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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.

"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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