Herlock Sholmes Had a Trying Interview With a Reporter
Anonymous
This attempt at witty wordplay and tomfoolerly appeared in the July 11 edition of the Brooklyn Daily Eagle.
Herlock Sholmes was a man of veracity. Whenever he gave his word the people were obliged to take it, because it was the best they could get from him. Moreover, when he gave his word he always kept it, strange as it may seem for a man to give a thing and still retain it. But nothing was impossible to Sholmes. He was a great detective. Every time he gave his word it went. Where, it matters not. He was contented to know that it went. So accustomed had Sholmes become to having everything he said go, that once when someone doubted the truth of his deductions he was so put out about it that he forgot to kick at the weather.
One afternoon, when the wind was 13 below, and the mercury was crowding things in the bulb, the door burst open and in walked a man whose appearance was of the shabby genteel order.
“You have seen better days,” was Sholmes’ comment the instant their eyes met.
“How do you know?” cried the man.
“Because,” said Sholmes sternly, “all days are not as bad as this. Some days there is no wind at all.”
“Wrong!” cried the man, with a cunning leer, just to show Sholmes he was leary of him. “You forgot we are in Chicago, and on State street, at that.”
It was Sholmes’ turn to be baffled. He knew the man had spoken the truth and he didn’t like it because he was a detective.
“True,” he murmured, “like the stock yards, there is always a sough or two hanging around.” Then aloud he said:
“Who are you?”
“Neither one,” said the man promptly, “although I have often been taken for the Prince of Wales and Tom Sharkey.”
“What brought you here?”
“Not a file of soldiers nor a Pullman palace car. I wasn’t brought. I just naturally came. What brought you here?”
This was ridiculous. Sholmes was taken back. He didn’t leave the room or make a move. Still, he was taken back. Sholmes mused a minute and three-quarters. He liked to muse. It seemed to amuse him. And yet, he never had a muse.
“There is a recognized law among detectives,” he said finally to himself, “that where they find a man who is as smart as they are, the man must be crazy.” Then suddenly he exclaimed:
“Were you ever in an asylum?”
“Never,” said the man, indifferently, “until now.”
Again Sholmes gazed. Why shouldn’t he? In the language of the Irishman he was the head gayser of the outfit.
A bright idea seemed to strike the detective.
“When do you go to press?” he yelled quickly.
“First edition, 3 A. M.,” was the quick and startling reply.
“As I thought,” shrieked Sholmes, “a newspaper reporter. Nobody else ever got ahead of a detective.”
Then he smiled. The man smiled. Sholmes walked to the sideboard and then they both smiled.