DarqueDante/test2 · Datasets at Hugging Face

text stringlengths 0 74
Peterson, the commissionaire?"

"Yes."

"It is to him that this trophy belongs."

"It is his hat."

"No, no, he found it. Its owner is unknown. I beg that you will look
upon it not as a battered billycock but as an intellectual problem.
And, first, as to how it came here. It arrived upon Christmas
morning, in company with a good fat goose, which is, I have no doubt,
roasting at this moment in front of Peterson's fire. The facts are
these: about four o'clock on Christmas morning, Peterson, who, as you
know, is a very honest fellow, was returning from some small
jollification and was making his way homeward down Tottenham Court
Road. In front of him he saw, in the gaslight, a tallish man, walking
with a slight stagger, and carrying a white goose slung over his
shoulder. As he reached the corner of Goodge Street, a row broke out
between this stranger and a little knot of roughs. One of the latter
knocked off the man's hat, on which he raised his stick to defend
himself and, swinging it over his head, smashed the shop window
behind him. Peterson had rushed forward to protect the stranger from
his assailants; but the man, shocked at having broken the window, and
seeing an official-looking person in uniform rushing towards him,
dropped his goose, took to his heels, and vanished amid the labyrinth
of small streets which lie at the back of Tottenham Court Road. The
roughs had also fled at the appearance of Peterson, so that he was
left in possession of the field of battle, and also of the spoils of
victory in the shape of this battered hat and a most unimpeachable
Christmas goose."

"Which surely he restored to their owner?"

"My dear fellow, there lies the problem. It is true that 'For Mrs.
Henry Baker' was printed upon a small card which was tied to the
bird's left leg, and it is also true that the initials 'H. B.' are
legible upon the lining of this hat, but as there are some thousands
of Bakers, and some hundreds of Henry Bakers in this city of ours, it
is not easy to restore lost property to any one of them."

"What, then, did Peterson do?"

"He brought round both hat and goose to me on Christmas morning,
knowing that even the smallest problems are of interest to me. The
goose we retained until this morning, when there were signs that, in
spite of the slight frost, it would be well that it should be eaten
without unnecessary delay. Its finder has carried it off, therefore,
to fulfil the ultimate destiny of a goose, while I continue to retain
the hat of the unknown gentleman who lost his Christmas dinner."

"Did he not advertise?"

"No."

"Then, what clue could you have as to his identity?"

"Only as much as we can deduce."

"From his hat?"

"Precisely."

"But you are joking. What can you gather from this old battered
felt?"

"Here is my lens. You know my methods. What can you gather yourself
as to the individuality of the man who has worn this article?"

I took the tattered object in my hands and turned it over rather
ruefully. It was a very ordinary black hat of the usual round shape,
hard and much the worse for wear. The lining had been of red silk,
but was a good deal discoloured. There was no maker's name; but, as
Holmes had remarked, the initials "H. B." were scrawled upon one
side. It was pierced in the brim for a hat-securer, but the elastic
was missing. For the rest, it was cracked, exceedingly dusty, and
spotted in several places, although there seemed to have been some
attempt to hide the discoloured patches by smearing them with ink.

"I can see nothing," said I, handing it back to my friend.

"On the contrary, Watson, you can see everything. You fail, however,
to reason from what you see. You are too timid in drawing your
inferences."

"Then, pray tell me what it is that you can infer from this hat?"

He picked it up and gazed at it in the peculiar introspective fashion
which was characteristic of him. "It is perhaps less suggestive than
it might have been," he remarked, "and yet there are a few inferences
which are very distinct, and a few others which represent at least a
strong balance of probability. That the man was highly intellectual
is of course obvious upon the face of it, and also that he was fairly
well-to-do within the last three years, although he has now fallen
upon evil days. He had foresight, but has less now than formerly,
pointing to a moral retrogression, which, when taken with the decline
of his fortunes, seems to indicate some evil influence, probably
drink, at work upon him. This may account also for the obvious fact
that his wife has ceased to love him."

Peterson, the commissionaire?"

"Yes."

"It is to him that this trophy belongs."

"It is his hat."

"No, no, he found it. Its owner is unknown. I beg that you will look

upon it not as a battered billycock but as an intellectual problem.

And, first, as to how it came here. It arrived upon Christmas

morning, in company with a good fat goose, which is, I have no doubt,

roasting at this moment in front of Peterson's fire. The facts are

these: about four o'clock on Christmas morning, Peterson, who, as you

know, is a very honest fellow, was returning from some small

jollification and was making his way homeward down Tottenham Court

Road. In front of him he saw, in the gaslight, a tallish man, walking

with a slight stagger, and carrying a white goose slung over his

shoulder. As he reached the corner of Goodge Street, a row broke out

between this stranger and a little knot of roughs. One of the latter

knocked off the man's hat, on which he raised his stick to defend

himself and, swinging it over his head, smashed the shop window

behind him. Peterson had rushed forward to protect the stranger from

his assailants; but the man, shocked at having broken the window, and

seeing an official-looking person in uniform rushing towards him,

dropped his goose, took to his heels, and vanished amid the labyrinth

of small streets which lie at the back of Tottenham Court Road. The

roughs had also fled at the appearance of Peterson, so that he was

left in possession of the field of battle, and also of the spoils of

victory in the shape of this battered hat and a most unimpeachable

Christmas goose."

"Which surely he restored to their owner?"

"My dear fellow, there lies the problem. It is true that 'For Mrs.

Henry Baker' was printed upon a small card which was tied to the

bird's left leg, and it is also true that the initials 'H. B.' are

legible upon the lining of this hat, but as there are some thousands

of Bakers, and some hundreds of Henry Bakers in this city of ours, it

is not easy to restore lost property to any one of them."

"What, then, did Peterson do?"

"He brought round both hat and goose to me on Christmas morning,

knowing that even the smallest problems are of interest to me. The

goose we retained until this morning, when there were signs that, in

spite of the slight frost, it would be well that it should be eaten

without unnecessary delay. Its finder has carried it off, therefore,

to fulfil the ultimate destiny of a goose, while I continue to retain

the hat of the unknown gentleman who lost his Christmas dinner."

"Did he not advertise?"

"No."

"Then, what clue could you have as to his identity?"

"Only as much as we can deduce."

"From his hat?"

"Precisely."

"But you are joking. What can you gather from this old battered

felt?"

"Here is my lens. You know my methods. What can you gather yourself

as to the individuality of the man who has worn this article?"

I took the tattered object in my hands and turned it over rather

ruefully. It was a very ordinary black hat of the usual round shape,

hard and much the worse for wear. The lining had been of red silk,

but was a good deal discoloured. There was no maker's name; but, as

Holmes had remarked, the initials "H. B." were scrawled upon one

side. It was pierced in the brim for a hat-securer, but the elastic

was missing. For the rest, it was cracked, exceedingly dusty, and

spotted in several places, although there seemed to have been some

attempt to hide the discoloured patches by smearing them with ink.

"I can see nothing," said I, handing it back to my friend.

"On the contrary, Watson, you can see everything. You fail, however,

to reason from what you see. You are too timid in drawing your

inferences."

"Then, pray tell me what it is that you can infer from this hat?"

He picked it up and gazed at it in the peculiar introspective fashion

which was characteristic of him. "It is perhaps less suggestive than

it might have been," he remarked, "and yet there are a few inferences

which are very distinct, and a few others which represent at least a

strong balance of probability. That the man was highly intellectual

is of course obvious upon the face of it, and also that he was fairly

well-to-do within the last three years, although he has now fallen

upon evil days. He had foresight, but has less now than formerly,

pointing to a moral retrogression, which, when taken with the decline

of his fortunes, seems to indicate some evil influence, probably

drink, at work upon him. This may account also for the obvious fact

that his wife has ceased to love him."