(_By Cunnin Toil._)
No. IV.--THE ESCAPE OF THE BULL-DOG.
I think I have mentioned that the vast intellect of my friend HOLES
took as great a delight in unravelling the petty complexities of some
slight secret as in tracing back to its source the turbid torrent of a
crime that had set all Europe ablaze. Nothing, in fact, was too small
for this great man; he lived only to unravel; his days and nights were
spent in deciphering criminal cryptograms. Many and many a time have I
said to him, "HOLES, you ought to marry, and train up an offspring
of detective marvels. It is a sin to allow such a genius as yours to
remain unreproduced." But he only smiled at me in his calm, impassive,
unmuscular, and unemotional manner, and put me off with some such
phrase as, "I am wedded to my art," or, "Detection is my wife; she
loves, honours, and _obeys_ me--qualities I could never find in a mate
of flesh and blood." I merely mention these trifles in order to give
my readers some further insight into the character of a remarkable
man with whom it was my privilege to be associated on more than one
occasion during those investigations of which the mere account has
astonished innumerable Continents.
During the early Summer of the year before last a matter of scientific
research took me to Cambridge. It will be remembered that at that
time an obscure disease had appeared in London, and had claimed
many victims. Careful study had convinced me that this illness, the
symptoms of which were sudden fear, followed by an inclination to run
away, and ending in complete prostration, were due to the presence in
the blood of what is now known as the Proctor Bacillus, so called
on account of two white patches on its chest, which had all the
appearance of the bands worn by the Proctor during the discharge of
his unpleasant constabulary functions in the streets and purlieus of
University towns. In order to carry on my investigations at the very
fountainhead, as it were, I had accepted a long-standing invitation
from my old friend Colonel the Reverend HENRY BAGNET, who not only
commanded the Cambridge University Volunteers, but was, in addition,
one of the most distinguished scholarly ornaments of the great College
of St. Baldred's.
On the evening to which my story relates we had dined together in the
gorgeous mess-room which custom and the liberality of the University
authorities have consecrated to the use of the gallant corps whose
motto of "_Quis jaculatur scarabaeum?_" has been borne triumphantly in
the van of many a review on the Downs of Brighton and elsewhere. The
countless delicacies appropriate to the season, the brilliant array of
grey uniforms, the heavy gold plate which loaded the oak side-board,
the choice vintages of France and Germany, all these had combined with
the clank of swords, the jingle of spurs, the emphatic military words
of command uttered by light-hearted undergraduates, and the delightful
semi-military, semi-clerical anecdotes of that old war-dog, Colonel
BAGNET, to make up a memorable evening in the experience of a careworn
medical practitioner who had left the best part of his health and his
regulation overalls on the bloody battle-field of Tantia-Tee, in the
Afghan jungle.
Colonel BAGNET had just ordered the head mess-waiter to produce
six more bottles of the famous "die-hard" port, laid down by his
predecessor in the command during the great town and gown riots of
1870. In these terrible civic disturbances the University Volunteers,
as most men of middle age will remember, specially distinguished
themselves by the capture and immediate execution of the truculent
Mayor of Cambridge, who was the prime mover in the commotion. The
wine was circulating freely, and conversation was flowing with all the
_verve_ and _abandon_ that mark the intercourse of undergraduates with
dons. Just as I was congratulating the Colonel on the excellence of
his port the door opened, and a man of forbidding aspect, clothed in
the heavy garments of a mathematical moderator, entered the mess-room.
"I beg your pardon, Colonel," said the new arrival, bringing his hand
to his college cap with an awkward imitation of the military salute.
"I am sorry to disturb the harmony of the evening, but I have the
Vice-Chancellor's orders to inform you that the largest and fiercest
of our pack of bull-dogs has escaped from his kennel. I am to request
you to send a detachment after him immediately. He was last heard
barking on the Newmarket Road."
In a moment all was confusion. Colonel BAGNET brandished an empty
champagne bottle, and in a voice broken with emotion ordered the
regiment to form in half-sections, an intricate man[oe]uvre, which was
fortunately carried out without bloodshed. What might have happened
next I know not. Everybody was dangerously excited, and it needed but
a spark to kindle an explosion. Suddenly I heard a well-known voice
behind me.
"One moment, Colonel," said PICKLOCK HOLES, for it was none other,
though how he had obtained an entrance I have never discovered; "you
desire to find your lost canine assistant? I can help you, but first
tell me why a soldier of your age and experience should insist on
wearing a lamb's-wool undervest."
The guests were speechless. Colonel BAGNET was blue with suppressed
rage.
[Illustration: "How now, Sirrah?" he replied; "how dare you insinuate
that----"]
"How now, Sirrah?" he replied; "how dare you insinuate that----"
"Tush, Colonel BAGNET," said my wonderful friend, pointing to the
furious warrior's mess-waistcoat; "it is impossible to deceive me.
That stain of mint-sauce extending across your chest can be explained
only on the hypothesis that you wear underclothing manufactured from
lamb. That," he continued, smiling coldly at me, "must be obvious to
the meanest capacity." For once in his life the Colonel had no retort
handy.
"I am at your orders," he said, shortly. "The man who can prove that
I wear lamb's-wool when I am actually wearing silk is the man for my
money." In another moment HOLES had organised the pursuit.
"It would be as well," he remarked, "to have an accurate description
of the animal we are in search of. He was----"
Here the impatient Colonel interrupted. "A brindled bull, very deep
in the chest, with two kinks in his tail; has lost one of his front
teeth, and snores violently."
"Quite right," said HOLES; "the description tallies."
"But, HOLES," I ventured to say, "this is most extraordinary. You, who
have never been in Cambridge before, know all the details of the dog.
It is wonderful."
HOLES waved me off with as near an approach to impatience as I have
ever seen him exhibit. Having done this, he once more addressed the
Colonel.
"Your best plan," he said, "will be to scour the King's Parade. You
will not find him there. Next you must visit the Esquire BEDELL, and
thoroughly search his palace from basement to attic. The dog will not
be there, but the search will give you several valuable clues. You
will then proceed to the University Library, and in the fifth gallery,
devoted to Chinese manuscripts, you will find----"
As HOLES uttered these words the mathematical moderator again entered.
"Sir," he said to the Colonel, "it was all a mistake. The dog is quite
safe. He has never been out of his kennel."
"That," said HOLES, "is exactly what I was coming to. In the fifth
gallery, devoted to Chinese manuscripts, you will find no readers.
Hurrying on thence, and guiding your steps by the all-pervasive odour
of meat-fibrine biscuits, you will eventually arrive at the kennel,
and find the dog."
"Zounds! Mr. HOLES," said the admiring Colonel, in the midst of the
laugh that followed on HOLES'S last words, "you are an astounding
fellow." And that is why, at the last Cambridge Commencement, the
degree of LL.D. honoris causa was conferred on PICKLOCK HOLES,
together with a Fellowship at St. Baldred's, worth L800 a year. But my
friend is modesty itself. "It is not," he said, "the honorary degree
that I value half so much as the consciousness that I did my duty, and
helped a Colonel in the hour of his need." And with these simple words
Dr. PICKLOCK HOLES dismissed one of his finest achievements.
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