The first novel-length Sherlock Holmes parody.
word could be got out of our noble companion as we sped through the southern London suburbs and along the country landscape,--not even after the April sun had straggled through the clouds and begun to brighten up the scene.
"Ax-gibberish!" yelled the guard,--or words to that effect,--as he slammed open the door of our compartment, and the train slowed down and at length stopped in front of a dinky little two-by-four station, with a cluster of worm-eaten old houses and a couple of sloppy-looking store buildings near it that looked as if they had all been erected prior to the Norman Conquest, or even possibly antedated the Christian era.
"Well, I guess this must be Hedge-gutheridge all right, in spite of the guard's mispronunciation of its euphonious name," remarked Holmes, stepping off the train onto the decayed platform, which sagged perilously under his athletic tread.
As Launcelot and I followed suit, a short, nervous-looking man of about thirty-five, with a florid countenance, rushed