DETECTIVES


When Conan Doyle arrived for the first time in Boston he was instantly

recognized by the cabman whose vehicle he had engaged. When the great

literary man offered to pay his fare the cabman said quite respectfully:



"If you please, sir, I should much prefer a ticket to your lecture. If

you should have none with you a visiting-card penciled by yourself would

do."



Conan Doyle laughed.

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"Tell me," he said, "how did you know who I was, and I will give you

tickets for your whole family."



"Thank you sir," was the reply. "Why, we all knew--that is, all the

members of the Cabmen's Literary Guild knew--that you were coming by

this train. I happen to be the only member on duty at the station this

morning. If you will excuse personal remarks your coat lapels are badly

twisted downward where they have been grasped by the pertinacious New

York reporters. Your hair has the Quakerish cut of a Philadelphia

barber, and your hat, battered at the brim in front, shows where you

have tightly grasped it in the struggle to stand your ground at a

Chicago literary luncheon. Your right overshoe has a large block of

Buffalo mud just under the instep, the odor of a Utica cigar hangs about

your clothing, and the overcoat itself shows the slovenly brushing of

the porters of the through sleepers from Albany, and stenciled upon the

very end of the 'Wellington' in fairly plain lettering is your name,

'Conan Doyle.'"



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