by Otto Penzler
“You are a wonderful man, Mr. Holmes,” began our visitor, “but if you will let me—”
“One moment, please,” said Holmes, eying the other closely. “Let us deduce next, if possible, just who you are. First let us admit that you are the author of a recently published book which nobody understands. Now, what is that book? It cannot be ‘Six Months’ by Helinor Quinn, for you are a gentleman, and no gentleman would have written a book of that character. Moreover, everybody knows just what that book means. The book we are after is one that cannot be understood without the assistance of a master like myself. Who writes such books? You may safely assert that the only books that nobody can understand these days are written by one James—Henry James. So far so good. But you are not Henry James, for Henry James is now in London translating his earlier works into Esperanto. Now, a man cannot be in London and in Boston at one and the same time. What is the inevitable conclusion? You must be some other James!”
The hand of our visitor trembled slightly as the marvellous deductive powers of Holmes unfolded themselves.
“Murmarvellulous!” he stammered.
“Now, what James can you be if you are not Henry?” said Holmes. “And what book have you written that defies the interpretation of the ordinary mind hitherto fed on the classic output of Hall Caine, Laura Jean Libbey, and Gertrude Atherton? A search of the Six Best Sellers fails to reveal the answer. Therefore the work is not fiction. I do not recall seeing it on the table of the reading room downstairs, and it is not likely, then, to be statistical. It was not handed me to read in the barber shop while having my hair cut and my chin manicured, from which I deduce that it is not humour. It is likely, then, that it is a volume either of history or philosophy. Now, in this country to-day people are too busy taking care of the large consignments of history in the making that come every day from Washington in the form of newspaper dispatches to devote any time to the history that was made in the past, and it is therefore not at all probable that you would go to the expense of publishing a book dealing with it. What, then, must we conclude? To me it is clear that you are therefore a man named James who has written a book on philosophy which nobody understands but yourself, and even you—”
“Say no more!” cried our visitor, rising and walking excitedly about the room. “You are the most amazingly astonishing bit of stupefying dumfounderment that I have ever stared at!”
“In short,” continued Holmes, pointing his finger sternly at the other, “you are the man who wrote that airy trifle called ‘Pragmatism!’ ”
There was silence for a moment, and then the Professor spoke up.
“I do not understand it at all,” he said.
“What, pragmatism?” asked Holmes with a chuckle.
“No, you,” returned the Professor coldly.
“Oh, it’s all simple enough,” said Holmes. “You were pointed out to me in the dining room at luncheon time by the head waiter, and, besides, your name is painted on the end of your suit case. How could your identity escape me?”
“Nevertheless,” said the Professor, with a puzzled look on his face, “granted that you could deduce all these things as to my name, vocation, and so on, what could have given you the idea that I do not myself know what I meant when I wrote my book? Can you explain that?”
“That, my dear Professor, is the simplest of my deductions,” said Holmes. “I have read the book.”
Here the great man threw himself back in his chair and closed his eyes, and I, realising that I was about to be a witness of a memorable adventure, retired to an escritoire over by the window to take down in shorthand what Holmes said. The Professor, on the other hand, was walking nervously up and down the room.
“Well,” said he, “even if you have read it, what does that prove?”
“I will tell you,” said Holmes, going into one of his trances. “I read it first as a man should read a book, from first page to last, and when I got through I could not for the life of me detect your drift. A second reading in the same way left me more mystified than before, so I decided to read it backward. Inverted it was somewhat clarified but not convincing, so I tried to read it standing on my head, skipping alternate pages as I read forward, and taking in the omitted ones on the return trip. The only result of this was a nervous headache. But my blood was up. I vowed to detect your thought if it cost me my life. Removing the covers of the book, I cut the pages up into slips, each the size of a playing card, pasted these upon four packs of cards, shuffled them three times, cut them twice, dealt them to three imaginary friends seated about a circular table and played an equally imaginary game of muggins with them, at the end of which I placed the four packs one on top of the other, shuffled them twice again, and sat down to read the pages in the resulting sequence. Still the meaning of pragmatism eluded me.”
There was a prolonged pause, interrupted only by the heavy breathing of the Professor.
“Go on,” he said hoarsely.
“Well,” said Holmes, “as a last resort I sent the book to a young friend of mine who runs a printing shop and had him set the whole thing in type, which I afterward pied, sweeping up the remains in a barrel and then drawing them out letter by letter, arranging them in the order in which they came. Of the result I drew galley proofs, and would you believe it, Professor, when I again proceeded to read your words the thing meant even less than it did before. From all of which I deduce that you did not know what pragmatism was, for if you had known the chances are you would have told us. Eh?”
I awaited the answer, looking out of the window, for the demolition of another man is not a pleasant thing to witness, even though it involves a triumph for one of our most respected and profitable heroes. Strange to say the answer did not come, and on turning to see the reason why I observed to my astonishment that Holmes and I were alone, and, what was worse, our visitor had vanished with both our suit cases and my overcoat as well.
Holmes, opening his eyes at the same moment, took in the situation as soon as I did and sprang immediately to the ’phone, but even as he took down the receiver the instrument rang of itself.
“Hello,” said he, impatiently.
“Is this Mr. Holmes?” came a voice.
“Yes,” replied the detective, irritably. “Hurry up and off the wire. I want to call the police. I’ve been robbed.”
“Yes, I know,” said the voice. “I’m the thief, Mr. Holmes. I wanted to tell you not to worry. Your stuff will be returned to you as soon as we have had it photographed for the illustration of an article in tonight’s Boston Gazoozle. It will be on the newsstands in about an hour. Better read it; it’s a corker; and much obliged to you for the material.”
“Well, I’ll be blanked!” cried Holmes, the ’phone receiver dropping from his nerveless fingers. “I fear, my dear Watson, that, in the language of this abominable country, I’ve been stung!”
—
Two hours later the streets of Boston were ringing with the cries of newsboys selling copies of the five o’clock extra of the Evening Gazoozle, containing a most offensive article, with the following headlines:
DO DETECTIVES DETECT?
A GAZOOZLE REPORTER DISGUISED AS A HARVARD PROFESSOR
CALLS ON SHERLOCK HOLMES, ESQ.
AND GETS AWAY WITH TWO SUIT CASES
FULL OF THE GREAT DETECTIVE’S
PERSONAL EFFECTS, WHILE
DR. WATSON’S HERO
TELLS WHAT HE DOES NOT KNOW ABOUT
PRAGMATISM
Herlock Shomes at It Again
ANONYMOUS
SOME PARODIES ARE better than others. One is usually able to recognize a good one from a bad one. However, in the six-part serial “Herlock Shomes at It Again,” it is nearly impossible to be absolutely certain whether the inconsistencies are simply slovenly or are deliberate attempts at humor.
Clearly, the anonymous author intentionally ended one chapter with the notice “Next Week: An entirely new set of characters and another thrilling installment,” then bega
n the next chapter with the notice “Characters: Same as last week.”
Similarly, one would like to think the author was clear-minded enough to have knowingly listed Dr. Hotsam in the cast of characters, only to have Shomes’s assistant appear in the narrative as Dr. Plotsam, Dr. Flotsam, and Dr. Hotsam at various times. I am less convinced that one of the cast of characters, Harold Fitz Gibbons, who never appears in the story, was a deliberate omission.
As with many Sherlock Holmes parodies, this is an utterly silly story—and incomprehensible to boot. Why reprint it, you might ask. Not an unfair question. It is a rare story from an obscure publication, so it is possible that this is the first opportunity you have ever had to read it. Only you can decide if this is a good thing.
“Herlock Shomes at It Again” was first published in six issues of The Wipers Times (London, Herbert Jenkins, February 12–May 1, 1916); it was first published in book form in The Wipers Times, edited by F. J. Roberts and J. H. Pearson (London, Herbert Jenkins, 1918).
HERLOCK SHOMES AT IT AGAIN
Anonymous
CHARACTERS:
Bill Banks—A corpse.
Lizzie Jones—A Questionable Person Living at Hooge.
Harold Fitz Gibbons—Squire of White Chateau (in love with Honoria).
Intha Pink—A pioneer (in love with himself).
Honoria Clarenceaux—The Heroine (in love with Pink).
Herlock Shomes.
Dr. Hotsam, R.A.M.C.
Chapter 1
Shot in the Culvert
THE WIND WAS howling round the rugged spires of the Cloth Hall, and the moon shone down on the carriage bringing the elite of the old town to the festivities arranged to celebrate the 73rd term of office of Jacques Hallaert, the venerable mayor of Typers. Also the same moon shone down on the stalwart form of Intha Pink, the pioneer. He sighed as he passed the brilliantly lighted scene of festivity, thinking of days gone by and all that he had lost. As he plodded his way, clad in gum boots, thigh, pairs one, he soliloquised aloud thus: “What a blooming gime. They gives me a blooming nail, they gives me a blooming ’ammer, and then they tells me to go and build a blooming dug-out.” At that moment Intha fell into a crump-hole, and then continued his soliloquies thus:
(To be Continued.)
Chapter 2
Shomes and His Methods
CHARACTERS:—SAME AS LAST WEEK.
SYNOPSIS:
Intha Pink, a pioneer, while passing the Cloth Hall, Typers, the scene of a dinner given to commemorate the 73rd year of office of the mayor of that town, falls into a crump-hole. Here we left him.
—
We now leave to the imagination of our gentle reader the nature of Intha’s soliloquies in the crump-hole, and turn to a series of tragic events which were occurring in the Denin Road. It being feast night in Typers, the road was surging with a merry crowd pushing and jostling their way, eager to taste the delights the town had to offer, but there were, amongst that motley throng, two people who were destined to play principal parts in the most profound and murky mystery that had ever baffled the aged and doddering constabulary of Typers. One was Honoria, the fair but anemic daughter of the shell-fish merchant Hooge, and the other was—Shomes!
That night the shell-fish merchant, having run out of vinegar, had despatched his fair daughter to Typers to procure a fresh supply, and all had gone well with her until reaching the Culvert, she, catching sight of the lifeless form of Bill Banks, gazing placidly at the sky, had given three heart-rendering shrieks and fallen in the dark and silent waters of the Bellewarde Bec—the waters flowed on—but this was not to pass unnoticed. Shomes was in the district, and whipping out his vermoral sprayer with his right hand, he gave three rounds rapid into his forearm, while with his left he proceeded to tune up his violin. Dr. Plotsam, who had been walking in his shadow, hearing the haunting strains of the violin, rushed forward to his side, exclaiming “What is it, Shomes?” Shomes, with that grandiloquent gesture for which he is justly famed, said “You know my methods, Flotsam!” and fell in also. The waters of the Bec flowed on.
(To be Continued.)
N.B. Next week:—A fresh supply of characters, and another thrilling instalment.
Chapter 3
The Mystery of the Closed Gate
CHARACTERS:—SAME AS LAST WEEK.
SYNOPSIS:
Intha Pink, a pioneer, while passing the Cloth Hall, Typers, the scene of a dinner given to commemorate the 73rd year of office of the mayor of that town, falls into a crump-hole, where he is left soliloquizing. In the meantime, whilst a merry throng is making its way along the Denin Road towards Typers, Honoria, the fair but anemic daughter of the shell-fish merchant of Hooge, whilst passing by the Culvert, catches sight of the lifeless form of Bill Banks, and forthwith falls into the Bellewarde Bec, the waters of which flow on. This incident is noticed by Shomes and Dr. Flotsam, who were passing by the Culvert at the time. They both thereupon fall into the Bec, the waters of which continue to flow on.
—
We now return to our friend Intha Pink, who, having soliloquized for exactly 13 minutes without once pausing to take breath or repeating himself, decides to extricate himself from the crump-hole into which he had so inadvertently fallen. While thus engaged, the silvery chimes of the clock on the Cathedral spire burst forth into song announcing the magic hour of zero p.m. “Bother!” ejaculated Pink in true Pioneer fashion. “At a quarter past zero I promised to meet Lizzie at Fell Hire Corner. I must indeed get a move on, otherwise she will be wroth.”
With that he picked up his hammer and his nail from out of the crump-hole and proceeded at a rapid pace to the corner of the Square where, after having his boots polished and some of the mud brushed from his clothes by Bertie, the boss-eyed boot boy, he went off at the double along the road leading to the Denin Gate.
He had not proceeded very far when perforce his pace had to slacken on account of the density of the merry crowd advancing in the opposite direction in close column of humps, all bent on spending a merry evening at the Cloth Hall. But Pink’s mission was not a gay one, neither was he in a merry mood; a deep plot was hatching in the Pioneer’s fertile brain in which, let it be whispered, lovely Lizzie was to play a not unimportant part.
On reaching Trueside Corner he entered the little shop kept by Sandy Sam, the suspected spy and sandbag merchant. “Evening, Sam,” said Pink. “What, you, Intha!” replied the old man. “What’s in the air?” “Whizzbangs and air-crumps mostly, tonight” answered the other, “but I’m in a hurry. I want a good sandbag.”
This article having been produced, and approved of, Intha paid the bill with a worthless check on Fox’s, and placing his hammer and nail in the sandbag and, slinging the latter over his shoulder again, took to the road; such was his hurry that, generally observant as he was, he did not notice the shadowy figure of old Sam following in his wake. When within fifty yards of the Denin Gate the suspected spy took his S.O.S. signal from out of his pocket, unwrapped same, and hurled it into the air, this being almost immediately answered by three piteous howls from the direction of the gatekeeper’s dug-out, where Tim Squealer, the sandbag merchant’s foster son resided. Intha, still intent on his night’s work, hurried on until he reached the Gate, where he fell over a cunningly concealed trip wire. At the same instant a soft, buzzing sound was heard, increasing in volume and ending in a loud crash! The Pioneer was trapped! The Denin Gate had closed!
(To be Continued).
Next Week: An entirely new set of characters, and another thrilling instalment.
Chapter 4
CHARACTERS:—SAME AS LAST WEEK.
Returning to our friend Shomes who has, for some time, been cooling his ardor in the Bec, during which period he has contrived to make the acquaintance of Honoria, his fair companion in distress. Breathing undying love and vowing to save her, he hoists her on one shoulder, his vermoral sprayer on the other, and commenced his itinerary towards Messrs. Crump, Hole and Co’s circular scoop warehouse abu
tting on Hordon Goose Farm. Bending low with his precious burden, Shomes’ mind begins to wander and so does his foot as he comes a terrific “purler” over a loose duck-board. Buzzing Bill, the Breezy Butcher of Bellewarde, witnessing the disaster, and being especially solicitous for the safety of his customers, shouts in stentorian terms “beat it for the tall timbers.”
Meanwhile Intha Pink, having extricated himself from the disaster which overtook him at the Denin Gate, reappeared safely with his sandbag, hammer, and nail intent on reaching the trysting place where Lizzie is awaiting him.
“What of the night?” is his kindly remark to Vera, one of the “Cinema” girls, who has surreptitiously, tentatively, and furtively, dodged the managerial eye, and had slipped out for a breath of fresh air.
