AnanomalywhichoftenstruckmeinthecharacterofmyfriendSherlockHolmeswasthat,althoughinhismethodsofthoughthewastheneatestandmostmethodicalofmankind,andalthoughalsoheaffectedacertainquietprimnessofdress,hewasnonethelessinhispersonalhabitsoneofthemostuntidymenthateverdroveafellow-lodgertodistraction.NotthatIamintheleastconventionalinthatrespectmyself.Therough-and-tumbleworkinAfghanistan,comingonthetopofanaturalBohemianismofdisposition,hasmademerathermorelaxthanbefitsamedicalman.Butwithmethereisalimit,andwhenIfindamanwhokeepshiscigarsinthecoal-scuttle,histobaccointhetoeendofaPersianslipper,andhisunansweredcorrespondencetransfixedbyajack-knifeintotheverycentreofhiswoodenmantelpiece,thenIbegintogivemyselfvirtuousairs.Ihavealwaysheld,too,thatpistolpracticeshouldbedistinctlyanopen-airpastimeandwhenHolmes,inoneofhisqueerhumours,wouldsitinanarmchairwithhishair-triggerandahundredBoxercartridges,andproceedtoadorntheoppositewallwithapatrioticV.R.doneinbullet-pocks,Ifeltstronglythatneithertheatmospherenortheappearanceofourroomwasimprovedbyit.
Ourchamberswerealwaysfullofchemicalsandofcriminalrelicswhichhadawayofwanderingintounlikelypositions,andofturningupinthebutter-dishorinevenlessdesirableplaces.Buthispapersweremygreatcrux.Hehadahorrorofdestroyingdocuments,especiallythosewhichwereconnectedwithhispastcases,andyetitwasonlyonceineveryyearortwothathewouldmusterenergytodocketandarrangethemfor,asIhavementionedsomewhereintheseincoherentmemoirs,theoutburstsofpassionateenergywhenheperformedtheremarkablefeatswithwhichhisnameisassociatedwerefollowedbyreactionsoflethargyduringwhichhewouldlieaboutwithhisviolinandhisbooks,hardlymovingsavefromthesofatothetable.Thusmonthaftermonthhispapersaccumulated,untileverycorneroftheroomwasstackedwithbundlesofmanuscriptwhichwereonnoaccounttobeburned,andwhichcouldnotbeputawaysavebytheirowner.Onewinter’snight,aswesattogetherbythefire,Iventuredtosuggesttohimthat,ashehadfinishedpastingextractsintohiscommon-placebook,hemightemploythenexttwohoursinmakingourroomalittlemorehabitable.Hecouldnotdenythejusticeofmyrequest,sowitharatherruefulfacehewentofftohisbedroom,fromwhichhereturnedpresentlypullingalargetinboxbehindhim.Thisheplacedinthemiddleofthefloorand,squattingdownuponastoolinfrontofit,hethrewbackthelid.Icouldseethatitwasalreadyathirdfullofbundlesofpapertiedupwithredtapeintoseparatepackages.
“Therearecasesenoughhere,Watson,”saidhe,lookingatmewithmischievouseyes.“IthinkthatifyouknewallthatIhadinthisboxyouwouldaskmetopullsomeoutinsteadofputtingothersin.”
“Thesearetherecordsofyourearlywork,then?”Iasked.“IhaveoftenwishedthatIhadnotesofthosecases.”
“Yes,myboy,thesewerealldoneprematurelybeforemybiographerhadcometoglorifyme.”Heliftedbundleafterbundleinatender,caressingsortofway.“Theyarenotallsuccesses,Watson,”saidhe.“Buttherearesomeprettylittleproblemsamongthem.Here’stherecordoftheTarletonmurders,andthecaseofVamberry,thewinemerchant,andtheadventureoftheoldRussianwoman,andthesingularaffairofthealuminiumcrutch,aswellasafullaccountofRicolettioftheclub-foot,andhisabominablewife.Andhere—ah,now,thisreallyissomethingalittlerecherché.”
Hedivedhisarmdowntothebottomofthechest,andbroughtupasmallwoodenboxwithaslidinglid,suchaschildren’stoysarekeptin.Fromwithinheproducedacrumpledpieceofpaper,anold-fashionedbrasskey,apegofwoodwithaballofstringattachedtoit,andthreerustyolddisksofmetal.