— Yours faithfully,
Robert Ferguson.
P. S. I believe your friend Watson
played Rugby for Blackheath when I
was three-quarter for Richmond. It is
the only personal introduction which I
can give.
“Of course I remembered him,” said I as I laid
down the letter. “Big Bob Ferguson, the finest threequarter
Richmond ever had. He was always a goodnatured
chap. It’s like him to be so concerned over
a friend’s case.”
Holmes looked at me thoughtfully and shook
his head.
“I never get your limits, Watson,” said he.
“There are unexplored possibilities about you. Take
a wire down, like a good fellow. ‘Will examine your
case with pleasure.’ ”
“Your case!”
“We must not let him think that this agency is
a home for the weak-minded. Of course it is his
case. Send him that wire and let the matter rest till
morning.”
Promptly at ten o’clock next morning Ferguson
strode into our room. I had remembered him
as a long, slab-sided man with loose limbs and a
fine turn of speed which had carried him round
many an opposing back. There is surely nothing
in life more painful than to meet the wreck of a
fine athlete whom one has known in his prime. His
great frame had fallen in, his flaxen hair was scanty,
and his shoulders were bowed. I fear that I roused
corresponding emotions in him.