“Your hands, my dear sir. Your right hand is much larger than your left. You have worked with it, and the muscles are more developed.”
“Well, and the Freemasonry?”
“I won’t tell you how I read that, especially as, rather against the strict rules of your order, you use an arc-and-compass breastpin.[2]”
“Ah, of course, I forgot that. But the writing?”
“Your right cuff is so shiny, and the left one has a patch near the elbow where you put it on the desk.”
“Well, but China?”
“The fish that you have tattooed on your hand could only be done in China. I have made a small study of tattoos.”
Mr. Jabez Wilson laughed. “Well, I never![3]” said he. “I thought at first that you had done something clever, but I see that there was nothing in it, after all.”
“I begin to think, Watson,” said Holmes, “that I make a mistake in explaining. Can you not find the advertisement, Mr. Wilson?”
“Yes, I have got it now,” he answered. “Here it is. This is what began it all. You just read it for yourself, sir.”
I took the paper from him and read as follows.
TO THE RED-HEADED LEAGUE: On account of the bequest of the late Ezekiah Hopkins, of Lebanon, Pennsylvania, U. S. A.,[4] there is now another vacancy open for a member of the League with a salary of 4 pounds a week. All red-headed men who are above the age of twenty-one years, are eligible. Apply on Monday, at eleven o’clock, to Duncan Ross, at the offices of the League, 7, Fleet Street.
“What does this mean?” I exclaimed after I had twice read the advertisement.
“And now, Mr. Wilson, tell us all about yourself, your household, and the effect which this advertisement had on your life. Make a note, Doctor, of the paper and the date.”
“It is The Morning Chronicle of April 27, 1890. Just two months ago.”
“Very good. Now, Mr. Wilson?”
“Well, it is just as I told you, Mr. Sherlock Holmes,” said Jabez Wilson; “I have a small pawnbroker’s business at Coburg Square, near the City. It’s not very large, and it has just given me a living. I used to be able to keep two assistants, but now I keep one; and I can do it only because he agrees to work for half wages to learn the business.”
“What is the name of this young man?” asked Sherlock Holmes.
“His name is Vincent Spaulding, and he’s not very young. It’s hard to say his age. I do not wish a better assistant, Mr. Holmes; and I know very well that he could earn twice what I am able to give him. But, after all, if he is satisfied,