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The Hound of the Baskervilles

by Sir Arthur Conan Doyle




CONTENTS

  Chapter 1--Mr. Sherlock Holmes
  Chapter 2--The Curse of the Baskervilles
  Chapter 3--The Problem
  Chapter 4--Sir Henry Baskerville
  Chapter 5--Three Broken Threads
  Chapter 6--Baskerville Hall
  Chapter 7--The Stapletons of Merripit House
  Chapter 8--First Report of Dr. Watson
  Chapter 9--The Light Upon The Moor
  Chapter 10--Extract from the Diary of Dr. Watson
  Chapter 11--The Man on the Tor
  Chapter 12--Death on the Moor
  Chapter 13--Fixing the Nets
  Chapter 14--The Hound of the Baskervilles
  Chapter 15--A Retrospection




Chapter 1

Mr. Sherlock Holmes


Mr. Sherlock Holmes, who was usually very late in the mornings,
save upon those not infrequent occasions when he was up all
night, was seated at the breakfast table. I stood upon the
hearth-rug and picked up the stick which our visitor had left
behind him the night before. It was a fine, thick piece of wood,
bulbous-headed, of the sort which is known as a "Penang lawyer."
Just under the head was a broad silver band nearly an inch
across. "To James Mortimer, M.R.C.S., from his friends of the
C.C.H.," was engraved upon it, with the date "1884." It was just
such a stick as the old-fashioned family practitioner used to
carry--dignified, solid, and reassuring.

"Well, Watson, what do you make of it?"

Holmes was sitting with his back to me, and I had given him no
sign of my occupation.

"How did you know what I was doing? I believe you have eyes in
the back of your head."

"I have, at least, a well-polished, silver-plated coffee-pot in
front of me," said he. "But, tell me, Watson, what do you make of
our visitor's stick? Since we have been so unfortunate as to miss
him and have no notion of his errand, this accidental souvenir
becomes of importance. Let me hear you reconstruct the man by an
examination of it."

"I think," said I, following as far as I could the methods of my
companion, "that Dr. Mortimer is a successful, elderly medical
man, well-esteemed since those who know him give him this mark of
their appreciation."

"Good!" said Holmes. "Excellent!"

"I think also that the probability is in favour of his being a
country practitioner who does a great deal of his visiting on
foot."

"Why so?"

"Because this stick, though originally a very handsome one has
been so knocked about that I can hardly imagine a town
practitioner carrying it. The thick-iron ferrule is worn down, so
it is evident that he has done a great amount of walking with
it."

"Perfectly sound!" said Holmes.

"And then again, there is the 'friends of the C.C.H.' I should
guess that to be the Something Hunt, the local hunt to whose
members he has possibly given some surgical assistance, and which
has made him a small presentation in return."

"Really, Watson, you excel yourself," said Holmes, pushing back
his chair and lighting a cigarette. "I am bound to say that in
all the accounts which you have been so good as to give of my own
small achievements you have habitually underrated your own
abilities. It may be that you are not yourself luminous, but you
are a conductor of light. Some people without possessing genius
have a remarkable power of stimulating it. I confess, my dear
fellow, that I am very much in your debt."

He had never said as much before, and I must admit that his words
gave me keen pleasure, for I had often been piqued by his
indifference to my admiration and to the attempts which I had
made to give publicity to his methods. I was proud, too, to think
that I had so far mastered his system as to apply it in a way
which earned his approval. He now took the stick from my hands
and examined it for a few minutes with his naked eyes. Then with
an expression of interest he laid down his cigarette, and
carrying the cane to the window, he looked over it again with a
convex lens.

"Interesting, though elementary," said he as he returned to his
favourite