DarqueDante/test2 · Datasets at Hugging Face

text stringlengths 0 74
me and a supply of the drug, beckoning me to an empty berth.

"Thank you. I have not come to stay," said I. "There is a friend of
mine here, Mr. Isa Whitney, and I wish to speak with him."

There was a movement and an exclamation from my right, and peering
through the gloom, I saw Whitney, pale, haggard, and unkempt, staring
out at me.

"My God! It's Watson," said he. He was in a pitiable state of
reaction, with every nerve in a twitter. "I say, Watson, what o'clock
is it?"

"Nearly eleven."

"Of what day?"

"Of Friday, June 19th."

"Good heavens! I thought it was Wednesday. It is Wednesday. What
d'you want to frighten a chap for?" He sank his face onto his arms
and began to sob in a high treble key.

"I tell you that it is Friday, man. Your wife has been waiting this
two days for you. You should be ashamed of yourself!"

"So I am. But you've got mixed, Watson, for I have only been here a
few hours, three pipes, four pipes--I forget how many. But I'll go
home with you. I wouldn't frighten Kate--poor little Kate. Give me
your hand! Have you a cab?"

"Yes, I have one waiting."

"Then I shall go in it. But I must owe something. Find what I owe,
Watson. I am all off colour. I can do nothing for myself."

I walked down the narrow passage between the double row of sleepers,
holding my breath to keep out the vile, stupefying fumes of the drug,
and looking about for the manager. As I passed the tall man who sat
by the brazier I felt a sudden pluck at my skirt, and a low voice
whispered, "Walk past me, and then look back at me." The words fell
quite distinctly upon my ear. I glanced down. They could only have
come from the old man at my side, and yet he sat now as absorbed as
ever, very thin, very wrinkled, bent with age, an opium pipe dangling
down from between his knees, as though it had dropped in sheer
lassitude from his fingers. I took two steps forward and looked back.
It took all my self-control to prevent me from breaking out into a
cry of astonishment. He had turned his back so that none could see
him but I. His form had filled out, his wrinkles were gone, the dull
eyes had regained their fire, and there, sitting by the fire and
grinning at my surprise, was none other than Sherlock Holmes. He made
a slight motion to me to approach him, and instantly, as he turned
his face half round to the company once more, subsided into a
doddering, loose-lipped senility.

"Holmes!" I whispered, "what on earth are you doing in this den?"

"As low as you can," he answered; "I have excellent ears. If you
would have the great kindness to get rid of that sottish friend of
yours I should be exceedingly glad to have a little talk with you."

"I have a cab outside."

"Then pray send him home in it. You may safely trust him, for he
appears to be too limp to get into any mischief. I should recommend
you also to send a note by the cabman to your wife to say that you
have thrown in your lot with me. If you will wait outside, I shall be
with you in five minutes."

It was difficult to refuse any of Sherlock Holmes' requests,
for they were always so exceedingly definite, and put forward with
such a quiet air of mastery. I felt, however, that when Whitney was
once confined in the cab my mission was practically accomplished; and
for the rest, I could not wish anything better than to be associated
with my friend in one of those singular adventures which were the
normal condition of his existence. In a few minutes I had written my
note, paid Whitney's bill, led him out to the cab, and seen him
driven through the darkness. In a very short time a decrepit figure
had emerged from the opium den, and I was walking down the street
with Sherlock Holmes. For two streets he shuffled along with a bent
back and an uncertain foot. Then, glancing quickly round, he
straightened himself out and burst into a hearty fit of laughter.

"I suppose, Watson," said he, "that you imagine that I have added
opium-smoking to cocaine injections, and all the other little
weaknesses on which you have favoured me with your medical views."

"I was certainly surprised to find you there."

"But not more so than I to find you."

"I came to find a friend."

"And I to find an enemy."

"An enemy?"

"Yes; one of my natural enemies, or, shall I say, my natural prey.
Briefly, Watson, I am in the midst of a very remarkable inquiry, and
I have hoped to find a clue in the incoherent ramblings of these

me and a supply of the drug, beckoning me to an empty berth.

"Thank you. I have not come to stay," said I. "There is a friend of

mine here, Mr. Isa Whitney, and I wish to speak with him."

There was a movement and an exclamation from my right, and peering

through the gloom, I saw Whitney, pale, haggard, and unkempt, staring

out at me.

"My God! It's Watson," said he. He was in a pitiable state of

reaction, with every nerve in a twitter. "I say, Watson, what o'clock

is it?"

"Nearly eleven."

"Of what day?"

"Of Friday, June 19th."

"Good heavens! I thought it was Wednesday. It is Wednesday. What

d'you want to frighten a chap for?" He sank his face onto his arms

and began to sob in a high treble key.

"I tell you that it is Friday, man. Your wife has been waiting this

two days for you. You should be ashamed of yourself!"

"So I am. But you've got mixed, Watson, for I have only been here a

few hours, three pipes, four pipes--I forget how many. But I'll go

home with you. I wouldn't frighten Kate--poor little Kate. Give me

your hand! Have you a cab?"

"Yes, I have one waiting."

"Then I shall go in it. But I must owe something. Find what I owe,

Watson. I am all off colour. I can do nothing for myself."

I walked down the narrow passage between the double row of sleepers,

holding my breath to keep out the vile, stupefying fumes of the drug,

and looking about for the manager. As I passed the tall man who sat

by the brazier I felt a sudden pluck at my skirt, and a low voice

whispered, "Walk past me, and then look back at me." The words fell

quite distinctly upon my ear. I glanced down. They could only have

come from the old man at my side, and yet he sat now as absorbed as

ever, very thin, very wrinkled, bent with age, an opium pipe dangling

down from between his knees, as though it had dropped in sheer

lassitude from his fingers. I took two steps forward and looked back.

It took all my self-control to prevent me from breaking out into a

cry of astonishment. He had turned his back so that none could see

him but I. His form had filled out, his wrinkles were gone, the dull

eyes had regained their fire, and there, sitting by the fire and

grinning at my surprise, was none other than Sherlock Holmes. He made

a slight motion to me to approach him, and instantly, as he turned

his face half round to the company once more, subsided into a

doddering, loose-lipped senility.

"Holmes!" I whispered, "what on earth are you doing in this den?"

"As low as you can," he answered; "I have excellent ears. If you

would have the great kindness to get rid of that sottish friend of

yours I should be exceedingly glad to have a little talk with you."

"I have a cab outside."

"Then pray send him home in it. You may safely trust him, for he

appears to be too limp to get into any mischief. I should recommend

you also to send a note by the cabman to your wife to say that you

have thrown in your lot with me. If you will wait outside, I shall be

with you in five minutes."

It was difficult to refuse any of Sherlock Holmes' requests,

for they were always so exceedingly definite, and put forward with

such a quiet air of mastery. I felt, however, that when Whitney was

once confined in the cab my mission was practically accomplished; and

for the rest, I could not wish anything better than to be associated

with my friend in one of those singular adventures which were the

normal condition of his existence. In a few minutes I had written my

note, paid Whitney's bill, led him out to the cab, and seen him

driven through the darkness. In a very short time a decrepit figure

had emerged from the opium den, and I was walking down the street

with Sherlock Holmes. For two streets he shuffled along with a bent

back and an uncertain foot. Then, glancing quickly round, he

straightened himself out and burst into a hearty fit of laughter.

"I suppose, Watson," said he, "that you imagine that I have added

opium-smoking to cocaine injections, and all the other little

weaknesses on which you have favoured me with your medical views."

"I was certainly surprised to find you there."

"But not more so than I to find you."

"I came to find a friend."

"And I to find an enemy."

"An enemy?"

"Yes; one of my natural enemies, or, shall I say, my natural prey.

Briefly, Watson, I am in the midst of a very remarkable inquiry, and

I have hoped to find a clue in the incoherent ramblings of these