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If
there were no eternal consciousness in a man; if at the bottom of everything
there were only a wild ferment, a power that, twisting in dark passions,
produced everything great or inconsequential; if an unfathomable, insatiable
emptiness lay behind everything, what would life be but despair? Or at
least so I used to think, before Mr Doyle and I discovered the fine, though
lamentably under-practiced art of Chin-jopping. It is unfortunately beyond
the scope of this monograph to discuss the finer points of this pastime,
though I intend to publish a treatise on the subject later in the year.
Suffice it to say, however, that last Thursday evening, in my rooms at
Chelsea, Mr Doyle and I were pleasantly engaged in the art of Chin-jopping,
when in walked my man, Anderson.
My particular choice of gentleman's
gentleman had often been the subject of after-dinner discourse between
Mr Doyle and myself, Mr Doyle frequently expressing his stern disapprobation
at my having hired someone with such unnecessarily curly hair. When Anderson
had performed his duties and Mr Doyle and I were once more alone, our
conversation again took a familiar route, and I heard again my friend
deriding my man's unruly coiffure. Being of the opinion that hair is of
little consequence when judging the worth of a man, I took up arms in
firm opposition to my colleague, until at length we reached a sort of
compromise, the points of which I shall hereby outline.
We agreed that Anderson should
be sent on a quest, and that if he should complete his quest, his hair
should remain as it was and the matter dropped. If, however, he should
fail in any manner whatsoever, he should be shorn completely and dismissed
from my service. This all seeming a jolly good idea, I heartily accepted
and we at once set about creating a worthy quest. Finally, we arrived
at such a one, which was to be as follows:
Anderson would first have
to find Mr Doyle's snuff-box, which would be hidden somewhere in the Mayfair
area. Anderson would be led to the snuff-box by a series of clues, to
be devised beforehand by Mr Doyle and myself. Upon recovering the snuff-box,
Anderson would then have to take a hansom carriage to Battersea, where
further clues would eventually lead him to the British Museum. There,
a cloak-room attendant (having been previously instructed by Mr Doyle
and myself) would hand Anderson a coat belonging to my brother Lord Henry.
Anderson would then have to dash back to my rooms in Chelsea for the completion
of the quest. We agreed to set a forty-five minute time limit on the entire
quest.
Having agreed with Mr Doyle
on all the terms of the quest, I rang for Anderson, who arrived promptly.
As I was about to begin expounding
on our little scheme. Mr Doyle pulled out his old service revolver and
shot poor Anderson dead, having become bored with the whole thing after
all.
It was all jolly amusing,
as I'm sure the reader will agree, and, lest anyone should think me an
inconsiderate employer, I immediately sent Anderson's family a small chicken,
which was, I believe, very gratefully received. |
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