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Updated: May 22, 2025
"Holmesy, you know so much more about things than I do," pleaded Griffin sweetly, "just be good to Dell for an hour, won't you? You're one of the best-informed men here. Now, mind you, Dell! No fun at Mr. Holmes's expense. Look out for her, Holmesy!" With that Griffin "slid away" as gracefully and neatly as though he hadn't been planning to do it all along.
There was a thin, crisp, continuous patter from somewhere in the heart of that crawling bank. The cloud was within fifty yards of where we lay, and we glared at it, all three, uncertain what horror was about to break from the heart of it. I was at Holmes's elbow, and I glanced for an instant at his face. It was pale and exultant, his eyes shining brightly in the moonlight.
He spun round with a scream and fell upon his back, his hideous red face turning suddenly to a dreadful mottled pallor. The old man, still clad in his surplice, burst into such a string of foul oaths as I have never heard, and pulled out a revolver of his own, but before he could raise it he was looking down the barrel of Holmes's weapon. "Enough of this," said my friend, coldly.
As I have elsewhere recorded, I once heard him speak critically of Hawthorne, and once he expressed his surprise at the late flowering brilliancy of Holmes's gift in the Autocrat papers after all his friends supposed it had borne its best fruit. But I recall no mention of Longfellow, or Lowell, or Whittier from him.
For a minute or two we were all on our knees retrieving stray cigarettes from impossible places. When we rose again I observed that Holmes's eyes were shining and his cheeks tinged with colour. Only at a crisis have I seen those battle-signals flying. "Yes," said he, "I have solved it." Stanley Hopkins and I stared in amazement.
A little while ago you were a race-track loafer, now you're a valet, and Heaven only knows what you'll be to-morrow," said Launcelot, as he curled up in the window-seat and lit a cigarette. "Well, I don't mind it," was Holmes's reply. "Now, Watson, I'll need you again.
The little pile of sticks by the kitchen-door showed that his day's work was done, for when he had split the wood for the morrow it was the old man's custom to put aside all worldly care and start on a tour of the village, which generally ended on the bench at Henry Holmes's side. It was almost dusk. Tim had come on a mission to Robert Weston.
At the foot of the bed, half sitting, half kneeling, his face buried in the clothes, was a young man, whose frame was racked by his sobs. So absorbed was he by his bitter grief that he never looked up until Holmes's hand was on his shoulder. "Are you Mr. Godfrey Staunton?" "Yes, yes; I am but you are too late. She is dead."
Turning to Dr. Holmes's popular, as distinct from his professional writings, one is reminded, as one often is, of the change which seems to come over some books as the reader grows older. Many books are to one now what they always were; some, like the Waverley novels and Shakespeare, grow better on every fresh reading.
She's a good girl, Lo. She's all I hev." Lois brought a box over, lugging it heavily. "We hev n't chairs; but yoh'll sit down, Mr. Holmes?" laughing as she covered it with a cloth. "It'd a warm place, here. Father studies 'n his watch, 'n' I'm teacher," showing the torn old spelling-book. The old man came eagerly forward, seeing the smile flicker on Holmes's face. "It's slow work, Marster, slow.
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