“D’you think you know more about fowls than I, who have handled

them ever since I was a nipper? I tell you, all those birds that went to the

Alpha were town bred.”


“You’ll never persuade me to believe that.”


“Will you bet, then?”


“It’s merely taking your money, for I know that I am right. But

I’ll have a sovereign on with you, just to teach you not to be

obstinate.”


The salesman chuckled grimly. “Bring me the books, Bill,” said he.


The small boy brought round a small thin volume and a great greasy-backed one,

laying them out together beneath the hanging lamp.


“Now then, Mr. Cocksure,” said the salesman, “I thought that

I was out of geese, but before I finish you’ll find that there is still

one left in my shop. You see this little book?”


“Well?”


“That’s the list of the folk from whom I buy. D’you see?

Well, then, here on this page are the country folk, and the numbers after their

names are where their accounts are in the big ledger. Now, then! You see this

other page in red ink? Well, that is a list of my town suppliers. Now, look at

that third name. Just read it out to me.”


“Mrs. Oakshott, 117, Brixton Road—249,” read Holmes.


“Quite so. Now turn that up in the ledger.”


Holmes turned to the page indicated. “Here you are, ‘Mrs. Oakshott,

117, Brixton Road, egg and poultry supplier.’”


“Now, then, what’s the last entry?”


“‘December 22nd. Twenty-four geese at 7s.

6d.’”


“Quite so. There you are. And underneath?”


“‘Sold to Mr. Windigate of the Alpha, at

12s.’”


“What have you to say now?”


Sherlock Holmes looked deeply chagrined. He drew a sovereign from his pocket

and threw it down upon the slab, turning away with the air of a man whose

disgust is too deep for words. A few yards off he stopped under a lamp-post and

laughed in the hearty, noiseless fashion which was peculiar to him.


“When you see a man with whiskers of that cut and the ‘Pink