UNCOLLECTED SHORT STORIES

UNCOLLECTED SHORT STORIES CONTENTS THE PARISH MAGAZINE THE CABMAN’S STORY

THE PARISH MAGAZINE It was six o’clock on a winter evening. Mr. Pomeroy, the printer, was on the point of leaving his office, which was his back room, for his home, which was his front room, when young Murphy entered. Murphy was an imperturbable youth with a fat face and sleepy eyes, who had the rare quality of always doing without question whatever he was told. It is usually a great virtue — but there are exceptions. “There are two folk to see you,” said Murphy, laying two cards upon the table. Mr. Pomeroy glanced at them. “Mr. Robert Anderson. Miss Julia Duncan. I don’t know the names. Well, show them in.” A long, sad-faced youth entered, accompanied by a mournful young lady, clad in black. Their appearance was respectable, but depressing. “I dare say you know this,” said the youth, holding up a small, grey-covered volume, the outer cover of which was ornamented with the picture of a church. “It’s the St. Olivia’s Church Magazine. What I mean, it’s the Parish Magazine. This lady and I are what you might call the editors. It has been printed by — —” “Elliot and Dark, in the City,” said the lady, as her companion seemed to stumble. “But they have suddenly closed down their works. We have the month’s issue all ready, but we want to add to it.” “A Supplement, if you get my meaning,” said the youth. “That’s the word — supplement. The thing has become too dam’ — —” “What he is trying to say,” cried the girl, “is that the magazine wants lighting up on the social side.” “That’s it,” said the youth. “Just a bit of ginger, so to speak. So we arranged a Supplement. We will put it in as a loose leaf, if you follow my meaning. It’s all typewritten and clear” — here he drew a folded paper from his pocket—”and it needs no reading or correcting. Just rush it through, five hundred copies, as quickly as you can do it.” “The issue is overdue,” said the lady. “We must have it out by midday to-morrow. They tell me Ferguson and Co. could easily have it ready in the time, and if you won’t guarantee it, we must take it to them.” “Absolutely,” said the youth. Mr. Pomeroy picked up the typed copy and glanced at it. His eyes fell upon the words, “Our beloved Vicar, Mr. Ffolliott-Sharp, B.A.” There was some allusion to a bishopric. Pomeroy threw the paper across to his assistant. “Get on with it!” he said. “We should like to pay at once,” said Miss Duncan, opening her bag. “Here is a five-pound note, and you can account for it afterwards. Of course, you don’t know us, and might not trust us.” “Well, if one did not trust the Parish Magazine—” said Pomeroy, smiling. “Absolutely,” cried the youth. “But what I mean is that we want to pay now. You’ll send the stuff round to me at 16 Colgrove Road. Got it? Not later than twelve. Rush it through. What?” “It shall be there,” said Pomeroy. The pair were leaving the room when the girl turned back. “Put your name as printer at the bottom,” she said. “It’s the law. Besides, you may get the printing of the Magazine in the future.” “Certainly. We always print our name.” The couple passed out, and hugged each other in the passage. “I think we put it across,” said he. “Marvellous!” said she. “That fiver was my idea.” “Incredible!” she cried. “We’ve got him.” “Absolutely!” said he, and they passed out into the night. The stolid Murphy wrought long and hard, and the Pomeroy Press was working till unconscionable hours. The assistant found the matter less dull than most which he handled, and a smile spread itself occasionally over his fat face. Surely some of this was rather unusual stuff. He had never read anything quite like it. However, “his not to reason why”. He had been well drilled to do exactly what he was told. The packet was ready next morning, and before twelve o’clock it had been duly dispatched to the house mentioned. Murphy carried it himself and was surprised to find their client waiting for it at the garden gate. It took some energy, apparently, to be the editor of a Parish Magazine. It was twenty-four hours before the bomb burst, which blew Mr. Pomeroy and his household into fragments. The first intimation of trouble was the following letter: “Sir, “We can hardly Imagine that you have read the contents of the so-called Supplement to the Parish Magazine which has been distributed to the members of the congregation of St. Olivia’s Church. If you had you would hardly have dared to make yourself responsible by putting your name to it. I need not say that you are likely to hear a good deal more of the matter. As to my teeth, I may say that they are remarkably sound, and that I have never been to a dentist in my life. “James Wilson “(Major).” There was a second letter upon the breakfast table. The dazed printer picked it up. It was in a feminine hand, and read thus: “Sir, “With regard to the infamous paragraph in the new issue of the Parish Magazine, I may say that if I have bought a new car it is no business of anyone else, and the remarks about my private affairs are most unkind and uncalled for. I understand that as you are the printer you are legally responsible. You will hear in the course of a few days from my legal advisers. “Yours faithfully, “Jane Peddigrew. “14, Elton Square.” “What the devil does it mean?” cried Pomeroy, staring wildly at his wife and daughter. “Murphy! Murphy!” His assistant entered from the office. “Have you a copy of that Supplement, which you printed for the Parish Magazine?” “Yes, sir. I delivered five hundred, but there are a few in the office.” “Bring it in! Bring it in! Quick!” Then Mr. Pomeroy began to read aloud, and apoplexy grew nearer and nearer. The document was headed Social Notes, and began with several dates and allusions to services which might give confidence to the superficial and rapid reader. Then it opened out in this way: “‘Our beloved Vicar (Mr. Ffolliott-Sharp, B.A.) is still busy trying to wangle a bishopric. This time he says in his breezy way that it is ‘a perfect sitter’, but we have our doubts. It is notorious that he has pulled strings in the past, and that the said strings broke. However, he has a cousin in the Lord Chancellor’s office, so there is always hope.’ “Gracious!” cried Pomeroy. “In the Parish Magazine too!” “‘In the last fortnight sixteen hymn books have disappeared from the church. There is no need for public scandal so if Mr. James Bagshaw, Junior, of 113 Lower Cheltenhan Place, will call upon the Churchwardens, all will be arranged.’ “That’s the son of old Bagshaw, of the bank,” cried Pomeroy, “What can they have been dreaming of? “‘The Vicar (the Rev. Ffolliott-Sharp, B.A.) would take this opportunity to beg the younger Miss Ormerod to desisist from her present tactics. Delicacy forbids the Vicar from saying what those tactics are. It is not necessary for a young lady to attend every service, and to push herself into the front pew, which is already owned (though not paid for) by the Dawson-Braggs family. The Vicar has asked us to send marked copies of this paragraph to Mrs. Deknar, Miss Featherstone, and Miss Poppy Crewe.’” Pomeroy wiped his forehead. “This is pretty awful!” said he. Then: “‘Some of these Sundays Major Wilson’s false teeth will drop into the collecting bag. Let him either get a new set, or else take off that smile when he walks round with the bag. With lips firmly compressed there is no reason why the present set may not last for years.’ “That’s where the answer comes in,” said Pomeroy, glancing at the open letter upon his table. “I expect he’ll be round with a stick presently. What’s this? “‘We don’t know if Miss Cissy Dufour and Captain Copperley are secretly married or not. If not, they should be. He could then enter Laburnum Villa instead of wearing out the garden gate by leaning on it!’ “Good heavens, listen to this one! ‘Mr. Malceby, the grocer, is back from Hythe. But why the bag of sand among his luggage? Surely sugar gives a sufficient profit at its present price. As we are on the subject, we cannot but remark upon the increased water rate paid last quarter by the Silverside Dairy Company. What do they do with all this water? The public has a right to know.’ “Good Lord, listen to this! ‘It is very wrong to say that our popular member, Sir James Tender, was drunk at the garden party of the Mayor. It is true that he tripped over his own leg when he tried to dance the tango, but that can fairly be attributed to his own obvious physical disabilities. As a matter of fact, several guests who only drank one glass of the Mayor’s champagne (natural 1928) were very ill in consequence, so that it is most unfair to put so uncharitable an interpretation upon our member’s faux pas.’ “That’s worth a thousand pounds in any Court,” groaned Porneroy. “My dear, Rothschild couldn’t stand the actions that this paper will bring on us.” The ladies of the family had shown a regrettable inclination to laugh, but his words made them properly solemn. He continued his reading. “‘Mrs. Peddigrew has started a six-cylinder which is listed at seven hundred and fifty pounds. How she does it nobody knows. Her late husband was a little rat of a man who did odd jobs down in the City. He could not have left so much. This matter wants looking into.’ “Why, he was the vice-chairman of the Baltic,” said Pomeroy. “These people are stark, staring mad. Listen to this. “‘Evensong will be at six-thirty. Yes, Mrs. Mould, at six-thirty sharp. And Mr. King will be on the left-hand seat well within view. We can count on your attendance. If you are not a pillar of the church, you are generally sneaking behind one!’ Oh, Lord, here’s another. “‘If Mr. Goldbury, of 7 Cheesman Place, will call at the Vicarage he will receive back the trouser-button which he put in the bag last Sunday. It is useless to the Vicar, whereas in its right place it might be most important to Mr. Goldbury!’ There’s no use laughing, you two. You won’t laugh when you see the lawyer’s letters. Listen to this. “‘“Prithee why so pale, fond lover? Prithee why so pale?” The question is addressed to William Briggs, our dentist friend of Hope Street. Has the lady in pink chiffon turned you down, or is it merely that you are behind with your rent, as usual? Cheer up, William. You have our best wishes.’ “Good gracious! They grow worse and worse. Just listen to this. “‘If any motorists get into trouble, my advice to them is to see Chief Constable Walton in his private room at the Town Hall. Cheques will, of course, not be received. But surely it is far better to pay a small sum across the table in ready cash — asking for no receipt — than to have the trouble and expense of proceedings in the Court.’ “My word, we shall have some proceedings in the Court before we are through. Here is a tit-bit which will keep the lawyers busy: ‘The Voyd-Merriman wedding was a most interesting affair and we wish the young couple every happiness. We say “young” out of courtesy, for it is an open secret that the bride will never see thirty-five again. The groom also is, we should say, getting rather long in the tooth. By the way, why did he start and look over his shoulder when the clergyman spoke of “any just cause or impediment”? No doubt it was perfectly harmless, but it gave rise to some ill-natured gossip. We had pleasure in attending the reception afterwards. There was a detective to guard the presents. We really think that his services could have been dispensed with, for they would never have been in danger. Major Wilson’s two brass napkin rings were the pick of the bunch. There was a cheque in an envelope from the bride’s father. We have heard what the exact figure was, and we quite appreciate the need for an envelope. However, it will pay for the cab to the station. It is understood that the happy couple will get as far as Margate for their honeymoon, and if the money holds out they may extend their travels to Ramsgate. Address: the Red Cow public house, near the Station.’ “Why, these are the richest people in Rotherheath,” said Pomeroy, wiping his forehead. “There is a lot more, but that is enough to settle our hash. I think we had best sell up for what we can get and clear out of the town. My gosh, those two folk must have got out of an asylum. Anyhow, my first job must be to see them. Maybe they are millionaires who can afford to pay for their little jokes.” His mission proved, however, to be fruitless. On inquiry at the address given he found that it was an empty house. The caretaker from next door knew nothing of the matter. It was clear now why the young man had waited at the gate for his parcel. What was Pomeroy to do next? Apparently he could only sit and wait for the arrival of the writs. However, it was a very different document which was handed in at his door two evenings later, It was headed “R.S.B.Y.P,” and ran thus: “A special meeting of the R.S.B.Y.P. will be held at 16 Stanmore Terrace, in the billiards-room of John Anderson, J.P., to-night at 9 p.m. The presence of Mr. James Pomeroy, printer, is urgently needed. The matter under discussion is his liability for certain scandalous statements recently printed in the Parish Magazine.” It may well be imagined that Mr. Pomeroy was punctual at the appointment. “Mr. Anderson is not at home himself,” said the footman, “but young Mr. Robert Anderson and his friends are receiving.” There was a humorous twinkle in the footman’s eyes. The printer was shown into a small waiting-room, where two men, one a postman and the other apparently a small tradesman, were seated. He could not help observing that they were both as harassed and miserable as he was himself. They looked at him with dull, lack-lustre eyes, but were too dispirited to talk, nor did he feel sufficient energy to break the silence.. Presently one of them and then the other was called out. Finally the footman came for him, and threw wide a door. “Mr. James Pomeroy,” cried the footman. At the end of a large music-room, which was further adorned by a billiards-table, was sitting a semicircle of young people, all very serious, and all with writing materials before them. None was above twenty-one years of age, and they were about equally divided as to sex. Among them were the two customers who had lured him to his doom. They both smiled at him most affectionately, in spite of his angry stare. “Pray sit down, Mr. Pomeroy,” said a very young man in evening dress, who acted as Chairman. “There are one or two questions which, as President of the R.S.B.Y.P., it is my duty to put to you. I believe that you have been somewhat alarmed by this incident of the Parish Magazine?” “Of course I have,” said Pomeroy, in a surly voice. “May I ask if your sleep has been affected?” “I have not closed my eyes since it happened.” There was a subdued murmur of applause, and several members leaned across to shake hands with Mr. Robert Anderson. “Did it affect your future plans?” “I had thought of leaving the town.” “Excellent! I think, fellow-members, that there is no doubt that the monthly gold medal should be awarded to Mr. Anderson and Miss Duncan for their very meritorious performance, which has been well conceived and cleverly carried out. To relieve your natural anxiety, we must tell you at once, Mr. Pomeroy, that you have been the victim of a joke.” “It’s likely to be a pretty costly one,” said the printer. “Not at all. No harm has been done. No leaflets have been sent out. The letters which have reached you emanate from ourselves. We are, Mr. Pomeroy, the Rotherheath Society of Bright Young People, who endeavour to make the world a merrier and more lively place by the exercise of our wit. Upon this occasion a prize was offered for whichever member or members could most effectually put the wind up some resident in this suburb. There have been several candidates, but on the whole the prize must be awarded as already said.” “But — but — it’s unjustifiable!” stammered Pomeroy. “Entirely,” said the Chairman, cheerfully. “I think that all our proceedings may come under that head. On the other hand, we remind our victims that they have unselfishly sacrificed themselves for the general hilarity of the community. A special silver medal, which I will now affix to your coat, will be your souvenir of the occasion.” “And I’ll speak to my father when he comes back,” said Anderson. “What I mean is, there is printing and what not to be done for the firm.” “And my father really edits the Parish Magazine. That’s what put it into our heads,” said Miss Duncan. “Maybe we can get you the printing after all.” “And there is whisky-and-soda on the sideboard, and a good cigar,” said the President. So Mr. Pomeroy eventually went out into the night, thinking that after all youth will be served, and it would be a dull world without it. THE END

THE CABMAN’S STORY The Mysteries of a London “Growler” We had to take a “growler,” for the day looked rather threatening and we agreed that it would be a very bad way of beginning our holiday by getting wet, especially when Fanny was only just coming round from the whooping cough. Holidays were rather scarce with us, and when we took one we generally arranged some little treat, and went in for enjoying ourselves. On this occasion we were starting off from Hammersmith to the Alexandra Palace in all the dignity of a four-wheeler. What with the wife and her sister, and Tommy and Fanny and Jack, the inside was pretty well filled up, so I had to look out for myself. I didn’t adopt the plan of John Gilpin under similar circumstances, but I took my waterproof and climbed up beside the driver. This driver was a knowing-looking old veteran, with a weather-beaten face and white side whiskers. It has always seemed to me that a London cabman is about the shrewdest of the human race, but this specimen struck me as looking like the shrewdest of the cabmen. I tried to draw him out a bit as we jogged along, for I am always fond of a chat; but he was a bit rusty until I oiled his tongue with glass of gin when we got as far as the “Green Anchor.” Then he rattled away quickly enough, and some of what he said is worth trying to put down in black and white. “Wouldn’t a hansom pay me better?” he said, in answer to a question of mine. “Why, of course it would. But look at the position! A four-wheeler’s a respectable conveyance, and the driver of it’s a respectable man, but you can’t say that of a rattling, splashing ‘ansom. Any boy would do for that job. Now, to my mind money hain’t to be compared to position, whatever a man’s trade may be.” “Certainly not!” I answered. “Besides, I’ve saved my little penny, and I’m got too old to change my ways. I’ve begun on a growler, and I’ll end on one. If you’ll believe me, sir, I’ve been on the streets for seven-and-forty year.” “That’s a long time,” I said. “Well, it’s long for our trade,” he replied. “You see, there ain’t no other in the world that takes the steam out of a man so quickly — what with wet and cold and late hours, and maybe no hours at all. There’s few that lasts at it as long as I have.” “You must have seen a deal of the world during that time,” I remarked. “There are few men who can have greater opportunities of seeing life.” “The world!” he grunted, flicking up the horse with his whip. “I’ve seen enough of it to be well-nigh sick of it. As to life, if you’d said death, you’d ha’ been nearer the mark.” “Death!” I ejaculated. “Yes, death,” he said. “Why, bless your soul, sir, if I was to write down all I’ve seen since I’ve been in the trade, there’s not a man in London would believe me, unless maybe some o’ the other cabbies. I tell ye I took a dead man for a fare once, and drove about with him nigh half the night. Oh, you needn’t look shocked, sir, for this wasn’t the cab — no, nor the last one I had neither.” “How did it happen?” I asked, feeling glad, in spite of his assurance, that Matilda had not heard of the episode. “Well, it’s an old story now,” said the driver, putting a small piece of very black tobacco into the corner of his mouth. “I daresay it’s twenty odd years since it happened, but it’s not the kind o’ thing as slips out of a man’s memory. It was very late one night, and I was working my hardest to pick up something good, for I’d made a poor day’s work of it. The theatres had all come out, and though I kept up and down the Strand till nigh one o’clock, I got nothing but one eighteenpenny job. I was thinking of giving it up and going home, when it struck me that I might as well make a bit of a circuit, and see if I couldn’t drop across something. Pretty soon I gave a gentleman a lift as far as the Oxford Road, and then I drove through St. John’s Wood on my way home. By that time it would be about half-past one, and the streets were quite quiet and deserted, for the night was cloudy and it was beginning to rain. I was putting on the pace as well as my tired beast would go, for we both wanted to get back to our suppers, when I heard a woman’s voice hail me out of a side street. I turned back, and there in about the darkest part of the road was standing two ladies — real ladies, mind you, for it would take a deal of darkness before I would mistake one for the other. One was elderly and stoutish; the other was young, and had a veil over her face. Between them there was a man in evening dress, whom they were supporting on each side, while his back was propped up against a lamp-post. He seemed beyond taking care of himself altogether, for his head was sunk down on his chest, and he’d have fallen if they hadn’t held him. “‘Cabman,’ said the stout lady, with a very shaky voice, ‘I wish you would help us in this painful business.’ Those were her very hidentical words. “‘Cert’nly, mum,’ I says for I saw my way to a good thing. ‘What can I do for the young lady and yourself?’ I mentioned the other in order to console her like, for she was sobbing behind her veil something pitiful. “‘The fact is, cabman,’ she answers, ‘this gentleman is my daughter’s husband. They have only just been married, and we are visiting at a friend’s house near here. My son-in-law has just returned in a state of complete intoxication, and my daughter and I have brought him out in the hope of seeing a cab in which we could send him home, for we have most particular reasons for not wishing our friends to see him in this state, and as yet they are ignorant of it. If you would drive him to his house and leave him there, you would do us both a very great kindness, and we can easily account to our hosts for his absence.’ “I thought this rather a rum start, but I agreed, and no sooner had I said the word than the old one she pulls open the door, and she and the other, without waiting for me to bear a hand, bundled him in between them. “‘Where to?’ I asked. “‘Forty-seven, Orange Grove, Clapham,’ she said. ‘Hoffman is the name. You’ll easily waken the servants.’ “‘And how about the fare?’ I suggested, for I thought maybe there might be a difficulty in collecting it at the end of the journey. “‘Here it is,’ said the young one, slipping what I felt to be a sovereign into my hand, and at the same time giving it a sort of a grateful squeeze, which made me feel as if I’d drive anywhere to get her out of trouble. “Well, off I went, leaving them standing by the side of the road. The horse was well-nigh beat, but at last I found my way to 47, Orange Grove. It was a biggish house, and all quiet, as you may suppose, at that hour. I rang the bell, and at last down came a servant — a man, he was. “‘I’ve got the master here,’ I said. “‘Got who?’ he asked. “‘Why Mr. Hoffman — your master. He’s in the cab, not quite himself. This is number forty-seven, ain’t it?’ “‘Yes, it’s forty-seven, right enough; but my master’s Captain Ritchie, and he’s away in India, so you’ve got the wrong house.’ “‘That was the number they gave me,’ I said, ‘But maybe he’s come to himself by this time, and can give us some information. He was dead drunk an hour ago.’ “Down we went to the cab, the two of us, and opened the door. He had slipped off the seat and was lying all in a heap on the floor. “‘Now, then, sir,’ I shouted. ‘Wake up and give us your address.’ “He didn’t answer. “I gave another shake. ‘Pull yourself together,’ I roared. ‘Give us your name, and tell us where you live.’ “He didn’t answer again. I couldn’t even hear the sound of breathing. Then a kind of queer feeling came over me, and I put down my hand and felt his face. It was as cold as lead. The cove’s dead, mate,’ I said. “The servant struck a match, and we had a look at my passenger. He was a young, good-looking fellow, but his face wore an expression of pain, and his jaw hung down. He was evidently not only dead, but had been dead some time. “‘What shall we do?’ said the flunkey. He was as white as death himself, and his hair bristled with fear. “‘I’ll drive to the nearest police station,’ I answered; and so I did, leaving him shivering on the pavement. There I gave up my fare, and that was the last I ever saw of him.” “Did you never hear any more of it?” I asked. “Hear! I thought I should never hear the end of it, what with examinations and inquests and one thing and another. The doctors proved that he must have been dead at the time he was shoved into the cab. Just before the inquest four little blue spots came out on one side of his neck, and one on the other, and they said only a woman’s hand could have fitted over them, so they brought in a verdict of willful murder; but, bless you, they had managed it so neatly that there was not a clue to the women, nor to the man either, for everything by which he might have been identified had been removed from his pockets. The police were fairly puzzled by that case. I’ve always thought what a bit o’ luck it was that I got my fare, for I wouldn’t have had much chance of it if it hadn’t been paid in advance.” My friend the driver began to get very husky about the throat at this stage of the proceedings, and slackened his speed very noticeably as we approached a large public-house, so that I felt constrained to offer him another gin, which he graciously accepted. The ladies had some wine, too, and I followed the example of my companion on the box, so that we all started refreshed. “The police and me’s been mixed up a good deal,” continued the veteran resuming his reminiscences: “They took the best customer I ever had away from me. I’d have made my fortin if they’d let him carry on his little game a while longer.” Here, with the coquetry of one who knows that his words are of interest, the driver began to look around him with an air of abstraction and to comment upon the weather. “Well, what about your customer and the police?” I asked. “It’s not much to tell,” he said, coming back to his subject. “One morning I was driving across Vauxhall Bridge when I was hailed by a crooked old man with a pair of spectacles on, who was standing at the Middlesex end, with a big leather bag in his hand. ‘Drive anywhere you like,’ he said; ‘only don’t drive fast for I’m getting old, and it shakes me to pieces.’ He jumped in, and shut himself up, closing the windows, and I trotted about with him for three hours, before he let me know that he had had enough. When I stopped, out he hopped with his big bag in his hand. “‘I say cabbie!’ he said, after he had paid his fare. “‘Yes, sir,’ said I, touching my hat. “‘You seem to be a decent sort of fellow, and you don’t go in the break-neck way of some of your kind. I don’t mind giving you the same job every day. The doctors recommend gentle exercise of the sort, and you may as well drive me as another. Just pick me up at the same place tomorrow.’ “Well, to make a long story short, I used to find the little man in his place every morning, always with his black bag, and for nigh on to four months never a day passed without his having his three hours’ drive and paying his fare like a man at the end of it. I shifted into new quarters on the strength of it, and was able to buy a new set of harness. I don’t say as I altogether swallowed the story of the doctors having recommended him on a hot day to go about in a growler with both windows up. However, it’s a bad thing in this world to be too knowing, so though I own I felt a bit curious at times, I never put myself out o’ the way to find out what the little game was. One day, I was driving tap to my usual place of dropping him — for by this time we had got into the way of going a regular beat every morning — when I saw a policeman waiting, with a perky sort of look about him, as if he had some job on hand. When the cab stopped out jumped the little man with his bag right into the arms of the ‘bobby.’ “‘I arrest you, John Malone,’ says the policeman. “‘On what charge?’ he answers as cool as a turnip. “‘On the charge of forging Bank of England notes,’ says the ‘bobby’. “‘Oh, then the game is up!’ he cries, and with that he pulls off his spectacles, and his wig and whiskers, and there he was, as smart a young fellow as you’d wish to see. “‘Good-bye, cabby,’ he cried, as they led him off, and that was the last I saw of him, marching along between two of them, and another behind with the bag.” “And why did he take a cab?” I asked, much interested. “Well, you see, he had all his plant for making the notes in that bag. If he were to lock himself up in his lodging several hours a day it would soon set people wondering, to say nothing of the chance of eyes at the window or key-hole. Again, you see, if he took a house all on his own hook, without servant nor anyone, it would look queer. So he made up his mind as the best way of working it was to carry it on in a closed cab, and I don’t know that he wasn’t right. He was known to the police however, and that was how they spotted him. Drat that van! It was as near as a touch to my off-wheel. “Bless you, if I was to tell you all the thieves and burglars, and even murderers, as have been in my growler one time or another, you’d think I’d given the whole Newgate Calendar a lift, though to be sure this young chap as I spoke of was the only one as ever reg’lar set up in business there. There was one though as I reckon to be worse than all the others put together, if he was what I think him to be. It’s often laid heavy on my mind that I didn’t have that chap collared before it was too late, for I might have saved some mischief. It was about ten years ago — I never was a good hand for dates — that I picked up a stout-built sailor-sort of fellow, with a reddish moustache, who wanted to be taken down to the docks. After this chap as I told you of had taken such liberties with the premises I’d had a little bit of a glass slit let in in front here — the same that your little boy’s flattening his nose against at this moment — so as I could prevent any such games in the future, and have an idea, whenever I wished, of what was going on inside. Well, something or another about this sailor fellow made me suspicious of him, and I took a look at what he was after. He was sitting on the seat, sir, with a big lump o’ coal in his lap, and was a looking at it most attentive. Now this seemed to me rather a rum start, so I kept on watching of him, for as you’ll see, my window’s not a very large one, and it’s easier to see through it than to be seen. Well, he pulls a spring or something, and out jumps one of the sides of this bit of coal, and then I saw it was really a hollow box, painted, you see, and made rough so as to look like the other. I couldn’t make head or tail of it anyhow, and indeed I’d pretty near forgot all about it when there came news of the explosion at Bemerhaven, and people began to talk about coal torpedoes. Then I knew as in all probability I’d carried the man who managed the business, and I gave word to the police, but they never could make anything of it. You know what a coal torpedo is, don’t you? Well, you see, a cove insures his ship for more than its value, and then off he goes and makes a box like a bit o’coal, and fills it chock full with dynamite, or some other cowardly stuff of the sort. He drops this box among the other coals on the quay when the vessel is filling her bunkers, and then in course of time box is shoveled on to the furnaces, when of course the whole ship is blown sky high. They say there’s many a good ship gone to the bottom like that.” “You’ve certainly had some queer experiences,” I said. “Why bless you!” remarked the driver, “I’ve hardly got fairly started yet, and here we are at the ‘Alexandry.’ I could tell you many another story as strange as these — and true, mind ye, true as Gospel. If ever your missus looks in need of a breath of fresh air you send round for me — Copper Street, number ninety-four — and I’ll give her a turn into the country, and if you’ll come up beside me on the box, I’ll tell you a good deal that may surprise you. But there’s your little lad a hollering to you like mad, and the wife wants to get out, and the other one’s a tapping at the window with a parasol. Take care how you get down, sir! That’s right! Don’t forget number ninety-four! Good-day missus! Good-day, sir!” And the growler rumbled heavily away until I lost sight both of it and of its communicative driver among the crowd of holiday-makers who thronged the road which led to the Palace.

The Short Stories Windlesham Manor, Crowborough — Conan Doyle’s home in later years

LIST OF SHORT STORIES IN CHRONOLOGICAL ORDER Please note: to retain the original structure of the story collections, some short stories appear more than once in the list. For the Sherlock Holmes short stories, click here. THE CAPTAIN OF THE “POLE-STAR.” F. HABAKUK JEPHSON’S STATEMENT. THE GREAT KEINPLATZ EXPERIMENT. THE MAN FROM ARCHANGEL. THAT LITTLE SQUARE BOX. JOHN HUXFORD’S HIATUS. CYPRIAN OVERBECK WELLS — A LITERARY MOSAIC. JOHN BARRINGTON COWLES. ELIAS B. HOPKINS, THE PARSON OF JACKMAN’S GULCH. THE BROWN HAND THE USHER OF LEA HOUSE SCHOOL B. 24 THE GREAT KEINPLATZ EXPERIMENT CYPRIAN OVERBECK WELLS A LITERARY MOSAIC PLAYING WITH FIRE THE RING OF THOTH THE LOS AMIGOS FIASCO HOW IT HAPPENED LOT NO. 249 DE PROFUNDIS THE LIFT ELIAS B. HOPKINS, THE PARSON OF JACKMAN’S GULCH. MY FRIEND THE MURDERER THE MAN FROM ARCHANGEL THAT LITTLE SQUARE BOX. THE AMERICAN’S TALE BONES. THE APRIL FOOL OF HARVEY’S SLUICE THE MYSTERY OF SASASSA VALLEY OUR DERBY SWEEPSTAKES SELECTING A GHOST. THE GHOSTS OF GORESTHORPE GRANGE THE GULLY OF BLUEMANSDYKE. THE PARSON OF JACKMAN’S GULCH. MY FRIEND THE MURDERER. THE SILVER HATCHET. THE MAN FROM ARCHANGEL. THAT LITTLE SQUARE BOX. A NIGHT AMONG THE NIHILISTS. BEHIND THE TIMES. HIS FIRST OPERATION. A STRAGGLER OF ‘15. THE THIRD GENERATION. A FALSE START. THE CURSE OF EVE. SWEETHEARTS. A PHYSIOLOGIST’S WIFE. THE CASE OF LADY SANNOX. A QUESTION OF DIPLOMACY. A MEDICAL DOCUMENT. LOT NO. 249. THE LOS AMIGOS FIASCO. THE DOCTORS OF HOYLAND. THE SURGEON TALKS. THE GREEN FLAG CAPTAIN SHARKEY. HOW THE GOVERNOR OF SAINT KITT’S CAME HOME. THE DEALINGS OF CAPTAIN SHARKEY WITH STEPHEN CRADDOCK HOW COPLEY BANKS SLEW CAPTAIN SHARKEY THE CROXLEY MASTER THE LORD OF CHATEAU NOIR THE STRIPED CHEST A SHADOW BEFORE THE KING OF THE FOXES THE THREE CORRESPONDENTS THE DEBUT OF BIMBASHI JOYCE A FOREIGN OFFICE ROMANCE HOW THE BRIGADIER CAME TO THE CASTLE OF GLOOM HOW THE BRIGADIER SLEW THE BROTHERS OF AJACCIO HOW THE BRIGADIER HELD THE KING HOW THE KING HELD THE BRIGADIER HOW THE BRIGADIER TOOK THE FIELD AGAINST THE MARSHAL MILLEFLEURS HOW THE BRIGADIER PLAYED FOR A KINGDOM HOW THE BRIGADIER WON HIS MEDAL HOW THE BRIGADIER WAS TEMPTED BY THE DEVIL HOW BRIGADIER GERARD LOST HIS EAR HOW THE BRIGADIER CAPTURED SARAGOSSA HOW THE BRIGADIER SLEW THE FOX [*] HOW THE BRIGADIER SAVED THE ARMY HOW THE BRIGADIER TRIUMPHED IN ENGLAND HOW THE BRIGADIER RODE TO MINSK HOW THE BRIGADIER BORE HIMSELF AT WATERLOO THE LAST ADVENTURE OF THE BRIGADIER THE MAN WITH THE WATCHES THE MAN WITH THE WATCHES THE BLACK DOCTOR THE JEW’S BREASTPLATE THE LOST SPECIAL THE CLUB-FOOTED GROCER THE SEALED ROOM THE BRAZILIAN CAT THE LAST OF THE LEGIONS THE LAST GALLEY THROUGH THE VEIL THE COMING OF THE HUNS THE CONTEST THE FIRST CARGO AN ICONOCLAST GIANT MAXIMIN THE RED STAR THE SILVER MIRROR THE HOME-COMING A POINT OF CONTACT THE CENTURION THE LAST GALLEY THE CONTEST. THROUGH THE VEIL. AN ICONOCLAST. GIANT MAXIMIN. THE COMING OF THE HUNS THE LAST OF THE LEGIONS THE FIRST CARGO THE HOME-COMING THE RED STAR THE SILVER MIRROR THE BLIGHTING OF SHARKEY THE MARRIAGE OF THE BRIGADIER THE LORD OF FALCONBRIDGE OUT OF THE RUNNING DE PROFUNDIS THE GREAT BROWN-PERICORD MOTOR THE TERROR OF BLUE JOHN GAP DANGER! BEING THE LOG OF CAPTAIN JOHN SIRIUS DANGER STORY II.  ONE CROWDED HOUR DANGER STORY III.  A POINT OF VIEW DANGER STORY IV.  THE FALL OF LORD BARRYMORE DANGER STORY V.  THE HORROR OF THE HEIGHTS (WHICH INCLUDES THE MANUSCRIPT KNOWN AS THE JOYCE-ARMSTRONG FRAGMENT) DANGER STORY VI.  BORROWED SCENES DANGER STORY VII.  THE SURGEON OF GASTER FELL DANGER STORY VIII.  HOW IT HAPPENED DANGER STORY IX.  THE PRISONER’S DEFENCE DANGER STORY X.  THREE OF THEM THE LEATHER FUNNEL THE NEW CATACOMB THE CASE OF LADY SANNOX TALES OF MYSTERY THE LOST SPECIAL THE BEETLE-HUNTER THE MAN WITH THE WATCHES THE JAPANNED BOX THE BLACK DOCTOR THE JEW’S BREASTPLATE TALES OF PIRATES CAPTAIN SHARKEY: HOW THE GOVERNOR OF SAINT KITT’S CAME HOME THE DEALINGS OF CAPTAIN SHARKEY WITH STEPHEN CRADDOCK THE BLIGHTING OF SHARKEY HOW COPLEY BANKS SLEW CAPTAIN SHARKEY THE “SLAPPING SAL” A PIRATE OF THE LAND: ONE CROWDED HOUR TALES OF BLUE WATER THE STRIPED CHEST THE CAPTAIN OF THE “POLESTAR” THE FIEND OF THE COOPERAGE JELLAND’S VOYAGE J. HABAKUK JEPHSON’S STATEMENT THAT LITTLE SQUARE BOX TALES OF ADVENTURE THE DÉBUT OF BIMBASHI JOYCE THE SURGEON OF GASTER FELL: HOW THE WOMAN CAME TO KIRKBY-MALHOUSE HOW I WENT FORTH TO GASTER FELL OF THE GREY COTTAGE IN THE GLEN OF THE MAN WHO CAME IN THE NIGHT BORROWED SCENES THE MAN FROM ARCHANGEL THE GREAT BROWN-PERICORD MOTOR THE SEALED ROOM TALES OF MEDICAL LIFE A PHYSIOLOGIST’S WIFE BEHIND THE TIMES HIS FIRST OPERATION THE THIRD GENERATION THE CURSE OF EVE A MEDICAL DOCUMENT THE SURGEON TALKS THE DOCTORS OF HOYLAND CRABBE’S PRACTICE THE PARISH MAGAZINE THE CABMAN’S STORY

LIST OF SHORT STORIES IN ALPHABETICAL ORDER Please note: to retain the original structure of the story collections, some short stories appear more than once in the list. For the Sherlock Holmes short stories, click here. A FALSE START. A FOREIGN OFFICE ROMANCE A LITERARY MOSAIC A MEDICAL DOCUMENT A MEDICAL DOCUMENT. A NIGHT AMONG THE NIHILISTS. A PHYSIOLOGIST’S WIFE A PHYSIOLOGIST’S WIFE. A PIRATE OF THE LAND: ONE CROWDED HOUR A POINT OF CONTACT A QUESTION OF DIPLOMACY. A SHADOW BEFORE A STRAGGLER OF ‘15. AN ICONOCLAST AN ICONOCLAST. B. 24 BEHIND THE TIMES BEHIND THE TIMES. BONES. THE APRIL FOOL OF HARVEY’S SLUICE BORROWED SCENES CAPTAIN SHARKEY. CAPTAIN SHARKEY: HOW THE GOVERNOR OF SAINT KITT’S CAME HOME CRABBE’S PRACTICE CYPRIAN OVERBECK WELLS CYPRIAN OVERBECK WELLS — A LITERARY MOSAIC. DANGER STORY II.  ONE CROWDED HOUR DANGER STORY III.  A POINT OF VIEW DANGER STORY IV.  THE FALL OF LORD BARRYMORE DANGER STORY IX.  THE PRISONER’S DEFENCE DANGER STORY V.  THE HORROR OF THE HEIGHTS (WHICH INCLUDES THE MANUSCRIPT KNOWN AS THE JOYCE-ARMSTRONG FRAGMENT) DANGER STORY VI.  BORROWED SCENES DANGER STORY VII.  THE SURGEON OF GASTER FELL DANGER STORY VIII.  HOW IT HAPPENED DANGER STORY X.  THREE OF THEM DANGER! BEING THE LOG OF CAPTAIN JOHN SIRIUS DE PROFUNDIS DE PROFUNDIS ELIAS B. HOPKINS, THE PARSON OF JACKMAN’S GULCH. ELIAS B. HOPKINS, THE PARSON OF JACKMAN’S GULCH. F. HABAKUK JEPHSON’S STATEMENT. GIANT MAXIMIN GIANT MAXIMIN. HIS FIRST OPERATION HIS FIRST OPERATION. HOW BRIGADIER GERARD LOST HIS EAR HOW COPLEY BANKS SLEW CAPTAIN SHARKEY HOW COPLEY BANKS SLEW CAPTAIN SHARKEY HOW I WENT FORTH TO GASTER FELL HOW IT HAPPENED HOW THE BRIGADIER BORE HIMSELF AT WATERLOO HOW THE BRIGADIER CAME TO THE CASTLE OF GLOOM HOW THE BRIGADIER CAPTURED SARAGOSSA HOW THE BRIGADIER HELD THE KING HOW THE BRIGADIER PLAYED FOR A KINGDOM HOW THE BRIGADIER RODE TO MINSK HOW THE BRIGADIER SAVED THE ARMY HOW THE BRIGADIER SLEW THE BROTHERS OF AJACCIO HOW THE BRIGADIER SLEW THE FOX [*] HOW THE BRIGADIER TOOK THE FIELD AGAINST THE MARSHAL MILLEFLEURS HOW THE BRIGADIER TRIUMPHED IN ENGLAND HOW THE BRIGADIER WAS TEMPTED BY THE DEVIL HOW THE BRIGADIER WON HIS MEDAL HOW THE GOVERNOR OF SAINT KITT’S CAME HOME. HOW THE KING HELD THE BRIGADIER J. HABAKUK JEPHSON’S STATEMENT JELLAND’S VOYAGE JOHN BARRINGTON COWLES. JOHN HUXFORD’S HIATUS. LOT NO. 249 LOT NO. 249. MY FRIEND THE MURDERER MY FRIEND THE MURDERER. OF THE GREY COTTAGE IN THE GLEN OF THE MAN WHO CAME IN THE NIGHT OUR DERBY SWEEPSTAKES OUT OF THE RUNNING PLAYING WITH FIRE SELECTING A GHOST. THE GHOSTS OF GORESTHORPE GRANGE SWEETHEARTS. TALES OF ADVENTURE TALES OF BLUE WATER TALES OF MEDICAL LIFE TALES OF MYSTERY TALES OF PIRATES THAT LITTLE SQUARE BOX THAT LITTLE SQUARE BOX. THAT LITTLE SQUARE BOX. THAT LITTLE SQUARE BOX. THE “SLAPPING SAL” THE AMERICAN’S TALE THE BEETLE-HUNTER THE BLACK DOCTOR THE BLACK DOCTOR THE BLIGHTING OF SHARKEY THE BLIGHTING OF SHARKEY THE BRAZILIAN CAT THE BROWN HAND THE CABMAN’S STORY THE CAPTAIN OF THE “POLE-STAR.” THE CAPTAIN OF THE “POLESTAR” THE CASE OF LADY SANNOX THE CASE OF LADY SANNOX. THE CENTURION THE CLUB-FOOTED GROCER THE COMING OF THE HUNS THE COMING OF THE HUNS THE CONTEST THE CONTEST. THE CROXLEY MASTER THE CURSE OF EVE THE CURSE OF EVE. THE DEALINGS OF CAPTAIN SHARKEY WITH STEPHEN CRADDOCK THE DEALINGS OF CAPTAIN SHARKEY WITH STEPHEN CRADDOCK THE DEBUT OF BIMBASHI JOYCE THE DÉBUT OF BIMBASHI JOYCE THE DOCTORS OF HOYLAND THE DOCTORS OF HOYLAND. THE FIEND OF THE COOPERAGE THE FIRST CARGO THE FIRST CARGO THE GREAT BROWN-PERICORD MOTOR THE GREAT BROWN-PERICORD MOTOR THE GREAT KEINPLATZ EXPERIMENT THE GREAT KEINPLATZ EXPERIMENT. THE GREEN FLAG THE GULLY OF BLUEMANSDYKE. THE HOME-COMING THE HOME-COMING THE JAPANNED BOX THE JEW’S BREASTPLATE THE JEW’S BREASTPLATE THE KING OF THE FOXES THE LAST ADVENTURE OF THE BRIGADIER THE LAST GALLEY THE LAST GALLEY THE LAST OF THE LEGIONS THE LAST OF THE LEGIONS THE LEATHER FUNNEL THE LIFT THE LORD OF CHATEAU NOIR THE LORD OF FALCONBRIDGE THE LOS AMIGOS FIASCO THE LOS AMIGOS FIASCO. THE LOST SPECIAL THE LOST SPECIAL THE MAN FROM ARCHANGEL THE MAN FROM ARCHANGEL THE MAN FROM ARCHANGEL. THE MAN FROM ARCHANGEL. THE MAN WITH THE WATCHES THE MAN WITH THE WATCHES THE MAN WITH THE WATCHES THE MARRIAGE OF THE BRIGADIER THE MYSTERY OF SASASSA VALLEY THE NEW CATACOMB THE PARISH MAGAZINE THE PARSON OF JACKMAN’S GULCH. THE RED STAR THE RED STAR THE RING OF THOTH THE SEALED ROOM THE SEALED ROOM THE SILVER HATCHET. THE SILVER MIRROR THE SILVER MIRROR THE STRIPED CHEST THE STRIPED CHEST THE SURGEON OF GASTER FELL: HOW THE WOMAN CAME TO KIRKBY-MALHOUSE THE SURGEON TALKS THE SURGEON TALKS. THE TERROR OF BLUE JOHN GAP THE THIRD GENERATION THE THIRD GENERATION. THE THREE CORRESPONDENTS THE USHER OF LEA HOUSE SCHOOL THROUGH THE VEIL THROUGH THE VEIL.

The Opera J.M Barrie, Conan Doyle’s friend and collaborator

JANE ANNIE, OR THE GOOD CONDUCT PRIZE This comic opera was written in 1893 by Barrie and Arthur Conan Doyle (of Sherlock Holmes fame), with music by Ernest Ford, a conductor and occasional composer.  When the Gilbert and Sullivan partnership disbanded after the production of The Gondoliers in 1889, impresario Richard D’Oyly Carte was forced to find new works to present at the Savoy Theatre. Barrie was then a journalist and a novelist with a few popular books to his credit. He had not yet created his classic Peter Pan, and his only stage productions included a biography that closed after one night, a parody of new-to-London Henrik Ibsen, and in 1892 his first real success, Walker, London for Toole’s Theatre.  Barrie brought his idea for Jane Annie to D’Oyly Carte, who suggested that Arthur Sullivan collaborate with him, but Sullivan suggested his former pupil Ford, instead. Ford had composed several operettas, including the one-act Mr. Jericho (premiered at the Savoy in 1893). Barrie did not finish the libretto, suffering a nervous breakdown. His friend Conan Doyle was already popular for his Sherlock Holmes mysteries and so he took on the job of finishing the opera.

UNCOLLECTED SHORT STORIES CONTENTS THE PARISH MAGAZINE THE CABMAN’S STORY

THE PARISH MAGAZINE It was six o’clock on a winter evening. Mr. Pomeroy, the printer, was on the point of leaving his office, which was his back room, for his home, which was his front room, when young Murphy entered. Murphy was an imperturbable youth with a fat face and sleepy eyes, who had the rare quality of always doing without question whatever he was told. It is usually a great virtue — but there are exceptions. “There are two folk to see you,” said Murphy, laying two cards upon the table. Mr. Pomeroy glanced at them. “Mr. Robert Anderson. Miss Julia Duncan. I don’t know the names. Well, show them in.” A long, sad-faced youth entered, accompanied by a mournful young lady, clad in black. Their appearance was respectable, but depressing. “I dare say you know this,” said the youth, holding up a small, grey-covered volume, the outer cover of which was ornamented with the picture of a church. “It’s the St. Olivia’s Church Magazine. What I mean, it’s the Parish Magazine. This lady and I are what you might call the editors. It has been printed by — —” “Elliot and Dark, in the City,” said the lady, as her companion seemed to stumble. “But they have suddenly closed down their works. We have the month’s issue all ready, but we want to add to it.” “A Supplement, if you get my meaning,” said the youth. “That’s the word — supplement. The thing has become too dam’ — —” “What he is trying to say,” cried the girl, “is that the magazine wants lighting up on the social side.” “That’s it,” said the youth. “Just a bit of ginger, so to speak. So we arranged a Supplement. We will put it in as a loose leaf, if you follow my meaning. It’s all typewritten and clear” — here he drew a folded paper from his pocket—”and it needs no reading or correcting. Just rush it through, five hundred copies, as quickly as you can do it.” “The issue is overdue,” said the lady. “We must have it out by midday to-morrow. They tell me Ferguson and Co. could easily have it ready in the time, and if you won’t guarantee it, we must take it to them.” “Absolutely,” said the youth. Mr. Pomeroy picked up the typed copy and glanced at it. His eyes fell upon the words, “Our beloved Vicar, Mr. Ffolliott-Sharp, B.A.” There was some allusion to a bishopric. Pomeroy threw the paper across to his assistant. “Get on with it!” he said. “We should like to pay at once,” said Miss Duncan, opening her bag. “Here is a five-pound note, and you can account for it afterwards. Of course, you don’t know us, and might not trust us.” “Well, if one did not trust the Parish Magazine—” said Pomeroy, smiling. “Absolutely,” cried the youth. “But what I mean is that we want to pay now. You’ll send the stuff round to me at 16 Colgrove Road. Got it? Not later than twelve. Rush it through. What?” “It shall be there,” said Pomeroy. The pair were leaving the room when the girl turned back. “Put your name as printer at the bottom,” she said. “It’s the law. Besides, you may get the printing of the Magazine in the future.” “Certainly. We always print our name.” The couple passed out, and hugged each other in the passage. “I think we put it across,” said he. “Marvellous!” said she. “That fiver was my idea.” “Incredible!” she cried. “We’ve got him.” “Absolutely!” said he, and they passed out into the night. The stolid Murphy wrought long and hard, and the Pomeroy Press was working till unconscionable hours. The assistant found the matter less dull than most which he handled, and a smile spread itself occasionally over his fat face. Surely some of this was rather unusual stuff. He had never read anything quite like it. However, “his not to reason why”. He had been well drilled to do exactly what he was told. The packet was ready next morning, and before twelve o’clock it had been duly dispatched to the house mentioned. Murphy carried it himself and was surprised to find their client waiting for it at the garden gate. It took some energy, apparently, to be the editor of a Parish Magazine. It was twenty-four hours before the bomb burst, which blew Mr. Pomeroy and his household into fragments. The first intimation of trouble was the following letter: “Sir, “We can hardly Imagine that you have read the contents of the so-called Supplement to the Parish Magazine which has been distributed to the members of the congregation of St. Olivia’s Church. If you had you would hardly have dared to make yourself responsible by putting your name to it. I need not say that you are likely to hear a good deal more of the matter. As to my teeth, I may say that they are remarkably sound, and that I have never been to a dentist in my life. “James Wilson “(Major).” There was a second letter upon the breakfast table. The dazed printer picked it up. It was in a feminine hand, and read thus: “Sir, “With regard to the infamous paragraph in the new issue of the Parish Magazine, I may say that if I have bought a new car it is no business of anyone else, and the remarks about my private affairs are most unkind and uncalled for. I understand that as you are the printer you are legally responsible. You will hear in the course of a few days from my legal advisers. “Yours faithfully, “Jane Peddigrew. “14, Elton Square.” “What the devil does it mean?” cried Pomeroy, staring wildly at his wife and daughter. “Murphy! Murphy!” His assistant entered from the office. “Have you a copy of that Supplement, which you printed for the Parish Magazine?” “Yes, sir. I delivered five hundred, but there are a few in the office.” “Bring it in! Bring it in! Quick!” Then Mr. Pomeroy began to read aloud, and apoplexy grew nearer and nearer. The document was headed Social Notes, and began with several dates and allusions to services which might give confidence to the superficial and rapid reader. Then it opened out in this way: “‘Our beloved Vicar (Mr. Ffolliott-Sharp, B.A.) is still busy trying to wangle a bishopric. This time he says in his breezy way that it is ‘a perfect sitter’, but we have our doubts. It is notorious that he has pulled strings in the past, and that the said strings broke. However, he has a cousin in the Lord Chancellor’s office, so there is always hope.’ “Gracious!” cried Pomeroy. “In the Parish Magazine too!” “‘In the last fortnight sixteen hymn books have disappeared from the church. There is no need for public scandal so if Mr. James Bagshaw, Junior, of 113 Lower Cheltenhan Place, will call upon the Churchwardens, all will be arranged.’ “That’s the son of old Bagshaw, of the bank,” cried Pomeroy, “What can they have been dreaming of? “‘The Vicar (the Rev. Ffolliott-Sharp, B.A.) would take this opportunity to beg the younger Miss Ormerod to desisist from her present tactics. Delicacy forbids the Vicar from saying what those tactics are. It is not necessary for a young lady to attend every service, and to push herself into the front pew, which is already owned (though not paid for) by the Dawson-Braggs family. The Vicar has asked us to send marked copies of this paragraph to Mrs. Deknar, Miss Featherstone, and Miss Poppy Crewe.’” Pomeroy wiped his forehead. “This is pretty awful!” said he. Then: “‘Some of these Sundays Major Wilson’s false teeth will drop into the collecting bag. Let him either get a new set, or else take off that smile when he walks round with the bag. With lips firmly compressed there is no reason why the present set may not last for years.’ “That’s where the answer comes in,” said Pomeroy, glancing at the open letter upon his table. “I expect he’ll be round with a stick presently. What’s this? “‘We don’t know if Miss Cissy Dufour and Captain Copperley are secretly married or not. If not, they should be. He could then enter Laburnum Villa instead of wearing out the garden gate by leaning on it!’ “Good heavens, listen to this one! ‘Mr. Malceby, the grocer, is back from Hythe. But why the bag of sand among his luggage? Surely sugar gives a sufficient profit at its present price. As we are on the subject, we cannot but remark upon the increased water rate paid last quarter by the Silverside Dairy Company. What do they do with all this water? The public has a right to know.’ “Good Lord, listen to this! ‘It is very wrong to say that our popular member, Sir James Tender, was drunk at the garden party of the Mayor. It is true that he tripped over his own leg when he tried to dance the tango, but that can fairly be attributed to his own obvious physical disabilities. As a matter of fact, several guests who only drank one glass of the Mayor’s champagne (natural 1928) were very ill in consequence, so that it is most unfair to put so uncharitable an interpretation upon our member’s faux pas.’ “That’s worth a thousand pounds in any Court,” groaned Porneroy. “My dear, Rothschild couldn’t stand the actions that this paper will bring on us.” The ladies of the family had shown a regrettable inclination to laugh, but his words made them properly solemn. He continued his reading. “‘Mrs. Peddigrew has started a six-cylinder which is listed at seven hundred and fifty pounds. How she does it nobody knows. Her late husband was a little rat of a man who did odd jobs down in the City. He could not have left so much. This matter wants looking into.’ “Why, he was the vice-chairman of the Baltic,” said Pomeroy. “These people are stark, staring mad. Listen to this. “‘Evensong will be at six-thirty. Yes, Mrs. Mould, at six-thirty sharp. And Mr. King will be on the left-hand seat well within view. We can count on your attendance. If you are not a pillar of the church, you are generally sneaking behind one!’ Oh, Lord, here’s another. “‘If Mr. Goldbury, of 7 Cheesman Place, will call at the Vicarage he will receive back the trouser-button which he put in the bag last Sunday. It is useless to the Vicar, whereas in its right place it might be most important to Mr. Goldbury!’ There’s no use laughing, you two. You won’t laugh when you see the lawyer’s letters. Listen to this. “‘“Prithee why so pale, fond lover? Prithee why so pale?” The question is addressed to William Briggs, our dentist friend of Hope Street. Has the lady in pink chiffon turned you down, or is it merely that you are behind with your rent, as usual? Cheer up, William. You have our best wishes.’ “Good gracious! They grow worse and worse. Just listen to this. “‘If any motorists get into trouble, my advice to them is to see Chief Constable Walton in his private room at the Town Hall. Cheques will, of course, not be received. But surely it is far better to pay a small sum across the table in ready cash — asking for no receipt — than to have the trouble and expense of proceedings in the Court.’ “My word, we shall have some proceedings in the Court before we are through. Here is a tit-bit which will keep the lawyers busy: ‘The Voyd-Merriman wedding was a most interesting affair and we wish the young couple every happiness. We say “young” out of courtesy, for it is an open secret that the bride will never see thirty-five again. The groom also is, we should say, getting rather long in the tooth. By the way, why did he start and look over his shoulder when the clergyman spoke of “any just cause or impediment”? No doubt it was perfectly harmless, but it gave rise to some ill-natured gossip. We had pleasure in attending the reception afterwards. There was a detective to guard the presents. We really think that his services could have been dispensed with, for they would never have been in danger. Major Wilson’s two brass napkin rings were the pick of the bunch. There was a cheque in an envelope from the bride’s father. We have heard what the exact figure was, and we quite appreciate the need for an envelope. However, it will pay for the cab to the station. It is understood that the happy couple will get as far as Margate for their honeymoon, and if the money holds out they may extend their travels to Ramsgate. Address: the Red Cow public house, near the Station.’ “Why, these are the richest people in Rotherheath,” said Pomeroy, wiping his forehead. “There is a lot more, but that is enough to settle our hash. I think we had best sell up for what we can get and clear out of the town. My gosh, those two folk must have got out of an asylum. Anyhow, my first job must be to see them. Maybe they are millionaires who can afford to pay for their little jokes.” His mission proved, however, to be fruitless. On inquiry at the address given he found that it was an empty house. The caretaker from next door knew nothing of the matter. It was clear now why the young man had waited at the gate for his parcel. What was Pomeroy to do next? Apparently he could only sit and wait for the arrival of the writs. However, it was a very different document which was handed in at his door two evenings later, It was headed “R.S.B.Y.P,” and ran thus: “A special meeting of the R.S.B.Y.P. will be held at 16 Stanmore Terrace, in the billiards-room of John Anderson, J.P., to-night at 9 p.m. The presence of Mr. James Pomeroy, printer, is urgently needed. The matter under discussion is his liability for certain scandalous statements recently printed in the Parish Magazine.” It may well be imagined that Mr. Pomeroy was punctual at the appointment. “Mr. Anderson is not at home himself,” said the footman, “but young Mr. Robert Anderson and his friends are receiving.” There was a humorous twinkle in the footman’s eyes. The printer was shown into a small waiting-room, where two men, one a postman and the other apparently a small tradesman, were seated. He could not help observing that they were both as harassed and miserable as he was himself. They looked at him with dull, lack-lustre eyes, but were too dispirited to talk, nor did he feel sufficient energy to break the silence.. Presently one of them and then the other was called out. Finally the footman came for him, and threw wide a door. “Mr. James Pomeroy,” cried the footman. At the end of a large music-room, which was further adorned by a billiards-table, was sitting a semicircle of young people, all very serious, and all with writing materials before them. None was above twenty-one years of age, and they were about equally divided as to sex. Among them were the two customers who had lured him to his doom. They both smiled at him most affectionately, in spite of his angry stare. “Pray sit down, Mr. Pomeroy,” said a very young man in evening dress, who acted as Chairman. “There are one or two questions which, as President of the R.S.B.Y.P., it is my duty to put to you. I believe that you have been somewhat alarmed by this incident of the Parish Magazine?” “Of course I have,” said Pomeroy, in a surly voice. “May I ask if your sleep has been affected?” “I have not closed my eyes since it happened.” There was a subdued murmur of applause, and several members leaned across to shake hands with Mr. Robert Anderson. “Did it affect your future plans?” “I had thought of leaving the town.” “Excellent! I think, fellow-members, that there is no doubt that the monthly gold medal should be awarded to Mr. Anderson and Miss Duncan for their very meritorious performance, which has been well conceived and cleverly carried out. To relieve your natural anxiety, we must tell you at once, Mr. Pomeroy, that you have been the victim of a joke.” “It’s likely to be a pretty costly one,” said the printer. “Not at all. No harm has been done. No leaflets have been sent out. The letters which have reached you emanate from ourselves. We are, Mr. Pomeroy, the Rotherheath Society of Bright Young People, who endeavour to make the world a merrier and more lively place by the exercise of our wit. Upon this occasion a prize was offered for whichever member or members could most effectually put the wind up some resident in this suburb. There have been several candidates, but on the whole the prize must be awarded as already said.” “But — but — it’s unjustifiable!” stammered Pomeroy. “Entirely,” said the Chairman, cheerfully. “I think that all our proceedings may come under that head. On the other hand, we remind our victims that they have unselfishly sacrificed themselves for the general hilarity of the community. A special silver medal, which I will now affix to your coat, will be your souvenir of the occasion.” “And I’ll speak to my father when he comes back,” said Anderson. “What I mean is, there is printing and what not to be done for the firm.” “And my father really edits the Parish Magazine. That’s what put it into our heads,” said Miss Duncan. “Maybe we can get you the printing after all.” “And there is whisky-and-soda on the sideboard, and a good cigar,” said the President. So Mr. Pomeroy eventually went out into the night, thinking that after all youth will be served, and it would be a dull world without it. THE END

THE CABMAN’S STORY The Mysteries of a London “Growler” We had to take a “growler,” for the day looked rather threatening and we agreed that it would be a very bad way of beginning our holiday by getting wet, especially when Fanny was only just coming round from the whooping cough. Holidays were rather scarce with us, and when we took one we generally arranged some little treat, and went in for enjoying ourselves. On this occasion we were starting off from Hammersmith to the Alexandra Palace in all the dignity of a four-wheeler. What with the wife and her sister, and Tommy and Fanny and Jack, the inside was pretty well filled up, so I had to look out for myself. I didn’t adopt the plan of John Gilpin under similar circumstances, but I took my waterproof and climbed up beside the driver. This driver was a knowing-looking old veteran, with a weather-beaten face and white side whiskers. It has always seemed to me that a London cabman is about the shrewdest of the human race, but this specimen struck me as looking like the shrewdest of the cabmen. I tried to draw him out a bit as we jogged along, for I am always fond of a chat; but he was a bit rusty until I oiled his tongue with glass of gin when we got as far as the “Green Anchor.” Then he rattled away quickly enough, and some of what he said is worth trying to put down in black and white. “Wouldn’t a hansom pay me better?” he said, in answer to a question of mine. “Why, of course it would. But look at the position! A four-wheeler’s a respectable conveyance, and the driver of it’s a respectable man, but you can’t say that of a rattling, splashing ‘ansom. Any boy would do for that job. Now, to my mind money hain’t to be compared to position, whatever a man’s trade may be.” “Certainly not!” I answered. “Besides, I’ve saved my little penny, and I’m got too old to change my ways. I’ve begun on a growler, and I’ll end on one. If you’ll believe me, sir, I’ve been on the streets for seven-and-forty year.” “That’s a long time,” I said. “Well, it’s long for our trade,” he replied. “You see, there ain’t no other in the world that takes the steam out of a man so quickly — what with wet and cold and late hours, and maybe no hours at all. There’s few that lasts at it as long as I have.” “You must have seen a deal of the world during that time,” I remarked. “There are few men who can have greater opportunities of seeing life.” “The world!” he grunted, flicking up the horse with his whip. “I’ve seen enough of it to be well-nigh sick of it. As to life, if you’d said death, you’d ha’ been nearer the mark.” “Death!” I ejaculated. “Yes, death,” he said. “Why, bless your soul, sir, if I was to write down all I’ve seen since I’ve been in the trade, there’s not a man in London would believe me, unless maybe some o’ the other cabbies. I tell ye I took a dead man for a fare once, and drove about with him nigh half the night. Oh, you needn’t look shocked, sir, for this wasn’t the cab — no, nor the last one I had neither.” “How did it happen?” I asked, feeling glad, in spite of his assurance, that Matilda had not heard of the episode. “Well, it’s an old story now,” said the driver, putting a small piece of very black tobacco into the corner of his mouth. “I daresay it’s twenty odd years since it happened, but it’s not the kind o’ thing as slips out of a man’s memory. It was very late one night, and I was working my hardest to pick up something good, for I’d made a poor day’s work of it. The theatres had all come out, and though I kept up and down the Strand till nigh one o’clock, I got nothing but one eighteenpenny job. I was thinking of giving it up and going home, when it struck me that I might as well make a bit of a circuit, and see if I couldn’t drop across something. Pretty soon I gave a gentleman a lift as far as the Oxford Road, and then I drove through St. John’s Wood on my way home. By that time it would be about half-past one, and the streets were quite quiet and deserted, for the night was cloudy and it was beginning to rain. I was putting on the pace as well as my tired beast would go, for we both wanted to get back to our suppers, when I heard a woman’s voice hail me out of a side street. I turned back, and there in about the darkest part of the road was standing two ladies — real ladies, mind you, for it would take a deal of darkness before I would mistake one for the other. One was elderly and stoutish; the other was young, and had a veil over her face. Between them there was a man in evening dress, whom they were supporting on each side, while his back was propped up against a lamp-post. He seemed beyond taking care of himself altogether, for his head was sunk down on his chest, and he’d have fallen if they hadn’t held him. “‘Cabman,’ said the stout lady, with a very shaky voice, ‘I wish you would help us in this painful business.’ Those were her very hidentical words. “‘Cert’nly, mum,’ I says for I saw my way to a good thing. ‘What can I do for the young lady and yourself?’ I mentioned the other in order to console her like, for she was sobbing behind her veil something pitiful. “‘The fact is, cabman,’ she answers, ‘this gentleman is my daughter’s husband. They have only just been married, and we are visiting at a friend’s house near here. My son-in-law has just returned in a state of complete intoxication, and my daughter and I have brought him out in the hope of seeing a cab in which we could send him home, for we have most particular reasons for not wishing our friends to see him in this state, and as yet they are ignorant of it. If you would drive him to his house and leave him there, you would do us both a very great kindness, and we can easily account to our hosts for his absence.’ “I thought this rather a rum start, but I agreed, and no sooner had I said the word than the old one she pulls open the door, and she and the other, without waiting for me to bear a hand, bundled him in between them. “‘Where to?’ I asked. “‘Forty-seven, Orange Grove, Clapham,’ she said. ‘Hoffman is the name. You’ll easily waken the servants.’ “‘And how about the fare?’ I suggested, for I thought maybe there might be a difficulty in collecting it at the end of the journey. “‘Here it is,’ said the young one, slipping what I felt to be a sovereign into my hand, and at the same time giving it a sort of a grateful squeeze, which made me feel as if I’d drive anywhere to get her out of trouble. “Well, off I went, leaving them standing by the side of the road. The horse was well-nigh beat, but at last I found my way to 47, Orange Grove. It was a biggish house, and all quiet, as you may suppose, at that hour. I rang the bell, and at last down came a servant — a man, he was. “‘I’ve got the master here,’ I said. “‘Got who?’ he asked. “‘Why Mr. Hoffman — your master. He’s in the cab, not quite himself. This is number forty-seven, ain’t it?’ “‘Yes, it’s forty-seven, right enough; but my master’s Captain Ritchie, and he’s away in India, so you’ve got the wrong house.’ “‘That was the number they gave me,’ I said, ‘But maybe he’s come to himself by this time, and can give us some information. He was dead drunk an hour ago.’ “Down we went to the cab, the two of us, and opened the door. He had slipped off the seat and was lying all in a heap on the floor. “‘Now, then, sir,’ I shouted. ‘Wake up and give us your address.’ “He didn’t answer. “I gave another shake. ‘Pull yourself together,’ I roared. ‘Give us your name, and tell us where you live.’ “He didn’t answer again. I couldn’t even hear the sound of breathing. Then a kind of queer feeling came over me, and I put down my hand and felt his face. It was as cold as lead. The cove’s dead, mate,’ I said. “The servant struck a match, and we had a look at my passenger. He was a young, good-looking fellow, but his face wore an expression of pain, and his jaw hung down. He was evidently not only dead, but had been dead some time. “‘What shall we do?’ said the flunkey. He was as white as death himself, and his hair bristled with fear. “‘I’ll drive to the nearest police station,’ I answered; and so I did, leaving him shivering on the pavement. There I gave up my fare, and that was the last I ever saw of him.” “Did you never hear any more of it?” I asked. “Hear! I thought I should never hear the end of it, what with examinations and inquests and one thing and another. The doctors proved that he must have been dead at the time he was shoved into the cab. Just before the inquest four little blue spots came out on one side of his neck, and one on the other, and they said only a woman’s hand could have fitted over them, so they brought in a verdict of willful murder; but, bless you, they had managed it so neatly that there was not a clue to the women, nor to the man either, for everything by which he might have been identified had been removed from his pockets. The police were fairly puzzled by that case. I’ve always thought what a bit o’ luck it was that I got my fare, for I wouldn’t have had much chance of it if it hadn’t been paid in advance.” My friend the driver began to get very husky about the throat at this stage of the proceedings, and slackened his speed very noticeably as we approached a large public-house, so that I felt constrained to offer him another gin, which he graciously accepted. The ladies had some wine, too, and I followed the example of my companion on the box, so that we all started refreshed. “The police and me’s been mixed up a good deal,” continued the veteran resuming his reminiscences: “They took the best customer I ever had away from me. I’d have made my fortin if they’d let him carry on his little game a while longer.” Here, with the coquetry of one who knows that his words are of interest, the driver began to look around him with an air of abstraction and to comment upon the weather. “Well, what about your customer and the police?” I asked. “It’s not much to tell,” he said, coming back to his subject. “One morning I was driving across Vauxhall Bridge when I was hailed by a crooked old man with a pair of spectacles on, who was standing at the Middlesex end, with a big leather bag in his hand. ‘Drive anywhere you like,’ he said; ‘only don’t drive fast for I’m getting old, and it shakes me to pieces.’ He jumped in, and shut himself up, closing the windows, and I trotted about with him for three hours, before he let me know that he had had enough. When I stopped, out he hopped with his big bag in his hand. “‘I say cabbie!’ he said, after he had paid his fare. “‘Yes, sir,’ said I, touching my hat. “‘You seem to be a decent sort of fellow, and you don’t go in the break-neck way of some of your kind. I don’t mind giving you the same job every day. The doctors recommend gentle exercise of the sort, and you may as well drive me as another. Just pick me up at the same place tomorrow.’ “Well, to make a long story short, I used to find the little man in his place every morning, always with his black bag, and for nigh on to four months never a day passed without his having his three hours’ drive and paying his fare like a man at the end of it. I shifted into new quarters on the strength of it, and was able to buy a new set of harness. I don’t say as I altogether swallowed the story of the doctors having recommended him on a hot day to go about in a growler with both windows up. However, it’s a bad thing in this world to be too knowing, so though I own I felt a bit curious at times, I never put myself out o’ the way to find out what the little game was. One day, I was driving tap to my usual place of dropping him — for by this time we had got into the way of going a regular beat every morning — when I saw a policeman waiting, with a perky sort of look about him, as if he had some job on hand. When the cab stopped out jumped the little man with his bag right into the arms of the ‘bobby.’ “‘I arrest you, John Malone,’ says the policeman. “‘On what charge?’ he answers as cool as a turnip. “‘On the charge of forging Bank of England notes,’ says the ‘bobby’. “‘Oh, then the game is up!’ he cries, and with that he pulls off his spectacles, and his wig and whiskers, and there he was, as smart a young fellow as you’d wish to see. “‘Good-bye, cabby,’ he cried, as they led him off, and that was the last I saw of him, marching along between two of them, and another behind with the bag.” “And why did he take a cab?” I asked, much interested. “Well, you see, he had all his plant for making the notes in that bag. If he were to lock himself up in his lodging several hours a day it would soon set people wondering, to say nothing of the chance of eyes at the window or key-hole. Again, you see, if he took a house all on his own hook, without servant nor anyone, it would look queer. So he made up his mind as the best way of working it was to carry it on in a closed cab, and I don’t know that he wasn’t right. He was known to the police however, and that was how they spotted him. Drat that van! It was as near as a touch to my off-wheel. “Bless you, if I was to tell you all the thieves and burglars, and even murderers, as have been in my growler one time or another, you’d think I’d given the whole Newgate Calendar a lift, though to be sure this young chap as I spoke of was the only one as ever reg’lar set up in business there. There was one though as I reckon to be worse than all the others put together, if he was what I think him to be. It’s often laid heavy on my mind that I didn’t have that chap collared before it was too late, for I might have saved some mischief. It was about ten years ago — I never was a good hand for dates — that I picked up a stout-built sailor-sort of fellow, with a reddish moustache, who wanted to be taken down to the docks. After this chap as I told you of had taken such liberties with the premises I’d had a little bit of a glass slit let in in front here — the same that your little boy’s flattening his nose against at this moment — so as I could prevent any such games in the future, and have an idea, whenever I wished, of what was going on inside. Well, something or another about this sailor fellow made me suspicious of him, and I took a look at what he was after. He was sitting on the seat, sir, with a big lump o’ coal in his lap, and was a looking at it most attentive. Now this seemed to me rather a rum start, so I kept on watching of him, for as you’ll see, my window’s not a very large one, and it’s easier to see through it than to be seen. Well, he pulls a spring or something, and out jumps one of the sides of this bit of coal, and then I saw it was really a hollow box, painted, you see, and made rough so as to look like the other. I couldn’t make head or tail of it anyhow, and indeed I’d pretty near forgot all about it when there came news of the explosion at Bemerhaven, and people began to talk about coal torpedoes. Then I knew as in all probability I’d carried the man who managed the business, and I gave word to the police, but they never could make anything of it. You know what a coal torpedo is, don’t you? Well, you see, a cove insures his ship for more than its value, and then off he goes and makes a box like a bit o’coal, and fills it chock full with dynamite, or some other cowardly stuff of the sort. He drops this box among the other coals on the quay when the vessel is filling her bunkers, and then in course of time box is shoveled on to the furnaces, when of course the whole ship is blown sky high. They say there’s many a good ship gone to the bottom like that.” “You’ve certainly had some queer experiences,” I said. “Why bless you!” remarked the driver, “I’ve hardly got fairly started yet, and here we are at the ‘Alexandry.’ I could tell you many another story as strange as these — and true, mind ye, true as Gospel. If ever your missus looks in need of a breath of fresh air you send round for me — Copper Street, number ninety-four — and I’ll give her a turn into the country, and if you’ll come up beside me on the box, I’ll tell you a good deal that may surprise you. But there’s your little lad a hollering to you like mad, and the wife wants to get out, and the other one’s a tapping at the window with a parasol. Take care how you get down, sir! That’s right! Don’t forget number ninety-four! Good-day missus! Good-day, sir!” And the growler rumbled heavily away until I lost sight both of it and of its communicative driver among the crowd of holiday-makers who thronged the road which led to the Palace.

The Short Stories Windlesham Manor, Crowborough — Conan Doyle’s home in later years

LIST OF SHORT STORIES IN CHRONOLOGICAL ORDER Please note: to retain the original structure of the story collections, some short stories appear more than once in the list. For the Sherlock Holmes short stories, click here. THE CAPTAIN OF THE “POLE-STAR.” F. HABAKUK JEPHSON’S STATEMENT. THE GREAT KEINPLATZ EXPERIMENT. THE MAN FROM ARCHANGEL. THAT LITTLE SQUARE BOX. JOHN HUXFORD’S HIATUS. CYPRIAN OVERBECK WELLS — A LITERARY MOSAIC. JOHN BARRINGTON COWLES. ELIAS B. HOPKINS, THE PARSON OF JACKMAN’S GULCH. THE BROWN HAND THE USHER OF LEA HOUSE SCHOOL B. 24 THE GREAT KEINPLATZ EXPERIMENT CYPRIAN OVERBECK WELLS A LITERARY MOSAIC PLAYING WITH FIRE THE RING OF THOTH THE LOS AMIGOS FIASCO HOW IT HAPPENED LOT NO. 249 DE PROFUNDIS THE LIFT ELIAS B. HOPKINS, THE PARSON OF JACKMAN’S GULCH. MY FRIEND THE MURDERER THE MAN FROM ARCHANGEL THAT LITTLE SQUARE BOX. THE AMERICAN’S TALE BONES. THE APRIL FOOL OF HARVEY’S SLUICE THE MYSTERY OF SASASSA VALLEY OUR DERBY SWEEPSTAKES SELECTING A GHOST. THE GHOSTS OF GORESTHORPE GRANGE THE GULLY OF BLUEMANSDYKE. THE PARSON OF JACKMAN’S GULCH. MY FRIEND THE MURDERER. THE SILVER HATCHET. THE MAN FROM ARCHANGEL. THAT LITTLE SQUARE BOX. A NIGHT AMONG THE NIHILISTS. BEHIND THE TIMES. HIS FIRST OPERATION. A STRAGGLER OF ‘15. THE THIRD GENERATION. A FALSE START. THE CURSE OF EVE. SWEETHEARTS. A PHYSIOLOGIST’S WIFE. THE CASE OF LADY SANNOX. A QUESTION OF DIPLOMACY. A MEDICAL DOCUMENT. LOT NO. 249. THE LOS AMIGOS FIASCO. THE DOCTORS OF HOYLAND. THE SURGEON TALKS. THE GREEN FLAG CAPTAIN SHARKEY. HOW THE GOVERNOR OF SAINT KITT’S CAME HOME. THE DEALINGS OF CAPTAIN SHARKEY WITH STEPHEN CRADDOCK HOW COPLEY BANKS SLEW CAPTAIN SHARKEY THE CROXLEY MASTER THE LORD OF CHATEAU NOIR THE STRIPED CHEST A SHADOW BEFORE THE KING OF THE FOXES THE THREE CORRESPONDENTS THE DEBUT OF BIMBASHI JOYCE A FOREIGN OFFICE ROMANCE HOW THE BRIGADIER CAME TO THE CASTLE OF GLOOM HOW THE BRIGADIER SLEW THE BROTHERS OF AJACCIO HOW THE BRIGADIER HELD THE KING HOW THE KING HELD THE BRIGADIER HOW THE BRIGADIER TOOK THE FIELD AGAINST THE MARSHAL MILLEFLEURS HOW THE BRIGADIER PLAYED FOR A KINGDOM HOW THE BRIGADIER WON HIS MEDAL HOW THE BRIGADIER WAS TEMPTED BY THE DEVIL HOW BRIGADIER GERARD LOST HIS EAR HOW THE BRIGADIER CAPTURED SARAGOSSA HOW THE BRIGADIER SLEW THE FOX [*] HOW THE BRIGADIER SAVED THE ARMY HOW THE BRIGADIER TRIUMPHED IN ENGLAND HOW THE BRIGADIER RODE TO MINSK HOW THE BRIGADIER BORE HIMSELF AT WATERLOO THE LAST ADVENTURE OF THE BRIGADIER THE MAN WITH THE WATCHES THE MAN WITH THE WATCHES THE BLACK DOCTOR THE JEW’S BREASTPLATE THE LOST SPECIAL THE CLUB-FOOTED GROCER THE SEALED ROOM THE BRAZILIAN CAT THE LAST OF THE LEGIONS THE LAST GALLEY THROUGH THE VEIL THE COMING OF THE HUNS THE CONTEST THE FIRST CARGO AN ICONOCLAST GIANT MAXIMIN THE RED STAR THE SILVER MIRROR THE HOME-COMING A POINT OF CONTACT THE CENTURION THE LAST GALLEY THE CONTEST. THROUGH THE VEIL. AN ICONOCLAST. GIANT MAXIMIN. THE COMING OF THE HUNS THE LAST OF THE LEGIONS THE FIRST CARGO THE HOME-COMING THE RED STAR THE SILVER MIRROR THE BLIGHTING OF SHARKEY THE MARRIAGE OF THE BRIGADIER THE LORD OF FALCONBRIDGE OUT OF THE RUNNING DE PROFUNDIS THE GREAT BROWN-PERICORD MOTOR THE TERROR OF BLUE JOHN GAP DANGER! BEING THE LOG OF CAPTAIN JOHN SIRIUS DANGER STORY II.  ONE CROWDED HOUR DANGER STORY III.  A POINT OF VIEW DANGER STORY IV.  THE FALL OF LORD BARRYMORE DANGER STORY V.  THE HORROR OF THE HEIGHTS (WHICH INCLUDES THE MANUSCRIPT KNOWN AS THE JOYCE-ARMSTRONG FRAGMENT) DANGER STORY VI.  BORROWED SCENES DANGER STORY VII.  THE SURGEON OF GASTER FELL DANGER STORY VIII.  HOW IT HAPPENED DANGER STORY IX.  THE PRISONER’S DEFENCE DANGER STORY X.  THREE OF THEM THE LEATHER FUNNEL THE NEW CATACOMB THE CASE OF LADY SANNOX TALES OF MYSTERY THE LOST SPECIAL THE BEETLE-HUNTER THE MAN WITH THE WATCHES THE JAPANNED BOX THE BLACK DOCTOR THE JEW’S BREASTPLATE TALES OF PIRATES CAPTAIN SHARKEY: HOW THE GOVERNOR OF SAINT KITT’S CAME HOME THE DEALINGS OF CAPTAIN SHARKEY WITH STEPHEN CRADDOCK THE BLIGHTING OF SHARKEY HOW COPLEY BANKS SLEW CAPTAIN SHARKEY THE “SLAPPING SAL” A PIRATE OF THE LAND: ONE CROWDED HOUR TALES OF BLUE WATER THE STRIPED CHEST THE CAPTAIN OF THE “POLESTAR” THE FIEND OF THE COOPERAGE JELLAND’S VOYAGE J. HABAKUK JEPHSON’S STATEMENT THAT LITTLE SQUARE BOX TALES OF ADVENTURE THE DÉBUT OF BIMBASHI JOYCE THE SURGEON OF GASTER FELL: HOW THE WOMAN CAME TO KIRKBY-MALHOUSE HOW I WENT FORTH TO GASTER FELL OF THE GREY COTTAGE IN THE GLEN OF THE MAN WHO CAME IN THE NIGHT BORROWED SCENES THE MAN FROM ARCHANGEL THE GREAT BROWN-PERICORD MOTOR THE SEALED ROOM TALES OF MEDICAL LIFE A PHYSIOLOGIST’S WIFE BEHIND THE TIMES HIS FIRST OPERATION THE THIRD GENERATION THE CURSE OF EVE A MEDICAL DOCUMENT THE SURGEON TALKS THE DOCTORS OF HOYLAND CRABBE’S PRACTICE THE PARISH MAGAZINE THE CABMAN’S STORY

LIST OF SHORT STORIES IN ALPHABETICAL ORDER Please note: to retain the original structure of the story collections, some short stories appear more than once in the list. For the Sherlock Holmes short stories, click here. A FALSE START. A FOREIGN OFFICE ROMANCE A LITERARY MOSAIC A MEDICAL DOCUMENT A MEDICAL DOCUMENT. A NIGHT AMONG THE NIHILISTS. A PHYSIOLOGIST’S WIFE A PHYSIOLOGIST’S WIFE. A PIRATE OF THE LAND: ONE CROWDED HOUR A POINT OF CONTACT A QUESTION OF DIPLOMACY. A SHADOW BEFORE A STRAGGLER OF ‘15. AN ICONOCLAST AN ICONOCLAST. B. 24 BEHIND THE TIMES BEHIND THE TIMES. BONES. THE APRIL FOOL OF HARVEY’S SLUICE BORROWED SCENES CAPTAIN SHARKEY. CAPTAIN SHARKEY: HOW THE GOVERNOR OF SAINT KITT’S CAME HOME CRABBE’S PRACTICE CYPRIAN OVERBECK WELLS CYPRIAN OVERBECK WELLS — A LITERARY MOSAIC. DANGER STORY II.  ONE CROWDED HOUR DANGER STORY III.  A POINT OF VIEW DANGER STORY IV.  THE FALL OF LORD BARRYMORE DANGER STORY IX.  THE PRISONER’S DEFENCE DANGER STORY V.  THE HORROR OF THE HEIGHTS (WHICH INCLUDES THE MANUSCRIPT KNOWN AS THE JOYCE-ARMSTRONG FRAGMENT) DANGER STORY VI.  BORROWED SCENES DANGER STORY VII.  THE SURGEON OF GASTER FELL DANGER STORY VIII.  HOW IT HAPPENED DANGER STORY X.  THREE OF THEM DANGER! BEING THE LOG OF CAPTAIN JOHN SIRIUS DE PROFUNDIS DE PROFUNDIS ELIAS B. HOPKINS, THE PARSON OF JACKMAN’S GULCH. ELIAS B. HOPKINS, THE PARSON OF JACKMAN’S GULCH. F. HABAKUK JEPHSON’S STATEMENT. GIANT MAXIMIN GIANT MAXIMIN. HIS FIRST OPERATION HIS FIRST OPERATION. HOW BRIGADIER GERARD LOST HIS EAR HOW COPLEY BANKS SLEW CAPTAIN SHARKEY HOW COPLEY BANKS SLEW CAPTAIN SHARKEY HOW I WENT FORTH TO GASTER FELL HOW IT HAPPENED HOW THE BRIGADIER BORE HIMSELF AT WATERLOO HOW THE BRIGADIER CAME TO THE CASTLE OF GLOOM HOW THE BRIGADIER CAPTURED SARAGOSSA HOW THE BRIGADIER HELD THE KING HOW THE BRIGADIER PLAYED FOR A KINGDOM HOW THE BRIGADIER RODE TO MINSK HOW THE BRIGADIER SAVED THE ARMY HOW THE BRIGADIER SLEW THE BROTHERS OF AJACCIO HOW THE BRIGADIER SLEW THE FOX [*] HOW THE BRIGADIER TOOK THE FIELD AGAINST THE MARSHAL MILLEFLEURS HOW THE BRIGADIER TRIUMPHED IN ENGLAND HOW THE BRIGADIER WAS TEMPTED BY THE DEVIL HOW THE BRIGADIER WON HIS MEDAL HOW THE GOVERNOR OF SAINT KITT’S CAME HOME. HOW THE KING HELD THE BRIGADIER J. HABAKUK JEPHSON’S STATEMENT JELLAND’S VOYAGE JOHN BARRINGTON COWLES. JOHN HUXFORD’S HIATUS. LOT NO. 249 LOT NO. 249. MY FRIEND THE MURDERER MY FRIEND THE MURDERER. OF THE GREY COTTAGE IN THE GLEN OF THE MAN WHO CAME IN THE NIGHT OUR DERBY SWEEPSTAKES OUT OF THE RUNNING PLAYING WITH FIRE SELECTING A GHOST. THE GHOSTS OF GORESTHORPE GRANGE SWEETHEARTS. TALES OF ADVENTURE TALES OF BLUE WATER TALES OF MEDICAL LIFE TALES OF MYSTERY TALES OF PIRATES THAT LITTLE SQUARE BOX THAT LITTLE SQUARE BOX. THAT LITTLE SQUARE BOX. THAT LITTLE SQUARE BOX. THE “SLAPPING SAL” THE AMERICAN’S TALE THE BEETLE-HUNTER THE BLACK DOCTOR THE BLACK DOCTOR THE BLIGHTING OF SHARKEY THE BLIGHTING OF SHARKEY THE BRAZILIAN CAT THE BROWN HAND THE CABMAN’S STORY THE CAPTAIN OF THE “POLE-STAR.” THE CAPTAIN OF THE “POLESTAR” THE CASE OF LADY SANNOX THE CASE OF LADY SANNOX. THE CENTURION THE CLUB-FOOTED GROCER THE COMING OF THE HUNS THE COMING OF THE HUNS THE CONTEST THE CONTEST. THE CROXLEY MASTER THE CURSE OF EVE THE CURSE OF EVE. THE DEALINGS OF CAPTAIN SHARKEY WITH STEPHEN CRADDOCK THE DEALINGS OF CAPTAIN SHARKEY WITH STEPHEN CRADDOCK THE DEBUT OF BIMBASHI JOYCE THE DÉBUT OF BIMBASHI JOYCE THE DOCTORS OF HOYLAND THE DOCTORS OF HOYLAND. THE FIEND OF THE COOPERAGE THE FIRST CARGO THE FIRST CARGO THE GREAT BROWN-PERICORD MOTOR THE GREAT BROWN-PERICORD MOTOR THE GREAT KEINPLATZ EXPERIMENT THE GREAT KEINPLATZ EXPERIMENT. THE GREEN FLAG THE GULLY OF BLUEMANSDYKE. THE HOME-COMING THE HOME-COMING THE JAPANNED BOX THE JEW’S BREASTPLATE THE JEW’S BREASTPLATE THE KING OF THE FOXES THE LAST ADVENTURE OF THE BRIGADIER THE LAST GALLEY THE LAST GALLEY THE LAST OF THE LEGIONS THE LAST OF THE LEGIONS THE LEATHER FUNNEL THE LIFT THE LORD OF CHATEAU NOIR THE LORD OF FALCONBRIDGE THE LOS AMIGOS FIASCO THE LOS AMIGOS FIASCO. THE LOST SPECIAL THE LOST SPECIAL THE MAN FROM ARCHANGEL THE MAN FROM ARCHANGEL THE MAN FROM ARCHANGEL. THE MAN FROM ARCHANGEL. THE MAN WITH THE WATCHES THE MAN WITH THE WATCHES THE MAN WITH THE WATCHES THE MARRIAGE OF THE BRIGADIER THE MYSTERY OF SASASSA VALLEY THE NEW CATACOMB THE PARISH MAGAZINE THE PARSON OF JACKMAN’S GULCH. THE RED STAR THE RED STAR THE RING OF THOTH THE SEALED ROOM THE SEALED ROOM THE SILVER HATCHET. THE SILVER MIRROR THE SILVER MIRROR THE STRIPED CHEST THE STRIPED CHEST THE SURGEON OF GASTER FELL: HOW THE WOMAN CAME TO KIRKBY-MALHOUSE THE SURGEON TALKS THE SURGEON TALKS. THE TERROR OF BLUE JOHN GAP THE THIRD GENERATION THE THIRD GENERATION. THE THREE CORRESPONDENTS THE USHER OF LEA HOUSE SCHOOL THROUGH THE VEIL THROUGH THE VEIL.

The Opera J.M Barrie, Conan Doyle’s friend and collaborator

JANE ANNIE, OR THE GOOD CONDUCT PRIZE This comic opera was written in 1893 by Barrie and Arthur Conan Doyle (of Sherlock Holmes fame), with music by Ernest Ford, a conductor and occasional composer.  When the Gilbert and Sullivan partnership disbanded after the production of The Gondoliers in 1889, impresario Richard D’Oyly Carte was forced to find new works to present at the Savoy Theatre. Barrie was then a journalist and a novelist with a few popular books to his credit. He had not yet created his classic Peter Pan, and his only stage productions included a biography that closed after one night, a parody of new-to-London Henrik Ibsen, and in 1892 his first real success, Walker, London for Toole’s Theatre.  Barrie brought his idea for Jane Annie to D’Oyly Carte, who suggested that Arthur Sullivan collaborate with him, but Sullivan suggested his former pupil Ford, instead. Ford had composed several operettas, including the one-act Mr. Jericho (premiered at the Savoy in 1893). Barrie did not finish the libretto, suffering a nervous breakdown. His friend Conan Doyle was already popular for his Sherlock Holmes mysteries and so he took on the job of finishing the opera.