DarqueDante/test2 · Datasets at Hugging Face

text stringlengths 0 74

"And that is--"

"That McCarthy senior met his death from McCarthy junior and that all
theories to the contrary are the merest moonshine."

"Well, moonshine is a brighter thing than fog," said Holmes,
laughing. "But I am very much mistaken if this is not Hatherley Farm
upon the left."

"Yes, that is it." It was a widespread, comfortable-looking building,
two-storied, slate-roofed, with great yellow blotches of lichen upon
the grey walls. The drawn blinds and the smokeless chimneys, however,
gave it a stricken look, as though the weight of this horror still
lay heavy upon it. We called at the door, when the maid, at Holmes'
request, showed us the boots which her master wore at the time of his
death, and also a pair of the son's, though not the pair which he had
then had. Having measured these very carefully from seven or eight
different points, Holmes desired to be led to the court-yard, from
which we all followed the winding track which led to Boscombe Pool.

Sherlock Holmes was transformed when he was hot upon such a scent as
this. Men who had only known the quiet thinker and logician of Baker
Street would have failed to recognise him. His face flushed and
darkened. His brows were drawn into two hard black lines, while his
eyes shone out from beneath them with a steely glitter. His face was
bent downward, his shoulders bowed, his lips compressed, and the
veins stood out like whipcord in his long, sinewy neck. His nostrils
seemed to dilate with a purely animal lust for the chase, and his
mind was so absolutely concentrated upon the matter before him that a
question or remark fell unheeded upon his ears, or, at the most, only
provoked a quick, impatient snarl in reply. Swiftly and silently he
made his way along the track which ran through the meadows, and so by
way of the woods to the Boscombe Pool. It was damp, marshy ground, as
is all that district, and there were marks of many feet, both upon
the path and amid the short grass which bounded it on either side.
Sometimes Holmes would hurry on, sometimes stop dead, and once he
made quite a little detour into the meadow. Lestrade and I walked
behind him, the detective indifferent and contemptuous, while I
watched my friend with the interest which sprang from the conviction
that every one of his actions was directed towards a definite end.

The Boscombe Pool, which is a little reed-girt sheet of water some
fifty yards across, is situated at the boundary between the Hatherley
Farm and the private park of the wealthy Mr. Turner. Above the woods
which lined it upon the farther side we could see the red, jutting
pinnacles which marked the site of the rich landowner's dwelling. On
the Hatherley side of the pool the woods grew very thick, and there
was a narrow belt of sodden grass twenty paces across between the
edge of the trees and the reeds which lined the lake. Lestrade showed
us the exact spot at which the body had been found, and, indeed, so
moist was the ground, that I could plainly see the traces which had
been left by the fall of the stricken man. To Holmes, as I could see
by his eager face and peering eyes, very many other things were to be
read upon the trampled grass. He ran round, like a dog who is picking
up a scent, and then turned upon my companion.

"What did you go into the pool for?" he asked.

"I fished about with a rake. I thought there might be some weapon or
other trace. But how on earth--"

"Oh, tut, tut! I have no time! That left foot of yours with its
inward twist is all over the place. A mole could trace it, and there
it vanishes among the reeds. Oh, how simple it would all have been
had I been here before they came like a herd of buffalo and wallowed
all over it. Here is where the party with the lodge-keeper came, and
they have covered all tracks for six or eight feet round the body.
But here are three separate tracks of the same feet." He drew out a
lens and lay down upon his waterproof to have a better view, talking
all the time rather to himself than to us. "These are young
McCarthy's feet. Twice he was walking, and once he ran swiftly, so
that the soles are deeply marked and the heels hardly visible. That
bears out his story. He ran when he saw his father on the ground.
Then here are the father's feet as he paced up and down. What is
this, then? It is the butt-end of the gun as the son stood listening.
And this? Ha, ha! What have we here? Tiptoes! tiptoes! Square, too,
quite unusual boots! They come, they go, they come again--of course
that was for the cloak. Now where did they come from?" He ran up and
down, sometimes losing, sometimes finding the track until we were
well within the edge of the wood and under the shadow of a great
beech, the largest tree in the neighbourhood. Holmes traced his way
to the farther side of this and lay down once more upon his face with
a little cry of satisfaction. For a long time he remained there,
turning over the leaves and dried sticks, gathering up what seemed to
me to be dust into an envelope and examining with his lens not only
the ground but even the bark of the tree as far as he could reach. A
jagged stone was lying among the moss, and this also he carefully
examined and retained. Then he followed a pathway through the wood
until he came to the highroad, where all traces were lost.

"It has been a case of considerable interest," he remarked, returning
to his natural manner. "I fancy that this grey house on the right
must be the lodge. I think that I will go in and have a word with
Moran, and perhaps write a little note. Having done that, we may
drive back to our luncheon. You may walk to the cab, and I shall be
with you presently."

It was about ten minutes before we regained our cab and drove back
into Ross, Holmes still carrying with him the stone which he had

"And that is--"

"That McCarthy senior met his death from McCarthy junior and that all

theories to the contrary are the merest moonshine."

"Well, moonshine is a brighter thing than fog," said Holmes,

laughing. "But I am very much mistaken if this is not Hatherley Farm

upon the left."

"Yes, that is it." It was a widespread, comfortable-looking building,

two-storied, slate-roofed, with great yellow blotches of lichen upon

the grey walls. The drawn blinds and the smokeless chimneys, however,

gave it a stricken look, as though the weight of this horror still

lay heavy upon it. We called at the door, when the maid, at Holmes'

request, showed us the boots which her master wore at the time of his

death, and also a pair of the son's, though not the pair which he had

then had. Having measured these very carefully from seven or eight

different points, Holmes desired to be led to the court-yard, from

which we all followed the winding track which led to Boscombe Pool.

Sherlock Holmes was transformed when he was hot upon such a scent as

this. Men who had only known the quiet thinker and logician of Baker

Street would have failed to recognise him. His face flushed and

darkened. His brows were drawn into two hard black lines, while his

eyes shone out from beneath them with a steely glitter. His face was

bent downward, his shoulders bowed, his lips compressed, and the

veins stood out like whipcord in his long, sinewy neck. His nostrils

seemed to dilate with a purely animal lust for the chase, and his

mind was so absolutely concentrated upon the matter before him that a

question or remark fell unheeded upon his ears, or, at the most, only

provoked a quick, impatient snarl in reply. Swiftly and silently he

made his way along the track which ran through the meadows, and so by

way of the woods to the Boscombe Pool. It was damp, marshy ground, as

is all that district, and there were marks of many feet, both upon

the path and amid the short grass which bounded it on either side.

Sometimes Holmes would hurry on, sometimes stop dead, and once he

made quite a little detour into the meadow. Lestrade and I walked

behind him, the detective indifferent and contemptuous, while I

watched my friend with the interest which sprang from the conviction

that every one of his actions was directed towards a definite end.

The Boscombe Pool, which is a little reed-girt sheet of water some

fifty yards across, is situated at the boundary between the Hatherley

Farm and the private park of the wealthy Mr. Turner. Above the woods

which lined it upon the farther side we could see the red, jutting

pinnacles which marked the site of the rich landowner's dwelling. On

the Hatherley side of the pool the woods grew very thick, and there

was a narrow belt of sodden grass twenty paces across between the

edge of the trees and the reeds which lined the lake. Lestrade showed

us the exact spot at which the body had been found, and, indeed, so

moist was the ground, that I could plainly see the traces which had

been left by the fall of the stricken man. To Holmes, as I could see

by his eager face and peering eyes, very many other things were to be

read upon the trampled grass. He ran round, like a dog who is picking

up a scent, and then turned upon my companion.

"What did you go into the pool for?" he asked.

"I fished about with a rake. I thought there might be some weapon or

other trace. But how on earth--"

"Oh, tut, tut! I have no time! That left foot of yours with its

inward twist is all over the place. A mole could trace it, and there

it vanishes among the reeds. Oh, how simple it would all have been

had I been here before they came like a herd of buffalo and wallowed

all over it. Here is where the party with the lodge-keeper came, and

they have covered all tracks for six or eight feet round the body.

But here are three separate tracks of the same feet." He drew out a

lens and lay down upon his waterproof to have a better view, talking

all the time rather to himself than to us. "These are young

McCarthy's feet. Twice he was walking, and once he ran swiftly, so

that the soles are deeply marked and the heels hardly visible. That

bears out his story. He ran when he saw his father on the ground.

Then here are the father's feet as he paced up and down. What is

this, then? It is the butt-end of the gun as the son stood listening.

And this? Ha, ha! What have we here? Tiptoes! tiptoes! Square, too,

quite unusual boots! They come, they go, they come again--of course

that was for the cloak. Now where did they come from?" He ran up and

down, sometimes losing, sometimes finding the track until we were

well within the edge of the wood and under the shadow of a great

beech, the largest tree in the neighbourhood. Holmes traced his way

to the farther side of this and lay down once more upon his face with

a little cry of satisfaction. For a long time he remained there,

turning over the leaves and dried sticks, gathering up what seemed to

me to be dust into an envelope and examining with his lens not only

the ground but even the bark of the tree as far as he could reach. A

jagged stone was lying among the moss, and this also he carefully

examined and retained. Then he followed a pathway through the wood

until he came to the highroad, where all traces were lost.

"It has been a case of considerable interest," he remarked, returning

to his natural manner. "I fancy that this grey house on the right

must be the lodge. I think that I will go in and have a word with

Moran, and perhaps write a little note. Having done that, we may

drive back to our luncheon. You may walk to the cab, and I shall be

with you presently."

It was about ten minutes before we regained our cab and drove back

into Ross, Holmes still carrying with him the stone which he had