This passage is adapted from Sir Arthur Conan Doyle, Originally published in 1892. The narrator, Dr. Watson, works closely with detective Sherlock Holmes.
The portly client puffed out his chest with an appearance of
some little pride and pulled a dirty and wrinkled newspaper
from the inside pocket of his greatcoat. As he glanced down the
advertisement column, with his head thrust forward and the
paper flattened out upon his knee, I took a good look at the man
and endeavoured, after the fashion of my companion, to read
the indications which might be presented by his dress or
appearance.
I did not gain very much, however, by my inspection. Our
visitor bore every mark of being an average commonplace
British tradesman, obese, pompous, and slow. He wore rather
baggy grey shepherd’s check trousers, a not over-clean black
frock-coat, unbuttoned in the front, and a drab waistcoat with a
heavy brassy Albert chain, and a square pierced bit of metal
dangling down as an ornament. A frayed top-hat and a faded
brown overcoat with a wrinkled velvet collar lay upon a chair
beside him. Altogether, look as I would, there was nothing
remarkable about the man save his blazing red head, and the
expression of extreme chagrin and discontent upon his features.
Sherlock Holmes’ quick eye took in my occupation, and he
shook his head with a smile as he noticed my questioning
glances. “Beyond the obvious facts that he has at some time
done manual labour, that he is a Freemason, that he has been in
China, and that he has done a considerable amount of writing
lately, I can deduce nothing else.”
Mr. Jabez Wilson started up in his chair, with his forefinger
upon the paper, but his eyes upon my companion.
“How, in the name of good-fortune, did you know all that,
Mr. Holmes?” he asked. “How did you know, for example, that
I did manual labour? It’s as true as gospel, for I began as a
ship’s carpenter.”
“Your hands, my dear sir. Your right hand is quite a size
larger than your left. You have worked with it, and the muscles
are more developed.”
“Well, then, and the Freemasonry?”
“I won’t insult your intelligence by telling you how I read
that, especially as, rather against the strict rules of your order,
you use an arc-and-compass breastpin.”
“Ah, of course, I forgot that. But the writing?”
“What else can be indicated by that right cuff so very shiny
for five inches, and the left one with the smooth patch near the
elbow where you rest it upon the desk?”
“Well, but China?”
“The fish that you have tattooed immediately above your
right wrist could only have been done in China. I have made a
small study of tattoo marks and have even contributed to the
literature of the subject. That trick of staining the fishes’ scales
of a delicate pink is quite peculiar to China. When, in addition,
I see a Chinese coin hanging from your watch-chain, the matter
becomes even more simple.”
Mr. Jabez Wilson laughed heavily. “Well, I never!” 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. ‘Omne ignotum pro magnifico,’* you
know, and my poor little reputation, such as it is, will suffer
shipwreck if I am so candid. Can you not find the
advertisement, Mr. Wilson?”
“Yes, I have got it now,” he answered with his thick red
finger planted halfway down the column. “Here it is. This is
what began it all. You just read it for yourself, sir.”
* Roughly translated as “Everything unknown is/seems magnificent.”
The portly client puffed out his chest with an appearance of
some little pride and pulled a dirty and wrinkled newspaper
from the inside pocket of his greatcoat. As he glanced down the
advertisement column, with his head thrust forward and the
paper flattened out upon his knee, I took a good look at the man
and endeavoured, after the fashion of my companion, to read
the indications which might be presented by his dress or
appearance.
I did not gain very much, however, by my inspection. Our
visitor bore every mark of being an average commonplace
British tradesman, obese, pompous, and slow. He wore rather
baggy grey shepherd’s check trousers, a not over-clean black
frock-coat, unbuttoned in the front, and a drab waistcoat with a
heavy brassy Albert chain, and a square pierced bit of metal
dangling down as an ornament. A frayed top-hat and a faded
brown overcoat with a wrinkled velvet collar lay upon a chair
beside him. Altogether, look as I would, there was nothing
remarkable about the man save his blazing red head, and the
expression of extreme chagrin and discontent upon his features.
Sherlock Holmes’ quick eye took in my occupation, and he
shook his head with a smile as he noticed my questioning
glances. “Beyond the obvious facts that he has at some time
done manual labour, that he is a Freemason, that he has been in
China, and that he has done a considerable amount of writing
lately, I can deduce nothing else.”
Mr. Jabez Wilson started up in his chair, with his forefinger
upon the paper, but his eyes upon my companion.
“How, in the name of good-fortune, did you know all that,
Mr. Holmes?” he asked. “How did you know, for example, that
I did manual labour? It’s as true as gospel, for I began as a
ship’s carpenter.”
“Your hands, my dear sir. Your right hand is quite a size
larger than your left. You have worked with it, and the muscles
are more developed.”
“Well, then, and the Freemasonry?”
“I won’t insult your intelligence by telling you how I read
that, especially as, rather against the strict rules of your order,
you use an arc-and-compass breastpin.”
“Ah, of course, I forgot that. But the writing?”
“What else can be indicated by that right cuff so very shiny
for five inches, and the left one with the smooth patch near the
elbow where you rest it upon the desk?”
“Well, but China?”
“The fish that you have tattooed immediately above your
right wrist could only have been done in China. I have made a
small study of tattoo marks and have even contributed to the
literature of the subject. That trick of staining the fishes’ scales
of a delicate pink is quite peculiar to China. When, in addition,
I see a Chinese coin hanging from your watch-chain, the matter
becomes even more simple.”
Mr. Jabez Wilson laughed heavily. “Well, I never!” 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. ‘Omne ignotum pro magnifico,’* you
know, and my poor little reputation, such as it is, will suffer
shipwreck if I am so candid. Can you not find the
advertisement, Mr. Wilson?”
“Yes, I have got it now,” he answered with his thick red
finger planted halfway down the column. “Here it is. This is
what began it all. You just read it for yourself, sir.”
* Roughly translated as “Everything unknown is/seems magnificent.”