth patch near the elbowwhere you rest it upon the desk?”
“Well, but China?”
“The fish that you have tattooed immediately above your rightwrist could only have been done in China. I have made a smallstudy of tattoo marks and have even contributed to the literatureof the subject. That trick of staining the fishes’ scales of a delicatepink is quite peculiar to China. When, in addition, I see a Chinesecoin hanging from your watch-chain, the matter becomes evenmore simple.”
Mr. Jabez Wilson laughed heavily. “Well, I never!” said he. “Ithought at first that you had done something clever, but I see thatthere was nothing in it after all.”
“I begin to think, Watson,” said Holmes, “that I make a mistakein explaining. ‘Omne ignotum pro magnifico,’ you know, and mypoor little reputation, such as it is, will suffer shipwreck if I am socandid. Can you not find the advertisement, Mr. Wilson?”
“Yes, I have got it now,” he answered with his thick red fingerplanted halfway down the column. “Here it is. This is what beganit all. You just read it for yourself, sir.”
I took the paper from him and read as follows:
“TO THE RED-HEADED LEAGUE:
On account of the bequest of the late Ezekiah Hopkins, ofLebanon, Pennsylvania, U. S. A., there is now another vacancy openwhich entitles a member of the League to a salary of ￡4 a week forpurely nominal services. All red-headed men who are sound in bodyand mind and above the age of twenty-one years, are eligible. Applyin person on Monday, at eleven o’clock, to Duncan Ross, at theoffices of the League, 7 Pope’s Court, Fleet Street.”
“What on earth does this mean?” I ejaculated after I had twiceread over the extraordinary announcement.
Holmes chuckled and wriggled in his chair, as was his habitwhen in high spirits. “It is a little off the beaten track, isn’t it?” saidhe. “And now, Mr. Wilson, off you go at scratch and tell us all aboutyourself, your household, and the effect which this advertisementhad upon your fortunes. You will first make a note, Doctor, of thepaper and the date.”
“It is The Morning Chronicle of April 27, 1890. Just two monthsago.”
“Very good. Now, Mr. Wilson?”
